He came closer, his head canted to the side as if he meant to mollify. ‘Mr Sinclair is born without legitimacy and operates a gaming hell, an urban malady that caters to the illicit deprivation of darkest London. His business is the vice of the lower classes. He’s not a man to associate with a beautiful young woman. I am old but not ignorant. The establishment he owns is one of the most disreputable secrets of the ton. He is a dangerous man of hard means who likely knows more of reckless liaison than genteel sensibilities. I sent him away with sharp words and an improved knowledge were he to assume he could return. Your reputation is too valuable to cast off on careless curiosity.’
‘I understand.’ Already her mind raced, anxious to travel to the Underworld and make amends for the earl’s rude dismissal.
‘Do you?’ He skewered her with an unwavering gaze meant to puncture all hope. ‘How is it you know this man?’
‘I met Mr Sinclair through my charitable work.’ She refused to share more despite her stepfather’s barely altered expression.
‘Do not forget our agreement to begin anew. One careless mistake could threaten all the joy awaiting your future.’ He tipped her chin upward, as one would command the attention of a child before a scolding. ‘Now do not show me disappointment. I leave shortly and I’d rather not believe I’ve upset you.’
‘Very well then.’ She managed without faltering, though anger thrummed in her blood.
‘The full staff of servants remain at your disposal and I shan’t be away more than two nights.’ He adopted an authoritarian tone.
‘Where are you going?’ Had he mentioned travel the last time they’d spoken? She couldn’t remember with so many disagreeable concerns crowding her brain.
‘To my estate in Surrey. I’m long overdue for a visit and now that the milder weather approaches and we’re planning for the future, I’ll need to visit the staff and have the house opened.’ He paused, perhaps gauging her reaction but she remained utterly silent. ‘The countryside is enchanting once the change of season transforms the dirt and scrub. It’s a rebirth similar to our shedding of mourning blacks.’ He paused, as if choosing his words with care. ‘The city’s influences on you will only bring further instances like this morning. I’d rather see you in the countryside.’
She watched with confusion, convinced her mother must have known a different man than she, for while the earl could be charming or congenial at fleeting moments, the depths of his eyes revealed a troubling quality she could not resolve. She’d spent very little time with the earl before her mother’s marriage and through the illness and bereavement, she’d secluded herself. It hardly solidified their relationship as familiar. Now he spoke of moving them away from London.
Did he mean to take her away to the countryside in secret? She’d just come through mourning, having missed her friends and society dearly for the little of it she knew. To be skirted away now seemed untimely and unfair. She had no desire to leave the city and Max. An unbearable riot of panic wracked her nerves, though she struggled to keep her expression noncommittal.
Max locked the side door to the Underworld and exited the alley, Ransom at his side. The wolfhound had made a full recovery, sharp as ever, and the two headed towards his town house, as was the usual routine. Max had managed to suffocate any lingering yearning for Vivienne with fresh anger and resentment, her stepfather’s words ringing in his memory. He could only explain his desire to see more of her by the flaw of wanting what he could not have: legitimacy, a family, a loyal woman to love.
He clenched his teeth, refusing to allow the circumstances of his life to stain him yet again. He was pulled from his dismal contemplation by Ransom’s low growl. The dog’s ears flattened, his stance all at once rigid.
‘What is it?’ Max paused as well, too smart to ignore the warning of his companion.
But it was no assailant who stepped from the shadows this time, but the gentleman he’d labelled Adonis. The young dandy intersected his path with a bold stride despite the fact he stood several inches shorter than Max. Crispin, wasn’t it?
‘Mr Sinclair, may I have a word?’
The proper congenial greeting was not what he expected, accustomed to more confrontational opposition, most especially in the wee hours in this neighbourhood.
‘In reference to?’ He asked the question, though he needed no answer.
‘A mutual acquaintance.’ The gentleman paused and his shoulders relaxed. ‘Lady Vivienne Beaumont. You do know her?’
