by Anne Mallory
On Wednesday, armed with a copy of Eleutherios’s opus, she had gamely sought to point out everything in the garden that might open one’s eyes in wonder. The butterflies, the ruffled edges of a breeze, the peeking gaze of a rabbit. And then she wasn’t sure how it happened, but suddenly she was gazing at each vegetable, each plant, and instead of pointing out their vibrant life and determined roots, she was seeing a ripening female, a developed male. The roundness of the tomatoes, the shape of a cabbage and how the leaves nestled around the center, the hang of a cucumber. The tip of a breast or the curled edge of a snuggled core. And, of course…
She had stuttered something in reply to his casually delivered comments. His carefully crafted words and light touches as he outlined each edible object in a very apparent way.
His lips had pulled into the most sensual grin she had ever seen. Enough to set her heart racing and her body firing.
Tomatoes might as well have been rubbed against her cheeks. It would have saved her pumping blood the trouble. She had promised never to allow him the upper hand again.
On Thursday, she had made him sit in a cafe in Piccadilly to observe the crowds. Even dressed less formally, he had stood out in the melee. No one had spared a glance for her, but he could do nothing to mask the inherent power and the blatant masculinity that oozed from him.
But he had ignored the women casting covert or open glances. All of his attention had been on her. Drowning her in his Stygian gaze. His fingers had lightly brushed her elbow, reaching to lift his drink.
She had repeated her promise to herself.
On Friday, she had argued with him about crime and punishment as they walked to Newgate. They had peered at the stark exterior. The way the facade hunched in on itself in some areas and stood proud and tall in others.
And he had simply said, a serious note to his voice, “Never laying eyes upon you again would be the keenest punishment someone could inflict upon me.” His eyes had held hers. Unreadable, intriguing, mercurial. And she could almost believe he meant it from the tone of his voice, the intensity of his gaze, the way his body leaned into hers.
The promise became her mantra.
On Saturday, they had strolled to the park and watched the waterfowl. She’d finally shut him up with a hand to his lips. The soft, hot skin beneath her gloved palms. And then she hadn’t been able to think of anything but how the moist heat might feel against her bare skin. The soft skin of her wrists rather than the chapped pads of her fingers. She’d dropped her hands abruptly at the thought and swore to lock herself in the library that afternoon and all the afternoons thereafter. Promises and challenges be damned.
He had followed her to the library, steadying her on the ladder, his shoulder brushing her thigh.
Promises? She had found herself later that night touching the door of the armoire in her room, wondering at the pages hidden inside. At the images in her head now overlaid with visions of the viscount above her, touching her, his lips doing the sinful things at which he kept hinting.
Promises of his own.
She felt barely in possession of her own sensibilities. Her internal voice was growing dimmer and dimmer. The lure of the illicit manuscript and its master growing stronger. Urging her to follow the siren’s call. Come. Open me. Find the answers to what you’ve always wondered.
Miranda walked the pavement, the dwindling restraint she claimed sinking into the temptation that seemed ever present in the viscount’s vicinity. It was simply amazing that she had refrained from flinging herself in his general direction. She knew she was being seduced. She knew it. And yet the call, come to me, open me up, was a flame to her moth. And he was Prometheus, keeper of the fire.
Every day she found herself anticipating his appearance in the library doorway even more. And she was ten kinds of fool, for one of these days he wasn’t going to show. And one of these days he would have his fill and never appear again.
She shook her head. Stupid moth. Stupid flame.
Two women walking toward her had their heads together, furiously whispering, eyes furtively rising to the left. One blushed violently and ducked her head. Miranda’s brows knit, and she turned right onto the walk, then stopped dead.
The gorgeous statue of warmed alabaster clothed in black rose from his seated, lounging position on the stone steps, looking for all that he had been waiting just for her. A cloth bundle was held in his right hand.
“My lord,” she somehow managed to stutter.
“Miss Chase.”
She clutched her gloved hands to each other, rubbing the cheap shields together. “Hoping to catch a glimpse of the sun?”
“Waiting for her lovely rays to peek through the clouds,” he said agreeably. He didn’t glance up toward the sky, he just continued to look at her. Her face heated under his gaze, assuredly rosy red.
His lips curved. “Ah, there it is.” He languidly took the last step.
Moth. Flame. Danger.
She attempted to skirt past him and enter the house, trying to disregard what the thump of her heart told her to do instead.
He touched her arm, freezing her in place, her foot upon the first stone step.
“Come.” He slid his free hand down her arm and took her fingers in his, lifting them.
Her body froze, any lingering resolve tipped to shatter if it fell. She stared straight ahead. “But I don’t want to be late.”
Mrs. Humphries would hold it against her, and she’d been trying to worm her way into the woman’s good graces when the viscount wasn’t present. When she needed to think other thoughts.
“I have already informed the household that you are joining me. They are shelving the piles you sorted earlier and will begin uncrating the volumes that are in the carriage house.”
