by Anne Mallory
He laughed without amusement at the thought. At the weakness that wound insidiously through him, slithering, squeezing, debilitating, at the thought of her.
Pictured the panic, the internal lesions, showing on her face before he had turned to go. Before she had called him back.
He could have overpowered her before that. Could have made her come to him even there in the middle of the crowd with her panicking over the talk they were sure to cause. He had seen the way she hovered there on the brink, sensuality and reserve threatening to break.
And he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it.
There was an audible snap triggered between his fingers. Shit. He pulled the pieces out of his pocket, examining them. Broken.
Shit.
He tried to push them back together, even knowing that the piece was irreparably damaged. Shit. He curled his fingers around the broken edges and stuffed them back in his pocket.
Out of control. When she’d grabbed him, telling him she would help him anyway, willing to take him into the store where she’d be observed by any number of people . . . his mind had stopped properly functioning.
He had gone to her room last night to demand answers, to force her to make choices. But had changed his plan after seeing the other body occupying her bed. Had decided to approach her in the middle of the day.
He had the sneaking suspicion that even though Charlotte had been dead to the world when he’d been in her room, Emily had seen him crawling back through the window and sliding it shut. Which made things . . . quite interesting indeed. Messy and uncontrollable, just as he usually liked it. So why he was feeling distinctly uneasy was the question.
The chaos was pushing at his plans, longing for some stability. Slightly terrifying, the idea of order and future plans. Especially when the edges of all the choices were torn and muddied.
Weakness.
He pushed away from the bricks, striding down the alley, turning onto the pavement, making people veer from his path.
He could win everything he wanted or lose it all in the same roll.
All he had to do was pick the right dice. Start the last game. He had an appointment in half an hour. One that would put every pip in its place—simply waiting for her hand to roll as she willed.
He could see the end. Could feel fate gripping him by the ballocks. Twisting them and telling him that she was fickle with her chances. And that if he didn’t move now . . .
He narrowed his eyes and pressed farther into the lane, seeing the edges of the shadows following him. Had they seen him with Charlotte? Bloody stupid, not paying attention as he should. So hard to when she was near.
He slipped into another alley, enticing the shadows to follow, feeling the broken pieces of the clip in his pocket. He needed to pick up another from his stash. And he needed to take care of the men behind him—find out if any of his enemies knew about Charlotte—then be on his way to the appointment.
After all, the future Lord Trant awaited.
Chapter 17
“I’ll accompany you home for the evening, Mother. Then I want to peek in on the Pevenshalls’ gathering before it ends.”
Charlotte had found Roman’s note in her reticule—anytime the man touched something, she now assumed a note was left behind—telling her to work a blind that evening.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed before she nodded sharply and held her arm out for Charlotte. They found her father gaming in one of the large side rooms, foxed and losing, trying to escape from his debts and mortality. But he retained enough judgment to nod stiffly and remain mute about their departure.
As their carriage jolted forward and picked up speed—the driver seeming to have forgotten how to properly use the ribbons—her mother’s glacial stare pierced her.
“I will deal with Father’s displeasure,” Charlotte said, anticipating her mother’s words.
“To attend the Pevenshalls’?” Her mother’s jaded eyes switched to the window. “You think yourself so clever lately? Trying not to rely solely on that pretty face your father keeps on display?”
Charlotte swallowed, alarmed, heart lurching along with the carriage as it took too sharp a turn. “What—”
“Save your explanation. I truly don’t care to hear it.” She didn’t look at Charlotte as she grabbed the leather cord near the window, keeping herself steady and wooden, as always.
Charlotte kept the pleasant, stretched smile upon her face as she tried to balance herself against the violent pitching. “Very well. You looked quite lovely tonight. I heard a number of people mention it.”
Who cared about Clark finding her in a deserted hallway when her mother knew? For how long?
“You can save your misplaced pity as well.”
The carriage rocked violently again.
“Very well.” The smile hurt. It always hurt. “Would you like me to fix you a cup of tea before bed?”
