Kisses to Steal

by Tilly Wallace

  "My tonic," she whispered to Sarah, pointing to the amber bottle by her mirror.

  "You don't need that. A cup of tea will do you more good. Now, what were you thinking, bringing that young whelp home?" Sarah demanded, standing with her hands on her hips.

  Ianthe scowled at her abigail, but didn't have the energy to argue. She sat up and tugged the pillows up behind her. "I was thinking of the large purse on the table and being able to pay Constance's invoice when it falls due this week."

  Sarah made a noise in her throat. "He'll wear you out, that one. He has that hungry look in his eye. He'll be bending you over the table while you're having breakfast."

  "No, he won't. He won my time, not my body." She considered snuggling back under the blankets and sleeping away his next day. There was little he could do about it.

  Sarah barked a short laugh. "I doubt he'll last a week, then. He'll be bouncing round the halls on his—"

  "Breakfast, Sarah. If you don't mind." Ianthe didn't need the image her companion's words conjured to mind. There was a reason she sought older patrons—they were much easier to handle. Not to mention their physical demands were minimal. Quinn Muir was like a young colt; she could well imagine him trying to mount everything in his path. She might need to bring out her riding crop to remind him of their arrangement. A sharp reprimand or two should keep him under control. Unless he enjoyed the tussle, in which case it would just encourage him, like striking a race horse.

  Ianthe shook her head. Fatigue was giving her wayward thoughts that needed to be subdued.

  Sarah carried over her tray and the morning's paper and then left her alone. Ianthe was nibbling toast to ease her headache when her door cracked open. As she looked over the edge of the scandal sheet, the untrained puppy in question breezed into her room. Ianthe could hardly believe her eyes as the whelp made himself comfortable on her bed, and even put his boots on her quilt!

  Her fingers crunched the paper as her mind raced. She made polite conversation while she plotted what to do with him. Never before had a man invaded her bedroom. This was a private space, her sanctuary, where she could mentally steel herself before facing her audience and giving a performance. With his body stretched out next to her, she had nowhere to hide. Nor could she ignore the sight of an entire poached egg sliding down his throat.

  It had seemed innocent enough to ask his regiment, since he carried himself like a military man. Then the cold chill dropped through her body on hearing he was one of the Highland Wolves.

  "No," she whispered. Her throat was suddenly dry and the pounding headache returned. "I cannot have a wolf under my roof."

  The vision slammed back into her head—except now it made sense. Quinn Muir was the fierce wolf with its paws on the slain horse. Viscount Hoth was the cold demon lurking in the shadows. She was the horse that the two men tore apart.

  She moved through a dense fog, searching for her robe as she mumbled responses to his words. She had no issue with the Unnaturals. With the taint of mage blood in her veins she was no pure Englishwoman and would not cast stones. But how could she allow a wolf to stay? Dimly she heard him say he was a wolf but not a wolf, and she struggled to make sense of it.

  "I cannot change," he said, his gaze on the sausage balanced on the end of his fork. A faint pang coloured his words, as though he admitted his darkest and most shameful secret to her.

  How odd. How could a wolf not be a wolf? She snatched the last piece of toast from her tray and bit a corner. The act of eating brought her mind back to more mundane things. He was here now and he promised not to shed on the carpets; that would have to satisfy both her and Sarah, when she found out.

  "I suppose that might be acceptable, then." Perhaps the wolf would defeat the demon and solve two problems at once for her? One could only hope and make the best of things.

  "You don't normally have men in here," he said, after a long moment passed between them.

  It was as though he cut through the turmoil in her mind. Perhaps Mr Muir was more astute than he appeared. "Never. Neither man nor wolf. Nor do I allow boots on my bedspread, but this seems to be a week for exceptions."

  "Perhaps you will enjoy the change," he said.

  Change? No. The very idea terrified her. Things were changing too fast with Phillip dead, Septimus lurking in the wings, and now a young wolf lounging on her bed. If she closed her eyes, could she rewind the hands of time and return to the quiet comfort of life as Phillip's mistress?

