Oh, that is enough! Blythe jerked her arm from Thomas, spinning to glare at him. "Don't you dare say a single word about Honey! She's a poor country girl who got tricked a bare eight hours after she set foot in London, and life has been quite hard enough for her without you deciding you get to call her things like..." Blythe trailed off as Thomas gazed at her, a satisfied expression on his face. "I walked right into that, didn't I?"
"If it makes you feel any better, all sorts of people from all walks of life do. No one really anticipates being baited."
Blythe sighed. When he offered her his arm again, she took it, and they started walking. The sky was beginning to lighten.
"And I suppose that tells you where I went to school and who my teacher was or some nonsense like that."
"No, but it does tell me that you're a good person with a good heart and a quick mind. Honey looked terrified, and you got her to people who could help her. That's not nothing."
"It's little enough."
"No one else was doing it. So, you're well-born, you do what good you can, and here we get to the strange conundrum. You have no problem wading into fights. Where in the world did you pick up that propensity? You could have been seriously hurt."
She gave him a level look. "Are you saying that I shouldn't have done that? Because if I hadn't, you'd probably still be out cold, or worse, back in the stews."
"I'm not saying that at all. Did I say thank you for that?"
"As a matter of fact, you did not."
"I will. So, you look like a missionary, you talk like a lady, you have a Robin Hood's heart, and you fight like a soldier."
"Have you satisfied yourself yet?"
That startled another laugh out of Thomas. Something warm and oddly sensual about it made the color rise to her pale cheeks. She wondered a little uneasily what that meant, that she felt this warmth around this particular man.
"Not by a long shot. You are a mystery, love," he said with a laugh.
"Don't call me that!"
"What should I call you instead? Do you have a title? Are you a lady or something far above my station?"
"No... just Blythe will do."
"Such a bright name for such a dour thing," he teased.
She shot him a look. "You can hardly think that line was original. Shall I call you my lord, then?"
"God, no, don't do that. Most people who call me 'my lord' are servants, or they want something from me. Unless... you want something from me?" He sounded oddly hopeful.
She shook her head. "Once you get me home, we are quits, and I have to ask that we be strangers after that. The chances are very low, but if we happen to meet again in proper company, I need you not to know me."
"A lady with secrets, more and more intriguing. Well, I suppose I can hardly complain. I've had my own secrets and helped ladies hide some delicious ones. It will be hard to look at you and not know you, though, Blythe."
"You've spent your whole life not knowing me," Blythe said matter-of-factly. "I hardly think it will be such a chore to return to that."
"You've never met yourself, so you could hardly say. I don't quite know why, but I can tell you honestly that the thought of not knowing you after tonight troubles me."
They were drawing closer to the house off of Grosvenor Square. There was a bare breath of light in the air, and in less than half an hour, she guessed that the servants would be up and about, doing their day's work. That meant she needed to get back inside, and quickly.
"Stop being such a romantic sponge," she said sharply. "We have known each other for only a few hours."
"Very eventful hours, you have to say."
"Eventful for you, perhaps. For me, this was just a night that ran long."
"Sharp-tongued, Blythe. You'll never catch a husband like that. Or is that the problem? You have a husband, and all of this must be kept from him?"
"Do they call you a demon for your brawling or your damned tongue?" she hissed, walking a little faster. "No, I am not married, and not likely to be, so for God's sake, let it drop!"
Without thinking, she led him down the narrow alley toward the house. The front was all white stone and gleaming windows, but around the back, where the servants went, it was significantly darker with more cover. In a moment of panic, she realized that she should have told him to leave off blocks ago.
"You need to go," she hissed, turning to him. "Go back to whatever... whatever place you come from. I need to get back inside."
"And in bed before anyone notices you were out of it. All right. But tell me I can see you again."
Blythe's heart leaped up in her chest. She should have been irritated by the impossible request. She should have been furious that he was keeping her. Instead, there was something very powerful in her that did not want to leave this where it lay. "Don't be so ridiculous. When in the world would I ever see you again?"
"It doesn't matter. We could go rescue children who have fallen in the Thames, or perhaps you'd like to come to the tables with me. I could teach you to gamble, and you could teach me how to best handle a lady's bag in a confrontation with a stranger."
Somehow, despite how ludicrous and impossible Thomas’ proposal was, a part of Blythe was tempted, sorely tempted. She was always alone when she did what she did. She had never had someone to watch her back, to help her, before. It was impossible. No one knew her, really. Thomas didn't know her either, but something in his eyes told her he wanted to.
"You know that's impossible."
"I really don't. Tell me what you are, Blythe, and I'll make it possible. Do you need a position? Do you need references or to give some disapproving relative the slip? I can arrange it all; we could have some good times."
He stepped a little closer to her, crowding her slightly against the brick wall. Blythe usually hated being crowded, but something about the way Thomas did it was oddly delicious. He was in her space, and she could smell a hint of his sandalwood cologne, along with the sharp scent of the gin he had been drinking.
