He scowled at the footman holding the door of the coach and handed her up himself. Like a jealous child with a new toy, he didn't want anyone touching her or infringing on his time. Every minute of his seven days and nights was valuable to him; he would need each second to unravel the mystery seated beside him.
Despite events, Ianthe kept her composure. A faint smile graced her lips, but she betrayed herself by the white knuckles clutching the small beaded reticule. He wondered what ran through her mind that made her hang tight to her purse. Part of him assumed she would be used to taking strange men home, while another part of him hoped she saw him as something different. A deep part of his soul, where his wolf lay hidden, yearned for her. Could he awaken similar feelings in her?
Quinn tried to engage Ianthe in conversation on the ride to her house, but her responses were distant and automatic. Tired lines radiated from the corners of her eyes, and he wondered what it would take to see a genuine smile on her red lips. With each clip of the horses' hooves, she seemed to visibly retreat inside herself, as if she were throwing up fortifications. It perplexed him.
He was young, virile, and, in his own opinion, rather fine of body and mind. Surely she would look forward to their time together, after so many years playing nursemaid to old men? Yet while her body occupied the seat next to him, her mind seemed a thousand miles away. He suspected if he were to comment on the unicorns prancing in the road next to them, she would reply, That's lovely, dear, by rote.
They alighted in the middle of a row of modest terrace houses on the edge of Knightsbridge. It was the sort of area occupied by comfortable merchants, and not where he expected to find a courtesan. Another odd fact about her, adding to the overall enigma that he longed to unveil. He paid the jarvey and followed her up the short path to the glossy front door. It swung open before they reached it, and he wondered how long her man had stood behind the panelled wood, waiting for her to return, perhaps with his face pressed to the small window at the side, straining for the sight of his mistress.
Only as they crossed her threshold did a slight sigh run through her form, and her shoulders dropped a fraction, as though she had held her breath until back in her home territory. He stood in the tiled entranceway and toyed with his hat, evaluating both the surroundings and those who populated them. The décor within was subtle and soothing, and Quinn found himself at ease. The house was neither grand nor ostentatious, unlike the residences other courtesans demanded of their paramours. This home stood in an average and unremarkable neighbourhood, as though she lived a quiet and unremarkable life. From the gossip he had heard that evening, he had learned her appearance at the soirée was unexpected, and that she kept herself apart from the constant round of entertainments thrown by the demi-monde.
Two servants stood before them, a woman and a man. Both appeared to be in their late thirties. The man was of average height and average looks, everything one wanted in a manservant expected to blend in with the walls and not attract attention to himself. Of the two, he had a more open, friendly look about him.
The woman was shorter than her mistress, and had dark blonde hair tucked up under a white cap. There was a shrewd look in her eye as she assessed him, perhaps mentally locking up the good silver, or calculating what he meant to Ianthe. The woman acted without being told, taking their coats, but she cast a raised eyebrow at her mistress and something unspoken passed between them.
At last, Ianthe blinked and seemed aware of her surroundings. She gestured to Quinn. "Perkins, this is Mr Muir. He is joining us for the week. Please show him to the guest bedroom."
The retainer stared at him for a long moment, and Quinn wondered if he would have to reassure the man he was house-trained. Then Perkins bowed to his mistress. "Of course, miss. This way, if you please, sir."
And just like that, he was dismissed and sent to the nursery. He supposed it was late—or early, as a clock in another room struck three melodic chimes. As much as he wanted to draw Ianthe into a parlour and talk, he also wanted to see her rested. It worried him how drawn she looked, now that her defences had fallen just a little in the familiar surroundings. The wolf fretted that she needed time to sleep and heal the fractures in her soul.
Quinn took Ianthe's hand and kissed her chilled flesh. "Sleep well, Ianthe."
She raised a tired grey gaze to his, and a sly smile tugged her full lips. "That's one."
He recoiled, confused for a moment. "Pardon?"
For the first time, a genuine smile touched her eyes. "This is your first night and day, and that, Mr Muir, was one kiss. You have six remaining."