Emily was spending a long evening at an event for younger ladies and wouldn’t return for hours.
“No. Leave me to the house alone. Go meet your lover. Be like your father.” Her mother gripped the strap as they pulled in front of the house, the traffic quick, especially with the furious way Henry had driven.
“He did the unthinkable.” Her mother’s voice was whisper tight. Charlotte had wondered how Bennett would succeed in hiding the bet from Viola. It seemed he hadn’t. “I cannot fault you for your actions.”
Viola paused for a moment, her hand hovering above the door handle, body tight with . . . Charlotte’s hope lifted . . . regret?
“And I . . . I care not,” Viola said quickly, face turned away as she pushed the handle down.
“Ver—very well.” It was hard to speak over the choking block in her throat, to utter the expected response. Charlotte found it even more difficult to move as her mother hurriedly dismounted and firmly shut the door behind her.
Fingers clenched into the seat, then released. Clenching, releasing. Scraping. Breaking.
Tears pricked as a card at the bottom of the stacked house wavered. It would so easily pull all of the rest down when it fell. She hadn’t realized that so many people could flick the cards holding the supports.
The carriage jolted forward. She jolted with it and immediately rapped on the trap. Forgotten inside, for she hadn’t given Henry new directions. The carriage would return to the stableyard or to the house of her father’s mistress—even worse.
She rapped again, as hard as she could manage, to no avail. She wondered without amusement if she should just sit back and let the carriage take her where it willed. Then ask Henry to take her to Blackfriars, so she could toss herself over the edge.
The carriage stopped abruptly, flinging her forward.
The door opened and a dark figure swung into the interior of the carriage. Shadowed fingers reached forward to grab her, with cloth to bind her.
Chapter 18
The door slammed shut, the carriage immediately jolting forward once more.
Strong fingers caught her shoulders, steadying her, then ran softly along her jaw. Golden hair caught the slivered light. The length of cloth was a dark cloak. For her.
Her lips remembered how to move. Her lungs, to breathe. Henry was a good man, but he could easily be bought for a few pounds of gossip. Charlotte knew Bethany wasn’t above such a tactic. “The driver—”
“Oh, we switched him out after you climbed inside at the last stop. One of the boys paid ‘to drive a handsome carriage’ for a few hours. Your driver is off drinking somewhere warm no doubt.”
The vehicle took a breakneck turn.
Roman steadied her again, then gave three hard raps to the trap. The coach immediately slowed. “I think I might have a talk with Johnny about his aspirations, though. When he professed himself ‘energetic’ to be a coach driver, I didn’t realize he tilted so far to the literal.”
She couldn’t muster proper outrage over the uninformed switch of her driver as an onslaught of dark want took her—his finger sm
oothly stroked her chin, promising relief, promising to make her forget.
“My . . . my mother knows.”
He tilted her chin, eyes examining her. “Does she? What does she know?”
“That you exist.”
He didn’t seem surprised. Why didn’t he seem surprised? “And what will she do with the knowledge?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Nothing. Everything. We don’t get on well.” Actually, that wasn’t true. They got along perfectly well as long as Viola wasn’t doing something she didn’t wish to do. “My mother is solitary.”
And cold, so cold sometimes. Charlotte clung to the regret that she had seen though—she knew she saw it in her mother’s eyes occasionally, before they turned cool and empty once more.
Charlotte clung to the emotion—the thought of it at least. Pride falling to the need for it.
She looked at Roman. Her need for him strengthened each time they were together. Which scared the devil out of her.
Miranda, Emily—relationships that were lovely and enduring, for she was needed while needing in return. Like Miranda and Downing—partners, needing each other. Wonderful, not weak. Reciprocated, not one-sided.
But there were other relationships in her life where she was the flat-out loser in the dynamic. And events were promising in so many small and large ways, ways that she didn’t want to think about, that the top of the hourglass was nearly empty for this one. That she would be abruptly cut off from him. That it was already written in fate’s hand. All while needing him . . .
