“I love you, Melissa,” he gasped in her ear as he drove them both over the edge.
They held each other so tight that she couldn’t tell her heartbeat from his.
A thought wiggled through the physical sensation, struggling as hard as a fish fighting the river’s flow: if this never ends, I never have to leave him.
But the thought, like a fish, was there and gone in an instant.
∞∞∞
Magnus felt like the clock was chiding him. Its rhythm sounded eerily like a voice: Go now, go now, go now.
So, reluctantly, he exhaled and opened his eyes. She was looking right at him.
He smiled and kissed her nose. “I hate to say this, but I must go, my love.” She looked so forlorn he added, “Only for the next few hours.” He kissed her again. “Will you walk with me after church today? We can go see Mrs. Tisdale together.” He grinned. “Do you think she’ll be surprised when we tell her our news?”
She returned his smile, but it was sad.
“Come,” he said, sitting up and holding her in his arms, his tone cajoling. “You knew I would have to leave. We’ve been fortunate, but your aunt may be back any moment.” He glanced at the clock and frowned. “I’m surprised she isn’t back yet.”
She shifted from his embrace and stood.
Magnus looked up at her. “I’m afraid your gown is rumpled beyond repair—will you hate me for that tomorrow?”
Her laugh was half-hearted and she began to collect his clothing, which he’d thrown all over the room in his haste.
Magnus took his shirt from her and shook it before pulling it on. His neckcloth he just slung around his neck.
She handed him his waistcoat, her smile finally a real one. “This waistcoat has a tear in it, too. Do all your waistcoats have tears?”
He reached for the waistcoat but grabbed her instead, pulling her close and stealing a kiss. “Yes, and most of my breeches, and coats, and unmentionables. I shall keep you busy mending.”
She kissed his chest where his shirt was open and then turned to hunt the rest of his things. He was dressed and ready in far too short a time.
As they walked to the door he stopped and turned to her. “I can’t help feeling you are sad. Do you regret what we—”
“No!”
The sharp word surprised them both. She shook her head and repeated, softer this time. “No. I don’t regret a moment.” Her mouth pulled into a half smile. “Except that it is over so soon.”
He took her face in his hands and kissed her soundly. “We shall see each other in a mere,” he checked his watch, “nine hours.” He kissed her one last time. “Although I have to admit it will feel like a lifetime.”
“Yes,” she said as she opened the door. “It will feel like a lifetime.”
Chapter Twelve
London
Six Weeks Later
It was astonishing how quickly Mel fell back into her daily routine. A week sped past before she knew it. And then another, and another. Soon a month had gone by.
Although Daisy never said a word, Melissa knew the other woman was shocked by her ability to cut Magnus out of her life and out of her heart.
Part of Mel—the part she kept locked away in the dark recesses of her mind—agreed with Daisy’s assessment: Mel was inhuman.
But then again, it was also the way she stayed sane. Because the moment she opened her mind to memories of Magnus was the same moment she would begin unravelling. And Mel was terrified she’d come completely undone if she ever allowed that process to start.
So, instead, she turned every thought toward her business.
She speedily hired several new employees in preparation for the expansion into the new building, grateful—now—that Laura’s behavior had pressured her into moving along with the plan. Laura and Hugo were behaving with admirable restraint, as were the rest of the servants—apart from Daisy, who’d gone back to work, and then succumbed to an influenza Mel suspected had more to do with listlessness than actual illness. But Daisy paid for her lodgings so Mel didn’t need to exert pressure on her, although they both knew there would be no retiring yet. Another five years on her back at least, Mel believed, until her friend could stop working and have enough to carry her through.
As for herself? Well, the best way to lead was by example, so she was considering taking clients for the first time in years. After all, why had she been saving herself?
She was a whore who owned a whorehouse, lived in a whorehouse, and only associated with other whores and the men who paid them. It was past time she accepted that. The distance she’d attempted to maintain between herself and the others who worked for her had been hubris—or at least snobbery.
Nobody who worked at The White House—well, except perhaps Hugo, because who knew what the devil he thought—enjoyed exchanging sex for money. But that was life, wasn’t it? Everyone had to do things they didn’t like. Even the royals weren’t exempt. Look at Prinny, forced to marry a woman who hated him so much she would just as soon stick a hatchet in his forehead as even look at him.
Thinking of Prinny made her think of the royal issue Joss had warned her about in his letter all those weeks ago. She’d been putting off speaking to Hugo because she knew it would be a difficult, and probably unpleasant, conversation. But she’d been here almost six weeks; it was time.
She pulled the bell and a servant answered almost immediately. “Tell Hugo I’d like to see him.”
The maid—a new girl whose name Mel couldn’t seem to keep in her mind—dropped a curtsey and scuttled away.
She went to the sideboard and poured herself a generous brandy, but when she raised the glass to her mouth she recoiled. She sniffed the glass—but it just smelled . . . off.
The door opened and she turned to find Hugo slouched in the doorway.
“Please, come in,” she said dryly.
He grinned and shut the door behind him. “You wished to see me?”
“That was . . . fast.”