A grand understatement. Vivi, her hair wild and tangled from their kisses, a whimper caught in her throat, eyes clenched as he brought her to climax. Max allowed little show of his reaction, his hard stare sufficient to indicate he listened. Ransom settled, though he did not sit, the hound’s attention as keenly fixed on the stranger as Maxwell’s.
‘In the manner of many well-intentioned charity workers, the lady believes she may be able to show you a better way of life. Offer reform, if you will.’
These words were spoken in a subdued tone, not at all as assertive as the beginning of the conversation. Perhaps Adonis was uncomfortable with the implication Max was born on the other side of the blanket and claimed ownership to a hell, or worse, was rumoured among London’s undercurrent of thieves, prostitutes and beggars, to be lethal were anyone to cross him.
Pimms. He needed to find Pimms.
‘And?’ He wouldn’t offer Adonis a fraction of supinity. Let the man gather his courage. Vivienne deserved so much better and stronger than a man with a misplaced spine.
‘I do not believe it’s in her best interest, so I would ask you to refrain from—’ Crispin stuttered to an abrupt stop.
Was it Sin’s expression of sharp warning that caused Adonis to abandon his words? Or had the man realized his mission futile?
‘Good day.’ There was no other way to dismiss the man and with nary a glance over his shoulder, Sin clicked Ransom to heel and continued the remaining four blocks home.
He could make no claims on Vivienne. Damn if he didn’t want her anyway. Not in any permanent manner. And there too lay the rub. He couldn’t very well take her innocence and dismiss her. Her value was too high, beauty too rare, and his emotions were too raw for any thoughtless interplay. Yet at the same time he craved her—the sound of her voice, scent of her skin—the same way he needed oxygen. He may be a bastard, but he still possessed dignity. He couldn’t ruin her and leave her.
He unlocked his front door and took the stairs by twos, conflicted and exhausted, above all else. Why had he bothered visiting Nettlecombe? What a fool he was, no matter that he tried to ignore the voice that reminded him he’d not felt the possessive claim he held for Vivienne for any woman. His insecurities asserted he didn’t need anyone. Didn’t want what a relationship involved. He’d gone a long time, unwilling to permit anything except anger. Numb to the finer emotions. He doubted his heart could open to something other than revenge.
Yet deep in his soul, he knew it all to be a lie. His attraction to Vivienne was on a different and dangerous level.
Uncomfortable with the arguing emotions crowding his head, he poured two fingers of brandy and downed it in one swallow. He would sleep it off and give Adonis what he wanted, but the deed was an act of self-preservation, nothing more.
Chapter Sixteen
Vivienne eased around the corner of the Underworld into the narrow alley where Thomas had led her last week when she’d ventured inside the gaming hell. No one answered at the front door, this her second plan, but it too stood locked tight. As before the street remained silent; perhaps the occupants and rabble-rousers living here only awoke at night.
‘You can’t go in there.’
She whipped her head to the left, relieved when she eyed Thomas, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets as if he had all the time in the world to waste. With a final glance to the door, she met the lad near the top of the alley.
‘I need to see Mr Sinclair.’ Her stern tone gained his atte
ntion, though his surly grin informed her he wasn’t going to make their conversation easy.
‘He’s not here. He sleeps during the day. I told you last time but you keep coming around at this hour.’ He spoke in a tone that implied she was the child and he the adult.
The little rascal.
‘Why aren’t you at home helping your mother, or better, practising your lessons?’ She advanced the few paces needed to bring them into alignment.
‘I’m not much for letters. I’m a numbers man.’ He snatched a hand from his pocket and rattled a pair of dice in his fist, before he tucked them away with practised fluidity.
‘I see.’ She lowered her chin and eyed him for good measure. ‘I need you to take me to Mr Sinclair’s home. You know where he lives. I’m sure of it.’ Thomas would not miss the opportunity to flaunt his importance, at least in his own mind.
‘You don’t want to go there.’
‘Of course I do. I said as much.’
‘No, you don’t. Let me tell you why.’ He continued without missing a beat though a smile played on his face. ‘Sin’s asleep, if he’s even in his own bed, and there’s always the chance a pretty bawd warms those sheets with him.’