Blast it! He resisted a strong urge to throw a young child's tantrum, to stamp his foot and scream that it wasn't fair. But such a display would hardly convince her to look past his age and see the old soul within. He wanted to snatch the kiss back. One opportunity wasted, and by the glint in her eyes, she knew it. Oh, let her play that game, then. Wolves delighted in playing games, and at least now he knew he engaged with a knowing and prepared combatant. If she would meet his every parry, then he would rethink his approach.
"Six remaining, and I shall treasure each and every one. Until tomorrow." He bowed and allowed the manservant to lead him away.
They went up the stairs and along a short corridor. He counted only four doors from the landing, and wondered which was Ianthe's. He lingered as long as he could, but there was no sign of her behind him.
Perkins coughed and indicated the open door. The bedroom within was masculine in decoration, with bold stripes of dark green and rich blue on the walls. A Persian carpet in similar hues laid over the floor gave the impression of walking across the ocean. The furniture was dark oak, and sturdy. He wondered how many men before him had slept in this room—or rather, hadn't slept. But he preferred not to dwell on that. How Ianthe survived in the world was not a matter for him to pass judgement on. Aster, his captain's new bride and Quinn's adopted sister, had lectured him on the limited options open to women with no families to shelter them.
"Will there be anything you require, sir?" Perkins enquired as he lit the candles by the bed.
"No, thank you. I will have some items delivered in the morning, though. If you could bring them up when they arrive?" He didn't need anyone to act as valet; he was quite old enough to undress himself.
"Of course, sir." The man bowed and made a discreet exit.
Quinn stripped off his clothes and threw them over a chair by the hearth, then climbed naked between the sheets. With only the quiet tick of a carriage clock on the mantle for company, he planned his approach while he waited for sleep to claim him.
The next morning, sunlight broke through the curtains and spilled over the floor. It crept over the bed and shot Quinn in the eye, waking him with a piercing force. He stretched his arms over his head and surveyed his surroundings, remembering the events of the previous evening. He took a moment to dwell on the envious looks of innumerable men as he had escorted Ianthe away. With that thought in mind, and a rumbling stomach, he leapt from bed and flung the curtains wide.
Life was in full swing down below in the street. Carriages rattled by, and numerous pedestrians plied the footpaths. By the height of the sun, he guessed it was well past noon. He had slept soundly, and looked forward to his first day unravelling the mystery of Ianthe White.
A sharp rap sounded at his door.
"Come in," he called over his naked shoulder.
"A man delivered a few of your things, sir," Perkins announced.
"Thank you. I'll be down for breakfast shortly." He scratched his nails through his hair, then turned to find the retainer staring at him with pursed lips.
The man looked as though something bothered him; perhaps a lack of prunes in his diet? He dropped the bag onto the end of the bed. "Would you like me to lay out your clothing, sir?"
Clothes! The lack of them could account for the raised eyebrows, although growing up with numerous male siblings, and then in the army, Quinn was used to men sleeping au naturel. Th
row in the change wrought over the Highland Wolves that often saw them shed both their skins and clothes, and one got used to seeing naked men. He glanced down at his body. "No, thank you. I'll be down once I dress, of course."
The frown subsided and Perkins managed a weak smile. "Splendid idea, sir."
Although, he wondered if he walked into the dining room starkers, would that make Ianthe take notice of him? Or could his ego sustain the blow if she still disregarded him? Better not run the risk. He pulled trousers and a clean shirt from the bag, and dressed casually. Ewan had also packed a selection of cravats, which he ignored. He wasn't fastening a noose around his neck until he absolutely had to. Half-dress was entirely suitable for breakfast, even if it was in the afternoon. With his feet in his favourite worn Hessians, he went in search of something to satisfy the rumbling in his stomach.
Quinn found the dining room by following his nose. But apart from the delicious aroma, he found it empty of company. The side table was laid with a modest breakfast. Lucky it was just him and Ianthe; Alick would have demolished the lot and then chewed on a chair leg. He helped himself to toast, kippers, sausage, and eggs, piling the food up high on his plate, and then took a seat at the lonely table.