  "I was entirely satisfied with my life as it was. There was no need for anything to change." She perched on the edge of the bed, her legs too weary to keep her upright. This was all Phillip's fault. If he had taken better care of himself, he wouldn't have died while thrusting into her body.

  She glanced sideways at long legs, a solid chest, and broad shoulders. Here was a man who wouldn't have a heart attack while in the middle of the act. If anything he had the look of a man who would drive her to the brink of satisfied exhaustion. And there was her mind, running away with her again. Perhaps Sarah was right and she should ease back on the tonic. It was affecting her thought processes at a time when she needed her wits about her.

  "But the world is full of possibilities, and now you have the freedom to make of it what you will." His tone was soft, as though he would gently chide her into a new direction.

  He didn't understand—how could he? Anything was possible when you were young, before age jaded you. "Spoken like a man who has the freedom to do as he pleases."

  He shook his head, and for a moment, the young façade dropped away and revealed a serious man lurking in his gaze. "You forget that I have no title or fortune. Two factors that are supposed to define who I am, yet I am determined that they will not limit what I become."

  Except he could not become a wolf, but she bit her tongue before she blurted that out. His gaze warned her that it was not a subject to jest about. Putting aside his inability to physically transform, it was extraordinary to think he sought to rebel against the place assigned to him in life. He obviously didn't realise the futility of trying.

  When had she last conversed with someone who was more than they appeared? Quinn presented as a young and irresponsible cavalryman, but there was something far deeper happening inside. Were all Highland Wolves more than they appeared on the surface? A tiny part of her roused at the prospect of knowing him better, curious to see the creature hidden behind the fresh face. Their arrangement certainly had novelty value, for her to spend time with a man and to talk without any expectation of her satisfying his baser needs. In its own way, that was a measure of freedom.

  The door burst open again. This time it was Sarah, with Perkins looking over her shoulder. The couple exchanged looks, and Ianthe sighed. The serious moment with Quinn shattered, and a wide smile returned to his face. He covered his deeper thoughts behind the outgoing exterior as he placed his hands behind his head and lounged next to her.

  Never had her room been so popular. Who knew that the result of losing a hand of cards would be all these comings and goings in her boudoir? It was all so tiresome, especially when her headache refused to budge. She glanced sideways at another headache that wouldn't budge. Or was he a potential headache cure? There was too much to contemplate, and the time had come to reduce the number of people present, to give her room to think.

  "Excellent timing, Sarah. I have finished and will dress now." She tightened the cord of the robe about her middle. Underneath she wore only a light shift, and for the first time in her life, she experienced a reluctance to dress in front of a man. Putting clothes on seemed to confer an intimacy not present in shedding them. Ianthe had no qualms about dropping her robe and allowing a man to see her naked form, but there was something about Quinn's gaze that said he saw more than her physical appearance. He seemed to see through her, to her secret self, and she couldn't be that exposed to him.

  Sarah moved about the room, shooting deadly looks at Quinn as she fetched Ianthe's undergarments and dress. The lad held
out his plate to Perkins, and showed no sign of budging off her bed. Like the professional she was, Ianthe kept a smile on her face as she tried to shoo the puppy from the room.

  "Perkins will show you to the parlour. I will join you shortly." She moved to the screen in the corner. Hopefully, Quinn would have enough common sense to leave her to perform her toilette alone.

  The silence stretched on for a moment, then the bedclothes rustled as he slid off. "Of course," he murmured, and his tread paced her floor.

  Only when the door shut behind him did she let out a sigh.

  "Told you," Sarah said as she selected a clean chemise and dress. "Perhaps Perkins should take him for a walk in the park?"

  "You are more right than you suppose. He is a soldier of the Highland Wolves," Ianthe said as she dropped the robe and pulled the shift over her head.

  "What?" Sarah gasped and clutched the fresh shift to her chest. "He's one of those Scottish beasts? He'll be peeing in the corners and chewing the furniture like a bored dog."