He shrugged, the gesture sinuous, as all his movements were. If his behavior had been conscious, it would have been less effective, but his body was solid muscle and he moved with a grace that was surprising in a person whose manners were so very graceless.
She lifted her glass. “Does this smell off?”
He took a sniff with a nose that was far bigger than his face required. “Smells fine to me.”
She shuddered. “Do you want it? I haven’t touched it.”
He took the glass, his expression speculative. “Is it your stomach again?”
“No.” Mel hated that everyone knew her private business, but that was what happened when you coughed up blood while eating dinner with your employees.
She gestured to the heavy leather armchairs arranged in front of the fireplace. It was barely September, but she was cold for some reason, so she’d had the charwoman keep big fires in all her rooms.
“I think I know what this is about,” Hugo said.
“Oh?”
“Mmm-hmm. Your surly associate—Joss—was deeply unhappy about my new friend. Which I find highly ironic for a man who has recently absconded with one of the most notorious aristocrats in Britain.”
“I’d shut up about Joss and his business if I were you,” she said, shifting irritably in her chair, unable to get comfortable. “And let me assure you, Hugo, Joss was a lot more sanguine about your behavior than I am.”
His thin lips pulled into his idea of a smile. “Well, you don’t have to worry. Our special guest has moved along.”
She snorted. “If you think that means we don’t have to worry about him then you are not as smart as you hold yourself out to be.”
He shrugged and took a sip, his expression one of pure sensual pleasure as he swallowed the expensive brandy. “I know there are people who’ve suffered from the vigorous cleansing ritual my friend’s powerful keeper employs, but this wasn’t the kind of thing my friend would ever want to get out.” Hugo smirked, “Trust me, he’ll tak
e our little secret to the grave.”
Mel studied him while she considered what Hugo was really saying: he’d not just let the duke fuck him, he’d also rogered a member of the royal family.
She had to admit he was right, even a royal would have difficulty evading harsh punishment for something like that.
Hugo cocked his head and eyed her from beneath his habitually drooping lids—one more thing that could have seemed like an affectation if she didn’t know he naturally looked this sleepy no matter the time of day or what he was doing.
It struck her, in a flash of terror, that he might be blackmailing his royal duke to ensure his silence.
Her eyelids fluttered shut at the thought. No, she could not even begin to contemplate such a possibility.
“You’re curious, aren’t you? You want to ask me questions.”
Mel opened her eyes to find his mouth tilted in a wicked smile that united his mismatched features into something hypnotic and compelling. “You’d like to know all the details . . . how it felt to have so much power at my mercy. How it felt to have a man who might one day be king on his knees sucking me off.”
Mel had to laugh and his sensual smile shifted into a self-mocking grin.
“I’ll tell you, darling, but only over my pillow.”
Melissa snorted. “I don’t sleep with my employees, Hugo.” Especially not ones she couldn’t trust any farther than she could throw them.
“You slept with Joss.”
She straightened in her chair. “Who told you that?”
“The man himself.” She gave him a look of disbelief and he laughed. “All right, that was a lie. I was just guessing, but I can tell from your reaction that I guessed right.”
Mel stretched her neck, wondering why she was so stiff.
Hugo leaned forward and put his glass on the table. He’d spread his knees, the black leather riding breeches that were an affectation stretched taut as he rested his forearms on his thighs, leaning toward her. He wore black boots polished to a glass-like shine, a black muslin shirt, a dull silk waistcoat of . . . yes, black, and a black cutaway coat that fit him like tar poured over his lean but broad back and shoulders. As affections went, Melissa thought it was more than a little effective. A successful whore always needed a signature, or trademark, and this was Hugo’s: the whore in black. As for Mel’s trademark? Well, it had always been her reserve. That, coupled with her selectiveness, had made her a commodity that men made fools of themselves to acquire.
“I’ll pay you.”
She blinked and stared at his face, which was no longer smiling. “Excuse me?”
“I understand you’re considering taking on clients again, I would like to be one of them—preferably the only one.”
Mel threw back her head and laughed. “You’d like to get your hands on my share of The White House, not on my body.”
He grinned, not insulted by her accusation. “Can’t I want to get my hands on both?” He stood and came toward her, the front of his breeches distended in a fashion that said maybe he did want her, after all. Or, perhaps he was just the sort of man who became aroused by money.
“And who told you I was considering taking on clients?” she asked.
“I’ll never tell.” He perched on the arm of her chair, somehow able to get away with the maneuver without her shoving him off. He leaned toward her and ran a finger down her jaw, his heavy eyes close enough that she could see they looked solid black. Mel stared into them, trying to get some sense of the man behind them. But Hugo was a dark horse both inside and out—and he kept himself so far behind a wall of illusion she wondered if he even existed independently of his façade.
His thin, sneering lips curved into a smile that somehow managed to be one of the most sensual Melissa had ever seen. Not that it could compare with Magnus’s sweet, clear-eyed, joyous expression of love, of course.
Oh, Melissa, darling . . . don’t open that door, a mocking voice in her head chided.
No, she’d better leave Magnus just where he was: far, far away from her.