Perkins appeared in the doorway. The man popped up like a child's toy, silent and unnoticed until he jumped out at you. "Do you require anything, sir?"
Quinn swallowed his mouthful. "No, thank you. But will your mistress be down shortly?"
One eyebrow arched. Quinn suspected the man had a wide range of eyebrow movements, depending on his mood. "Oh no, sir. She takes breakfast in bed."
"Does she now? Thank you." The man disappeared again, and Quinn chewed over his words. The situation simply would not do. She was not going to avoid his company by taking to her bed. For all he knew, she might decide to linger there all week. How could she become accustomed to him, if she hid under her bedclothes? No, if Ianthe would not come to him, he would simply go to her.
He picked up his plate and cutlery, and his good mood returned. The house was not over-large, and he only tried one door before finding the correct room. Ianthe was sitting up in bed, eating breakfast and reading the paper. She glanced up, and her gaze widened on seeing him.
"There you are," he said as he breezed in. He placed his plate on the table next to the vacant side of the bed.
She dropped the paper and stared at him. "Did you not find the dining room, Mr Muir?"
"Oh, I found it. And it was peculiarly empty." He plumped up a pillow and made himself comfortable next to her on the bed. He crossed his booted ankles and grinned. "I thought if I was lonely down there, you must be equally lonely up here. So I have remedied the situation."
He grabbed his plate and began eating off his lap, while Ianthe stared at him wide-eyed. All credit to her, he could see her marshalling an argument behind that grey gaze, thoughts gathered like brewing storm clouds. Ianthe was a fetching sight, her red hair tousled around her head where it had pulled loose from its overnight plait. A plain nightgown of fine lawn hung low over one shoulder, revealing a dusting of freckles on her fair skin. She looked infinitely younger and more vulnerable in the pale sunlight.
He chewed his sausage, enjoyed the view, and waited. Part of him fully expected to be chased from the room like a naughty pup, perhaps with her swinging the rolled-up newspaper. Given his limited time, he tried to learn more about her by studying the boudoir. The walls were papered in thin stripes of yellow and silver that reminded him of spring sunshine playing over the trunks of nude birches. In here, the furniture was of a pale wood that complemented the walls. The rug on the floor was a multitude of colours that rioted and clashed with each other. It brought to mind a field of wildflowers with no order, but there was a simple beauty within the chaos.
Everything in the room gave a feeling of being lived in, from the scattered items on the dresser to the clothes thrown over a chair. A dressing gown in pale green silk hung over an oriental screen in one corner. Graceful cranes spread their wings and flew across the rice fields at the bottom of the delicate paper.
At length, she huffed, and returned to the news without saying a word. Inside, Quinn chortled with glee. Yes, he really could be a twelve-year-old boy at times, but let her try and ignore him! Many had failed with that tactic.
"What is happening in the world today?" He waved his fork and carried on eating.
"Yet another sortie by Napoleon." She snapped the paper shut, and turned to him with a narrowed gaze. "What regiment are you with?"
"The Highland Wolves. We are a fairly new regiment and not yet on active service." He had scooped an entire poached egg onto his fork and slid it toward his open mouth, but paused to answer her question before letting the egg slide whole down his gullet.
Next to him, Ianthe froze. "The Highland Wolves? The Unnaturals?"
"Yes. But I assure you we are quite civilised." He stabbed another sausage with his fork.
"No. This simply will not do." She dropped the newspaper and edged away from him. "I cannot have a wolf under my roof. You must leave, Mr Muir. I will of course refund your winnings."
Deep inside the wolf whimpered at her rejection of it. Quinn tried to allay her fears. "The Unnaturals Act has passed into legislation. We are Englishmen, just with different abilities."
"No. You do not understand. I have no issue with Unnaturals in general, just wolves in particular." She threw aside the blankets and rose from the bed. One hand pressed to her temple as she cast around for her robe.