  "They are wolves, not dogs." It seemed an important distinction, even as it brought her vision back to her mind. "And he has given his word not to change form in the house." She kept back that the young man was unable to transform. He had shared a confidence and she would not betray it.

  Sarah muttered darkly to herself about ruined carpets and never getting the smell out, as she dropped the shift over Ianthe's head and held out her short stays.

  "We only have six days to go. I'm sure we can survive the intrusion for that long." The days would probably pass in a rush, but perhaps she should hold on to the time instead. Once Quinn's week was up, Septimus Fletcher would step forward and take his place in the bedroom down the hall. Thinking of that was like considering a long winter while basking in the summer sun, the thought better put off for later.

  Downstairs in the petite office, Ianthe sat at her writing desk and tried valiantly to ignore Quinn. The young man surprised her. She had assumed he would head out, carouse with his friends, and re-join her in the evening. Instead, he selected a book and settled in the armchair, although he seemed incapable of even reading without expending energy. Each page turn was accompanied by an arm flourish and he constantly changed position, as though the chair contained chickens pecking at his bottom. The man bristled with life and vitality, and she found it draining just being in the same room as him.

  Liar, her inner voice whispered.

  That wasn't the issue at all. He terrified her.

  What if proximity to him allowed his enthusiasm to rub off? Ten years ago, she had inured herself to both men and life. She buried all her feelings and constructed a numb shell; it was the armour that enabled her to ply her trade. Each minute with Quinn Muir was an assault on her indifference. If she felt one thing, she would feel everything, and how could she surrender to Septimus knowing her soul was exposed?

  Time was valuable, however, and she couldn't waste minutes worrying about what might happen or things she couldn't control. Ianthe concentrated on the letters before her instead. She was determined to discover what had become of Hoth's previous mistresses, starting with the last one she knew. There were a handful of people who might know where Alice now lived. She had distant family in Somerset still, and friends among the demi-monde, not to mention her previous suitors. Ianthe wrote to each one, asking for any information about the woman, and a way to contact her. Someone would know something that would put her fears to rest.

  Ianthe dripped red wax onto the folded papers and pressed her seal to them. Then she rang the little bell to summon Perkins.

  "Yes, miss?" He spoke to her, but his gaze slid to Quinn sprawled in the chair, his booted legs over one side.

  Her butler's disapproval made her smile. Perkins was a stickler for formality. Perhaps she might enjoy Quinn's stay after all, if it resulted in the two men warring over matters of propriety.

  She handed the bundle of letters over to Perkins. "Can you see these are delivered, please?"

  "Of course." He bowed, and stared at Quinn. On his way out, the butler batted at the polished Hessians, knocking them off the arm of the chair and back to the floor.

  This time, Ianthe couldn't suppress her giggle.

  7

  Quinn

  * * *

  Quinn pulled at his cravat. If he didn't know better, he would think Ianthe knew of his distaste for the silken nooses and had planned this evening simply to torture him. As far as he was concerned there was only one enormous advantage to attending the opera: the envious looks of practically every man present when he appeared with her on his arm.

  They had spent a quiet day together. He found a number of volumes in her little parlour to read, but it was watching her that engrossed him. While Ianthe sought to ignore him, he took the opportunity to study the way she frowned as she laboured over her ledger. When she struck a particularly vexing issue, she chewed her quill. Why would he read a book, when he could watch her lips nibbling at the shaped piece of metal? Or the way she stroked the end of the feather along her jaw with a delicate touch? For some reason the sight made him uncomfortable in his seat, and he had to keep changing his position around.

  He had asked about Phillip Dunne, but she fell silent and would not be drawn on the subject. One long hard look from her, and he dropped the name. Did she have genuine affection for her patron and mourn his passing, or was her reluctance to discuss him simply a courtesan keeping a man's secrets?