More books? She met his eyes. “But—”
“I pointed to the specific piles. This will save you three days’ worth of lugging printed bricks. Besides.” He smiled lazily, far too close to her. “I’m the boss.”
“But—”
“And I need an escort.”
She stared at him. An escort? Her hand shivered in his.
“I’m desirous of your company.”
She continued to stare.
His lips pulled into a smile, a teasing lift at the edges. “I need you to purchase some books for me.”
A request that was perfectly within the parameters of her hired position. Hard to refuse, as such.
Not that she would refuse.
“Very well.” She tugged her hand from his and smoothed her two-seasons-out-of-fashion pelisse. “What store are we visiting?”
He motioned for her to walk with him, the parcel still in his hand. “Not a store.”
She attempted to keep her gaze on the pedestrians passing by. The curious eyes focused on the man beside her. She was used to being in Georgette’s shadow, but this man cast an even wider field. “Oh? Then a warehouse?” His title would likely open quite a few doors on Paternoster Row.
“No, to Lady Banning’s.”
She stumbled. He put out a hand to steady her. Not in her field of comfort nor expertise—either his action or their destination. She tried to remove her arm before his touch could unhinge her even more—the tingles never truly seeming to dissipate. She didn’t bother with a “pardon me” or even an “I must have misunderstood.”
“I’m not dressed for such a destination.”
“We will stop by the modiste then and acquire something suitable for you.” A grand carriage pulled in front of them. The stately matched horses stood at attention, perfectly poised.
The coachman posed on top of the box as a liveried boy smartly opened the door with a flourish. Miranda stared at the boy as he lifted a hand to assist her inside.
She’d woken up this morning. Dressed and chatted with Mrs. Fritz, who cooked for them in exchange for her board. Cleaned the downstairs floors. Taken care of a few things in the store. Walked the few miles to Mayfair. And somewhere between turning up the walk to the
viscount’s manor and approaching the front door, she’d fallen back to sleep. Again.
Just like every day since she’d met him really.
“Giles,” the viscount said toward the coachman. “We will be making a stop at Madame—”
“No, no,” she said hastily.
“Ga—”
“Might I speak with you a moment?” One brow lifted as she touched his sleeve and tugged him to the side. “What are you doing?” she whispered harshly.
“Offering to take you to the modiste.”
She glared up at him. “Are you serious about going to Lady Banning’s?”
“The last I checked.”
“We can walk there.”
“How do you know where she lives?”
“Lady Banning lives around the corner.”
“Do you follow her, hiding in the bushes?”
Miranda looked down her nose. “Everyone knows where Lady Banning lives.”
“She will be delighted to be so notorious. Please tell me that I measure up. Did you know where I lived?”
She colored. “Don’t be silly.”
He smiled slowly. “I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. I mistook you for your butler, if you’ll remember.”
“I am still smarting from it too.” He had obviously never found anything but amusement in the gaffe.
“It is a game to know the addresses of the Quality. Not a novelty at all.” She had never put much stock in the games people sometimes played over a pint, but she had witnessed them on more than one occasion.
“Do I get extra sips for being a king among rogues?”
“Sorry, but I had never heard much about you.” She clasped her hands together.
“I’m wounded. Mortally.” His eyes never left hers as he rubbed a finger across his lower lip.
They both knew that she had. That she possibly was even intrigued by him before, not that she’d admit as much now.
“We can walk,” she said, trying to get back to the crux of the problem. By design, she had made each of their daily outings within walking distance. Only Newgate had stretched the boundaries, but she’d used the excuse of the walk as part of the “teaching.”
“Walk? Never. Not when I can arrive in style.”
She stared at him as he motioned to the dark carriage with its drawn shades, urging her forward.
“I’m not riding in that thing.”
“I just had it deloused. I promise there are no fleas remaining with a sweet tooth for shopgirls.”
She glared at him. “Well, at least you’ve decided to stop seducing me.”
He raised a brow. “Seduce you? What are you thinking, Miss Chase?”
She didn’t reply, and he motioned for her to get in the belly of the deadly beast.
She looked at the carriage. Even with the cattle standing perfectly at attention, the entire contraption unnerved her. Horses could be spooked. They could bolt, gallop on a mad spree, destroying everything in their path and everyone within the coffin they were pulling.
No need to get in it if she didn’t have to.
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Can’t, I’m afraid. We have to make another stop first.”
“Where?”
“You are quite autocratic today. Questioning your employer.”
“You aren’t my employer. My uncle is. I’m simply doing him a favor by dealing with you.” And earning a nice percentage, she internally allowed. But no matter how grand and lovely the carriage probably was on the inside, she wouldn’t get in that thing in order to travel a few blocks.
His fingers touched her chin, igniting the heat within her that he seemed to call forth at will. “I promise the ride is smooth. I won’t let you fall.”
She looked into his eyes. Flame. Moth. Danger.
A simple carriage ride. She nodded tightly, stepping away. The boy near the door offered his hand, and she took a deep breath. She would simply think happy thoughts. She took the boy’s hand and ascended.
Her foot was already inside when she heard the viscount’s voice.