"I cannot change," Quinn whispered, his forlorn gaze on the uneaten sausage.
"Pardon?" She pulled the green robe from the screen in the corner and pushed her arms into the sleeves.
"I am the only member of the Wolves who cannot change, so you have nothing to be concerned about. I will not transform and shed on the carpets, because I cannot." He could not meet her gaze as he confessed his sorry state. He was a Wolf, but not a wolf.
"Oh. I suppose that might be acceptable, then." She still kept her distance from him, but one hand reached out to snatch a piece of toast.
With that matter sorted, Quinn surveyed the room. He was struck by how personal it was, as though the very essence of Ianthe was distilled and contained by the walls. "You don't normally have men in here."
The faint smile returned to her face. "Never, neither men or wolves. Nor do I allow boots on my bedspread, but this seems to be a week for exceptions."
6
Ianthe
* * *
The previous evening, the heady mix of the seductive tonic and champagne had dulled Ianthe's senses and slowed her responses. The entire ride home in the hackney, she couldn't fathom what to do with Quinn Muir. She knew only one thing: She needed to keep him at arm's length. Having his body taking up space in the carriage didn't help her situation. He radiated warmth and energy, and her cold soul desperately wanted to embrace him and share his vitality, to touch something real rather than the shallow façades erected by society and the demi-monde alike. He wasn't just young—he even smelt fresh, like spring rain sent to cleanse the earth.
Ianthe sent Quinn to bed, and once he disappeared up the stairs with Perkins, she dealt with Sarah's questions in a curt tone. Her mind was close to being overwhelmed, and she needed sleep and a plan. Except that once in her room, she barely slept. She tossed and turned, trying to sort through her predicament in her mind. The money she had won would settle one large bill, and advanced her one step further on her path to freedom. Quinn Muir was an inconvenience, but how difficult would it be to keep him busy for a week? If all else failed, she could plead woman's troubles and take to her bed.
But what to do with the looming shadow that had cast its chill over her life? She had known Septimus for years, almost since the first day she had emerged upon the scene. He stalked the salons and parlours, ever watchful for the brightest, prettiest, or most talented of the demimondaines to claim as his own. As a young woman, she had spurned older men for their younger and more
attractive counterparts.
With the passage of time, Ianthe grew tired of demanding young men and sought out those over forty, but despite his rank and fortune, she still skittered away from Septimus. She didn't need the incomprehensible visions from her mage-blooded sight to know to stay away. Was there more to his chilling disposition than cold blood?
Through Hoth's association with Phillip, Ianthe came into closer contact with him. She played the perfect hostess and always welcomed him into her home, regardless of her personal feelings. While he remained charming and polite, conversing with Viscount Hoth always left her skin chilled. The idea of the man laying claim to her body filled her with dread. Or perhaps it was more than revulsion at having to perform the physical act with him—perhaps it was the price he would extract from her soul.
The image of Alice Sheppard appeared before her. With sun-kissed blonde hair, green eyes, and a curvaceous figure, she had sparked a sensation when she appeared in the salons four years ago. Alice was a breath of fresh air; the 'Spring Goddess', they called her. Many men clamoured to possess her, but Septimus won. She was his mistress for two years, and over that time, she had changed. Her smile faded, her curves fell away, and her eyes became dull, like faded moss.
Was it truly sickness? Ianthe was supposed to be the girl's friend, and even she didn't know what afflicted her. She needed to find Alice. The vision of bundles of bleached bones wouldn't leave her mind and left her with a headache. There were questions about Viscount Hoth that only his former mistress could answer, and perhaps that would allay her fears. If he really did gift country homes to his mistresses, then whatever his perversion, it might be worth the price. Release from this life could finally be within her grasp; she just had to succumb to his.
Ianthe woke with the sheets tangled around her body and her mind little rested. The ache behind her eyes spoke to the amount of champagne she had consumed. The point was reinforced when Sarah opened the curtains and sunlight drove through her head.
Kisses to Steal Page 5