This bit of information fanned the flames of urgency already hot under her heels. ‘I don’t care.’ She enunciated with exactitude, determined to elicit his help.
‘Oh, you do. Or you wouldn’t be here.’ Thomas bobbed his head, his brow furrowed. ‘I suppose if you insisted…’
He let the sentence trail off as if uncertain of the decision. Leave it to the lad to raise the stakes.
She waited a breath, smart to his game, her patience almost depleted. ‘How much?’ She waggled her reticule in front of his nose. ‘How much will this favour cost me?’ His eyes volleyed, glued to the sway of her purse as if he could divine the amount tucked inside the linen and set his price to gain the largest profit.
‘Two shillings should do it.’
‘Done.’ She removed the coins and pushed them into his dirt-smeared palm. ‘Off we go then, Thomas. Keep your word and take me to Mr Sinclair, otherwise I’ll have your hide.’
He laughed, unafraid, the mischievous imp, and started off across the cobbles before she had time to pull her purse strings closed.
They kept a good pace for several blocks until her lungs burned from quick-drawn breath, and at last Thomas stalled before an imposing town house as grand and tall as the Daventrys’ residence. This couldn’t be right. She eyed him with curious doubt, but he gave a sharp bob of the chin before he scampered up the stoop and pounded on the door.
This second occurrence was unexpected. Her pulse ran a race from their brisk approach and she didn’t have words or emotions organized. What if Max opened the door before she assembled enough to make her intentions known?
She needn’t have worried. Several minutes passed and after Thomas knocked a third time, for the lad had not grown enough to reach the brass, she shooed him away with a flap of her hand, released him from the duty and climbed the steps to exchanges places. She pressed an extra coin in his palm and smiled, amused by his bravado and all too aware she’d begun to care for the scamp: Thomas who wished to be known as Ace. He darted down the street and out of sight.
She’d only just returned her attention when the door whipped open, a thunderous-looking Max Sinclair on the other side. He appeared dishevelled, his hair tousled, his shirt open to the waist where it revealed a hard, lean torso amidst shadows of muscle, smooth skin, and black chest hair. She curled her fingers into her palms, restless and in want of something to do, temptation too great. Her eyes followed the narrowing line of dark fleece to the waistband of his trousers—hitched low on his hips as if he’d been abed and she’d roused him against his will.
Well, wasn’t that what Thomas warned her would happen?
But it wasn’t solely his clothes that made her heart beat triple time, made her throat dry as pith. It was the powerful virility and commanding physique, the unique quality she’d tried in vain to describe to Sophie and, having failed, labelled as wicked handsomeness for lack of better imagery.
‘Vivienne?’ The one word possessed several emotions: surprise, regret, yet avid curiosity leapt to the forefront. ‘I saw Thomas through the window.’
‘He’s gone.’ She brought her attention upward though she needed to force her eyes to follow command, disinclined to abandon the splendid display of masculinity before her.
‘So there’s no trouble at the hell.’
He sounded resigned and weary, in a way that exceeded physical fatigue—something that couldn’t be repaired with a full night’s sleep.
‘He left as soon as he escorted me here. May I come in?’
He cocked one thick brow in acknowledgement of the outlandish request and blatant breach of propriety but when she remained silent, he widened the door and allowed her inside.
She followed him into the ground-floor salon where a fire burned in the hearth and the glow of two lanterns bathed the room in soft light.
‘Say what you need to say.’
He stood with his back to her and the rigid line of his shoulders expressed as much as his peremptory command. He barely tolerated her.
But why?
‘Max.’ Her pleading tone at last caused him to turn.
‘I’m tired, Vivi.’
‘Too tired to talk to me?’ Any conciliatory note vanished, replaced by rising ire. He owed her civility. How dare he pretend she was nothing more than a pebble in his boot, troublesome and easily discarded? They’d formed a bond no matter that he might wish to deny it. Ill-conceived perhaps. Unexpected, certainly. But still she’d allowed him to touch her intimately. The remembrance threatened to distract her until she pushed it away.