“To Madame G—”
“I’d rather not,” she said as quickly as she could, turning, realizing too late where the other stop would be. Georgette would curse her to the fifth level of hell if she ever found out that she’d turned down a new dress from whatever modiste they might have visited. But dressed as she was, Miranda would never be noticed at the countess’s house except as the worker she was. Embarrassment over her clothing was misplaced and, frankly, asinine.
And the thought that he might buy her clothing made her head spin in mad ways, and she needed to maintain her equilibrium.
She glanced to the side to see the coachman look to the viscount.
“Perhaps later then.” The viscount smiled lazily again, then motioned her the rest of the way inside.
Obtaining books. That was all.
The interior looked different than her most radical imaginings. She had craned and peered into more than one grand carriage from afar and had always fancied the insides contained glorious tuffets and yards of gold alchemically turned into silk. But the viscount’s was quite plain. The requisite black and grays she already associated with him. Muted silver and gold accents. Hardly a sultan’s paradise.
Then again, very little lived up to her imaginings, which was why she tried not to constrain anything to them.
Except Eleutherios. She had a certain image of him. And Mr. Pitts.
She had expected a multitude of shiny objects and expensive contraptions would keep her mind off the fact that they were moving in an enclosed space. She eyed the opposite window. Perhaps she could casually open the shade before he entered without drawing attention to the action.
Her rear touched the seat, and the fabric molded around her, pulling her into a velvety embrace, surrounding her. It gripped and pulled, unaccountably relaxing her, draining the tension from her limbs. She paused a moment, completely sated, then touched the top of the padded bench. The soft, luxurious fabric caressed her hand, inviting her to keep it there, whispering of the glories that would be hers if she did. She didn’t know what type of cushion it was, but it was worth a small kingdom.
Probably cost that too.
She looked around the interior with a new, appreciative eye. Not splashy or showy, but sumptuous. Decadent in all the right ways. She had never felt such luxury. Picked out for the way it surrounded and enveloped, made one feel relaxed and open.
She had peered into the interior of an earl’s carriage once. It had been gilded and ostentatious from her distance. He and his beautiful countess had looked like the perfect lovely pair except for the stiff way they’d sat. The cold, detached expressions on their faces. She reexamined the memory, slotting this new information into place. Choices based on the external versus the internal.
But the viscount had not made the external choice. In this instance, at least.
The stunning thought must have shown on her face because the viscount raised a brow. “Something amiss?”
He reclined in the seat across from her, one leg extended, almost brushing the outside of hers, the mysterious bundle resting next to him.
“Just surprised. I’d expected something…different.”
“Fingers swirling beneath the surface. It is what is underneath that matters, no? What the material is made of?”
He looked as if he were having a terrific joke at her expense, and at the same time that intense, too-watchful gaze that occasionally graced his face was in evidence once more.
“I suppose this is where I say, touché.” It should have been a disgruntled statement, but she couldn’t work up the feeling over the fast beat of her heart, or through the low whisper of her voice.
“Do not fret, Miss Chase.” His knee casually brushed hers as he settled back farther. “I’ll not rib you for it…much.”
She continued to stroke the bench, almost unconsciously. It made her feel like she was in a grand sitting room instead of wi
thin a death trap. And all of a sudden there were equally dangerous thoughts running through her mind that she needed to tamp down.
“Why are you taking me to Lady Banning’s?” She was glad the question emerged in a more casual tone than she’d thought herself capable. She tried to focus on their destination. The countess was the preeminent member of the literary elite in London. It was said that she had a copy of every book ever printed. Even a secret second copy of Beowulf—one in finer condition than the museum’s.
And the woman, a countess in her own right, was said to be rigid about who entered her private sanctuary.
If Miranda had been told their destination by anyone else, she’d know they were poking fun. But the viscount seemed to mean more of the things he said than he was likely to admit.
Her hands tightened as the coachman called out, and the vehicle shifted. The viscount casually leaned over and lifted the shades, allowing the bright light to filter in and drown the shadows. She relaxed slightly as the carriage began to move.
“Why am I taking you? To acquire some books, as I said.”
The horses pulled into a steadier gait. Worth every penny for the way they seamlessly moved. None of the starting and jerking that she’d expected even in an expensive rig.
She clasped her fingers. “You are as well versed as I about literature, my lord. You have proven that.”
“Just because I know Rousseau from Homer does not mean I can adequately make the correct choice of purchase.”
But he knew far more than that. She sat back, trying to relax and enjoy the way the carriage rocked like a cradle pushed by a loving hand. Much nicer than the jostling of a rickety hack over cobblestones—which she sometimes had to take, white-knuckled and nauseous.
Still…accidents could happen to the wealthy too.
She concentrated on him, and his eyes never left hers as he rubbed a finger across the knee of his trousers in time with the rocking.
She needed to get over her negative associations with traveling if she ever truly wanted to grab her dream and continue her family’s aborted goal to tour the Continent. Nice short stops in a comfortable space might just be what she needed. This wasn’t so bad, all things considered.