"Step back, please," she made herself say. "We have nothing to do with one another."
He did as she asked, a crooked grin on his face. "You didn't say that you don't want to. You said I was ridiculous, which is true; you said that it was impossible, which I don't believe; and you say we have nothing to do with each other, which is only true if we both agree it is. Say you don't want to Blythe, and I'll be on my way."
It would have been the easiest thing in the world to send him on his way. Thomas had a strange sort of honor in him. She understood that instinctively. He might push and pry and continue long past when a sane man had quit, but the moment she said she didn't want him, he'd be gone.
So, why couldn't she say it?
Thomas watched her with a steady gaze. Absently, she thought that his eyes were the purest gray she had ever seen.
"Tell me what you want, Blythe."
The words sent a shiver through her that she could not altogether hide. When was the last time anyone had asked her what she wanted, truly asked her, and not simply assumed she would go where they said?
Thomas’ hand came up to cup her cheek, curving against her face. The skin-to-skin touch made her tremble, and she jerked away.
"What are you thinking?" she demanded sharply.
"Lots of things. If you ask nicely, I might even tell you about some of them..."
"Oh, you are utterly impossible!"
"Not an answer to my question."
She shook her head. She couldn't agree to what he wanted. But she couldn't bring herself to disagree, either. Instead, Blythe pushed past him, shaking her head. She would go inside, go to bed, and then her life would resume, taking the path it always had.
Thomas caught her wrist as she went past, turning her around and kissing her palm. "Think about it," he said with a wink that sent a shiver down her spine.
Neither of them was expecting him to turn around right into a fist.
* * *
4
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CHAPTER
FOUR
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The blow caught Thomas square on the cheek, nearly turning him around and dropping him to the ground. It would have, if he hadn't caught the brick wall that Blythe had been standing against with one hand. She yelped, dodging out of the way, and even before he had entirely figured out what was happening or who had decided to hit him, Thomas was putting his body between Blythe and his attacker.
If he’d had time to think about it, he supposed he would have guessed that someone had followed them from the stews, though stalking them all the way to Grosvenor Square was an unlikely thing for the common footpad. Then Thomas recognized his attacker, and along with that recognition came a wave of irritation and disgust.
"What the hell are you doing with Blythe, Amory?" bit out Tristan Carrow, the newly made Duke of Parrington.
Thomas laughed. "What is it to you, your grace? Have you resorted to taking lovers from the good sisters? Have I poached on your territory?"
"You're Thomas Martin? That's you?" Blythe murmured, right before Parrington snarled and reared back to hit him again.
Of course, there was nothing that said Thomas had to be there when Parrington struck him, and almost lazily, he slipped around the taller man's reach.
"Slow, Parrington," he murmured almost in the other man's ear. "Very slow. You got the first one in because I was literally looking the other way. Do you actually think you can do better when I'm standing and facing you?"
"You'd better hope I can't," growled Parrington.
Thomas didn't take his eyes off Parrington to see if Blythe was still there. As much as he might have liked to see Parrington laid out by that heavy umbrella the girl carried, the smart thing for her to do was to get away, especially if Parrington was her lover or her employer or some damned thing. Thomas found the idea of Parrington making any claim to a girl as brave and bold and bright as Blythe incredibly irritating, and it lent some viciousness to the way he rounded on the duke now.
Parrington took another shot at him, and Thomas was tired of simply dodging. They went at it with none of the niceties of the formal boxing rings and, given the fact that those niceties were mostly against kicking your opponent when he was already down, it wasn't long before they were both bruised and bleeding, Thomas from a split lip and Parrington from a scrape earned when Thomas pushed him against the brick wall.
They might have kept on going at it if a woman in a starched white apron hadn't come out of one of the rear entrances of the houses nearby.
"What in the devil's name is going on there? Scoundrels, leave off that brawling when decent people are trying to get their day started!"
Thomas and Parrington broke off with a start, turning toward the woman who had the authoritarian bearing and discipline of a great manor house's cook.
Her scowl turned to a look of dismay when she saw Parrington. "Your grace! Forgive me!"
She disappeared back into the house, and a glance up and down the alley told Thomas that Blythe was gone as well. Parrington looked slightly abashed to have been caught scrapping like a schoolboy.
Thomas gave him a wary look. "If you want to start again, we might leave off scandalizing your neighbors by setting up a session at the boxing rings."
Parrington, cold bastard that he was, gave Thomas a look that managed to be both disgusted and superior. "I've had quite enough of wasting my time with you. What the hell were you doing with my cousin?"
"Your... cousin?"
The pieces clicked into place, and Thomas wasn't sure what picture he was meant to be looking at. It wasn't really a secret that the wealthy Carrows had a cousin who stayed with them, some kind of poor relation who was so pious she could barely stand to be seen in the light of the wicked world. That poor relation couldn't have been the spirited fighter Thomas had met just a few hours ago, but that seemed to be precisely the case.