‘Too tired for games.’ He leaned a shoulder against the corner of the mantelpiece, his arms folded across his chest in a picture of tolerant strength.
‘Isn’t that rich? You, the owner of a gaming hell, tired of games.’ Her voice grew acerbic, unwilling to allow his dismissal. Oh, but she grew angry now.
‘You shouldn’t have come here.’ He shoved from the corner and approached, a wild look in his eye, his jaw set hard and resolute.
‘Why not? Are we to pretend we don’t know each other as we did at the theatre or is it only when you care to kiss me and touch my body that you’ll endure my company?’
A muscle ticked at the right side of his jaw, his lips drawn tight as if he fought an inner battle over whether or not to speak. If she ignited his temper, all the better. Anger served more purpose than indifference.
‘You should leave.’ His words rumbled low and menacing.
She sensed his struggle, but why? He’d taken kisses, caresses. Had she done something to upset him or had he already decided she no longer held allure? Perhaps someone waited upstairs in his bed right now. Her heart turned over with the disturbing possibility. She’d received a careful upbringing by her mother, particularly sparse in education of intimacy, but she was not ignorant.
The scratch of nails against hardwood signalled Ransom’s entrance. Sensing the tense atmosphere, the hound sauntered to a stop between the two adults at stand-off and after speculative assessment settled on the plush area rug as if bridging the divide or perhaps creating a barrier. He emitted a low, trebled growl that sounded remarkably similar to his owner’s.
‘Settle.’
The one word caused the dog to lower his head and quiet, and Max’s obsidian gaze came back to her. For several exhalations they remained at the centre of the room, three strides apart, eye to eye, as a taut silence settled.
Max stared into Vivienne’s dark glare and wondered what she was thinking. Did she see him as a challenge or a charity case worth salvation? He didn’t wish to be either. He was a broken man and as much as he pretended otherwise, fought against the truth of it or refused to allow the brutal incident of his mother’s abusive murder to scar and ruin him, it was of no hope. Ven
geance filled every corner of his being, obliterating any opportunity for tender emotion. Crippled in ways of tender affection, he couldn’t possibly hope to absolve all the wrongs of his history by falling in love with Vivienne.
Love? Where the hell had that come from?
‘Say something.’ Her words whispered across the air, breaking through his morose conclusions. ‘What are your feelings?’
Feelings? He didn’t deal with feelings. How much easier to bury them down, deep down into the empty recess of his soul where no one could find them, not even himself. It was better that way. He lived better without inconvenient pain and needed no one to resurrect all those unresolved emotions that looked incredibly ugly in the light of day. Not now. Not ever.
‘You should leave.’ He repeated his command though it lost its edge with the redundancy.
‘Leave?’ Disbelief rang sharp in her voice. ‘I’ve just arrived.’
She took a step forward, furious and by damn, glorious in her anger. Her eyes flashed black sparks bright as embers and her cheeks had taken on a fetching pink glow. He too approached, eclipsing the sallow light from the hearth and towering closer. Dammit to hell, it was safer to keep the room between them.
‘You don’t know me.’ He stared at her lips, rosy, sweet and heart-shaped, the lower lip lush and plump. He told himself it was because he awaited her answer and breathed deep. Mistake. His nostrils filled with the addictive scent of her floral perfume. He clenched his teeth, tensed his muscles. All of them. Inside his trousers, his cock stiffened to attention. Bloody hell.
Ransom chose that moment to stand, give a shake and retreat to a corner, yet he and Vivienne held each other’s gaze as if to flick one’s eyes away would admit defeat.
‘No? Offer me the chance.’ She drew a short breath. ‘You say I don’t know you, but I know enough.’
He leaned closer with this confession and readied for the blemish of illegitimacy, stated in her lovely voice, knowing the power of blood trumped any quality he possessed or could ever offer. ‘What do you know, Vivi?’ The question held such menace that she withdrew, the awkward sway causing her to retreat just enough to gain support from the bookcase against the wall. ‘You were saying?’ He crowded her within a hairsbreadth.
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