Hugo’s next words jerked her from her miserable thoughts. “I want to pay you; I want to be your client.”
Mel’s hand was lying on the small bit of chair Hugo wasn’t occupying with his body. He encircled her wrist with his fingers, and they both looked down. The one part of Hugo Buckingham’s body that was undeniably beautiful—well, other than his cock, which was, Mel had to admit, quite something to behold—were his hands. Like the rest of him they were long and shapely, the power in them latent as he squeezed her wrist and brought her hand to rest on his impressive erection.
Mel curled her hand around it, gripping him hard enough to make him hiss, his nostrils flaring with either pain or excitement or both; a person never knew with Hugo. She smiled and he leaned down toward her, his lips parted to take her.
“You can’t afford me, Hugo darling.” She gave his prick a sharp squeeze that got him off the arm of her chair quickly enough. He was momentarily surprised, but not angry. She’d never seen Hugo angry and hoped she never did.
Instead he laughed, a throaty, sensual sound that managed to make even her lifeless heart beat a little faster. “I adore you, Melissa. One day you’ll realize I’m the perfect man for you—your perfect mate. We are two sides of the same coin. You’ll see the light eventually.”
Mel watched as he sauntered from the room, hoping to God he wasn’t right.
Meanwhile, in New Bickford . . .
Magnus knew he should have waited for the rain to pass before starting back to the vicarage, but some urgent compulsion always compelled him to get back, as if there was something waiting for him in his lonely cottage.
He wiped the moisture from his face with the back of his hand and stared through the almost impenetrable combination of dark and rain. There was some moonlight—he would not imperil Friar’s health, even if he had little care for his own.
Some part of him wondered if he wasn’t hoping to get sick—to die. It was a sin against God to think such a thing, but it wouldn’t be the first time Magnus had sinned.
He’d thought the weight on his chest would become lighter as time passed. It had been eight weeks, yet things seemed no different from that very first day—when he’d gone to Halliburton Manor to look for her after she’d not come to church. Surely that day should have been the worst?
The house had been a hive of industry when he rode up, and he’d wondered what she was doing. But it had been the cook who’d answered the door, her lined face kind as she told him that her mistress was gone—along with her aunt—back to the city.
His brain had spun like a toothless cog. “When is she returning?” He’d known as the words left his mouth that his question was foolish—that he was only asking something that would bring more pain.
“I’m afraid she’s not coming back, sir. Something important called her back.”
The information was like a piece that simply would not fit—an extra piece in a puzzle—and he had no place for it in his brain.
“Would it be possible to get her direction in London?” he asked when he realized he’d been standing still and silent for a socially unacceptable amount of time.
The cook’s expression had been worse than her words. Her eyes had filled with pity. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to give out such information. I’m very sorry, sir.” She’d looked it.
When he’d stood mute and stupid, she’d reached out and laid a hand on his hands, which he saw were clenched together in front of him, his knuckles gone white.
She gave a squeeze and turned away, shutting the door quietly and leaving him standing on the front steps while servants bustled around him.
He’d had mad visions of clinging to the top of the carriage that was taking her baggage back to London. Or bribing the postilion to fit him in the box on the back. Or simply riding Friar all the way to London behind the carriage.
Ultimately, he had turned around and gone back to the vicarage, finishing his norma
l Sunday tasks like a dead man walking. The vicar and his wife both told him he looked ill, that he must have picked up an influenza on one of his many house visits. Go to bed, they said, get some rest. He’d obeyed them because it was easier than explaining why that wouldn’t help.
He’d prayed, and prayed, and prayed. Nothing came to him anymore. His actions—his requests of God—felt self-serving and hollow.
So, when the vicar had said he was going to pay a call on a farm that was several hours journey by gig, Magnus had jumped at the opportunity.
The people he’d visited today were grindingly poor. Their farm had the well-worn feel of a tattered garment and even their fields had looked bloodless and dusty as he’d ridden through a weed-choked lane to reach the ramshackle cottage.
A few chickens scratched dispiritedly in the dust and a pig rooted unconvincingly near the corner of the house. Two children sat quiet and motionless under the eaves, their eyes too large for their faces.
“Hello,” he’d said, smiling as he swung down from Friar. The vicar said the dying man had a family but hadn’t mentioned how young they were; these children could not have been more than three or four. If Magnus had known, he would have brought one of the carved toys the vicar’s stablemaster kept him supplied with. He cursed himself for having nothing in his satchel other than his bible and three jars of Mrs. Heeley’s dreadful preserves.
He crouched down in front of them. “Do you want to pet my horse? His name is Friar and he’s very friendly.”
They looked from him, to the horse, to each other. Some message seemed to pass between them, and they nodded.
“Let me lift you, he likes to have his nose petted.”
Again, they nodded, and he scooped one up in each arm. They sat almost perfectly still, completely unlike the children he was accustomed to, who usually climbed him like a tree and mauled him like their favorite toy until their parents despaired. But he loved children and adored how at ease most were with him. Perhaps it was because he was the youngest and had never had a young sibling of his own to follow him about and pester him.
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 15