"Yes, Blythe. Damn you, what the hell were you doing with her?"
Thomas stood back from Parrington in case the man decided to have another go at him. He knew with an acute certainty that anything he said or didn't say could be held against Blythe, and he hated the idea of her subject to the likes of Tristan Carrow.
"I suppose I was having a bit of a rough night," he said at last. "The hack I hired got sick of me and dumped me off somewhere close to here, and I wandered into this alley. I yelled enough that that drab little thing came out to see what was the matter and—"
"And you decided that you wanted to smear yourself all over her. Trust a Martin to turn a simple meeting into something sordid. My God."
"Trust a Carrow to think the worst of everyone," retorted Thomas. "Your cousin's fine, Parrington. Wouldn't give me the time of day, and I'm not so much of a monster that I chase after girls fresh from the dame school."
"I don't think the worst of everyone, just of Martins. It was a hard-won lesson. Now get out of here, Amory. I wouldn't like to disgrace myself and my family further by giving you the beating you deserve."
Thomas was about to say that he'd like to see Parrington try it, and then he shrugged. The Duke of Parrington was already in a foul mood, and there was a chance he might take it out on poor Blythe.
"Good morning to you, then," Thomas said, his voice only a little sarcastic. "You couldn't pay me to stay."
As he turned and walked down the alley toward the main thoroughfare, Thomas had to shake his head. To think that spirited little do-gooder, Blythe, was associated with the damned Carrows. The idea of a girl with that kind of pluck living with a pack of ancestrally stuck-up prigs riled him up in a way that he couldn't quite explain, and he tried to put the thought of his head.
* * *
The Martin townhouse on Park Lane was elegant, gracious, and above all, used to dealing with Thomas when he wandered in at all hours. His father, the Duke of Southerly, kept house in the country and did not come to Town so frequently, and that left the townhouse mostly to Thomas. The butler met him with a soft greeting and promised to send his valet up directly.
Despite the late night he felt he was still having, Thomas didn't feel any urge to sleep. Instead, he washed and cleaned his wounds, traded his rumpled clothing for fresh, and prowled the house, letting it slowly wake up around him.
A light melody playing on the pianoforte in the drawing-room captured his attention, and with a slight smile, he opened the door to see his sister, Georgiana Martin, at the bench, her back straight and her face composed. She was more at peace when playing the pianoforte than she was at any other time, but then they were Martins. They would never be known for peace or quiet.
Thomas leaned against the doorway and listened to the music. He didn't recognize it, but he thought there was something wistful about it, even melancholy. When the song ended, he tilted his head at his sister.
"A trifle heavy for you, little sister. If I closed my eyes, I would have thought it was Tabi playing and not you."
"Tabi's not had much time for playing lately. She's always running down old volumes of history and genealogy at the bookseller's. Father sent her to Leeds this week with some pocket money to get more books and also, perhaps, so she will stop telling him about the illustrious doings of our ancestors. I suppose the Martin reputation for the feminine arts must fall to me, then."
Thomas grinned. "If our reputation depends on the two of us, then God help us."
"So Father says, although he certainly had his own rakehell moments when he was young... Why, Thomas, what in the world happened to your face?"
Thomas started to say that it was nothing, but then Georgiana was on him, turning his face left and right in the sunshine coming through the window. She was almost as tall as he was, with his blond hair and clear gray eyes, and in many ways, she was his match in all things. Hell, as quick as she was, she might have given Parrington a run for his money as well.
"Whatever are you smiling about? Father won't like to hear that you've been brawling again."
"Well, Father's unlikely to hear about it from the party I was brawling with. It was Tristan Carrow."
Even his father, the dignified and very proper Duke of Southerly, could never resist cracking a joke at a Carrow's expense. There was a saying in the north of England that it was more likely for lions and wolves to mate than it was for the Carrows and Martins to get along. Their days of bloodshed and violent hatred were long past but far from forgotten.
Georgiana made an expression of disgust and dismay. "Tristan Carrow? What a waste of good effort. I hope you did worse to him than he did to you."
"Never fear, I gave a good accounting of myself. It was ridiculous. He thought I was molesting his cousin, Blythe something."
"The missionary? Thomas, I usually trust you to have better taste than that."
"She's not..." Thomas didn't keep much from his sister. They were close and had been ever since their mother died, but there was something about this that made him still his tongue. "Yes, the missionary. Do you know of her?"
"Only what most of London knows. She's a pious little poor relation from the north, sent to live with the main Carrow clan after her parents died. Too prim and proper to go to balls or to promenade, and if she could get away with it, she'd probably run off to join the Quakers."
Thomas thought of the Abegg family that he had met just a few hours ago. Just like it was hard to see the Blythe he had met as a staid and stuffy Carrow, it was also hard to see her fitting in with the pious Quakers as well.
"Well, it's not like the poor girl is going to have much of a social life with Tristan Carrow keeping her locked up," Thomas said. "The man's like the worst parts of a Cromwell preacher and a prison guard mixed."
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