  Quinn left Ianthe's company only for exploratory forays about the house and the small garden, as he mulled over how to discover what she might know. He would need something to report back to his captain, and he hoped to ferret out a piece of news that showed her innocent of any duplicity.

  Returning to the matter at hand, he was still battling the cravat when Perkins knocked on the door and walked in. "May I be of assistance, sir?"

  Quinn wanted to tell him no, but his reflection told a different story. No matter how hard he tried, the cravat would not obey the commands he sent to his fingers. He dared not look at his hair. Even now, he could imagine Alick laughing at him from a corner as he tried to make himself presentable. His appearance seemed more important now that he would be escorting Ianthe. A small part of him wanted to be worthy of her, for with no title or fortune, he only had one thing to offer: himself.

  "Yes, please. I appear to have a cravat problem." He knew when to admit defeat and call in reinforcements.

  With a few deft twists, the man had the fabric in order. "And your hair, sir?"

  Quinn patted his mop of hair. He had hoped his top hat would weigh it down by the time they made the theatre. There were days Quinn pondered if his hair was the only part of him that could transform into a beast, for it seemed to obey no laws but its own. "Not good?"

  An arched eyebrow was his reply. They really were the most expressive things he had ever seen. One could write a treatise on the interpretation of Perkins's eyebrow positions.

  He sighed. "See what you can do."

  This task took Perkins longer than the cravat, which had lain down and surrendered easily. His hair put up a valiant fight, and almost defied every attempt at smoothing it down. It was a full fifteen minutes before the butler declared Quinn fit to be seen with his mistress. Now, he waited in the entranceway for her to descend the stairs while the man found them a hackney.

  At a whisper of silk, he looked up and his breath left his body with a whoosh. Ianthe was ravishing in a gown the palest shade of lemon. Auburn curls tumbled around her face, catching the candlelight. She was his angel with a fiery halo.

  He stood taller and held out his arm. "You look sublime, and it is my great pleasure to escort you this evening."

  She slipped her hand around his arm. "Thank you. Perkins has wrought a minor miracle upon the man who was sprawled in my library today."

  He caught the smile glinting in her gaze. Only their second day together and she was falling for his casual charm already. "I believe there was an issue of honour involved
in tackling my appearance."

  "Oh?" Her grey eyes met his and warmth spread through him, like the slow burn of illicit whisky.

  "Apparently he would not let you be seen with a bumpkin and demanded I uphold your standards. Although he was nearly defeated by my hair."

  A tinkling laugh escaped her throat, and he was mesmerised. What would it be like to stroke that column with his tongue? Would her laughter turn to a soft moan? Quinn dropped his gaze to stare at the tiles and, for the millionth time that day, wondered how he would last the week.

  She tugged him toward the door. "Then let us away, before Perkins's carefully crafted work is undone."

  Covent Garden bustled with life at all levels of the social sphere as they walked to the Theatre Royal to attend the opera. Attractive women stood on the path in front of the bordellos, while their more worn sisters tried to lure men into darkened corners before the show. Shabby drunks wandered through the crowd and hurled insults at lampposts. And threaded through them all, glittering members of the ton pretended they were above it all. Quinn drank it up. While city life already chafed and restricted him, he could still marvel at the wonders of London.

  They passed between the enormous pillars holding up the opera house portico and entered the tiled hall. Chandeliers hung with crystals sparkled overhead, their light reflected in mirrors on the walls. News had spread that Quinn had won a week with the darling of the demi-monde, and he stood a little taller to have her at his side. It stroked his ego to hear the mutters of lucky bastard as he walked by. He just needed a plan to spin out his week into a permanent arrangement, to make sure Ianthe was never back on the open market once she realised he was the only man, and wolf, she needed.

  He saw Ewan and Alick among the crowd, and nodded in their direction. They made a curious pair. People were drawn to the handsome, aloof Ewan, but the looming and scarred Alick repelled them. Had they been on a boat, it would have capsized as theatregoers clustered on one side, trying to avoid the angry-looking Scotsman.