He tilted her chin again, looking into her eyes, reading her. “Don’t be sad, Charlotte. Everything will be well.”
She tugged him closer. Needing the proximity. Fighting against the weakness of it even as she embraced the comfort. “Will it? How can you so calmly say so?”
“Does it change how you feel, Charlotte?” His lips brushed the hair above her ear. “About this? About me?”
His fingers stroked. Promising that she could be terrified over her mother’s words and knowledge later. Over the weakness in wanting him so keenly. That she could pretend that the conversation with her mother hadn’t happened. That Emily hadn’t met him. That Charlotte could think about consequences tomorrow. In the morning. Another day.
“No. None of it changes how I feel.”
So little time left to pretend. She kissed him, wanting it to last forever. Pushing the thoughts from her mind forcefully and deliberately.
He responded immediately, then flashed a grin, whatever had ailed him earlier, and last night, gone. Or buried too. “A gentleman would hardly take advantage of a lady in distress.”
“Good.” She kissed him again, curling her fingers in his hair as she did so. “I am with the right man then.”
“Oh?” He smiled against her lips, leaning into her.
Kissing, kissing, kissing her as if she could be consumed by it and made whole. Or if he could.
“This is folly,” she whispered against his lips, as the carriage continued rolling farther away from her home, taking her somewhere far from where she should be. Though everything in her said she should be right with the man whose forehead was pressed to hers.
“The best things usually are.” Each breath drummed in concert with the feeling of his fingers stroking her. The drugged feel of heated eyes connected to hers. “But I couldn’t let you escape for the night with so much time left in it.”
So little, so little. Already running through the last grains of sand.
She pulled back a few inches so she could raise a brow. So she could stop being weak. She would own this in the here and now. Her choice.
“Escape? Where would I escape to?”
“The land of sunshine and fluffy rabbits? Hardly a place I can enter.”
“Rabbits?”
“Rabbits scare the devil out of me. Unassuming creatures, waiting to rip out your throat when you least expect it.” He caressed her chin, eyes dropping to her lips. “You invite them in, pet them, love them, and they piss all over your boots and rake their back claws across your skin on their way out. Leaving you unshod and with permanent scars.”
She laughed, feeling the ease trickle through her that he always brought. “I’ll make sure to save you from feral rabbits, shall I?”
His eyes met hers again, and for a moment her laughter caught at the piercing look there before his mouth pulled into a charming grin, and her laughter spilled forth, tightness giving way to relief. She swallowed back the strange block in her throat, unwilling to let stray thoughts mar the moment as they separated.
She watched him settle back on the seat. “No mask tonight, dear Death?”
“Against better judgment,” he said lightly.
She leaned back into the cushions as well, pulling the edge of his cloak through her fingers, drinking in his expressions. “Where are you taking me, leader of my follies?”
He put his boot heel on the edge of his seat. A move that would cause a society matron an attack. “Family card game.”
She blinked. “Pardon me?”
He spread his arms wide. “You said you didn’t know me last night.”
Something thrilling and downright terrifying ran through her. Even if she had meant that statement in reference to herself at the time, here he was offering up part of himself.
She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged. Her entire being shut down by the ecstasy and terror pulling at each other.
“There is no fear for your reputation as none of the players will utter a word about you. And I thought you might like to get to know Andreas better. Would be good for him too, liking someone in society.” He looked amused at some private joke, the heel of his boot grinding into the edge of the seat, back and forth.
She didn’t respond, as doing so would just produce stuttering.
“He doesn’t bite too hard, I promise,” Roman assured her, and for the first time she had met him, he sounded earnest. Her world flipped again.
“I . . . I don’t play cards.”
“Not at all?”
She swallowed. She rarely admitted it. For many ladies played cards just as hard, or harder, than some of their male counterparts. And solid contacts existed in the game parlors.
But when asked to play, she always demurred.
“I hate them.” She looked away, clenching her fingers in the fabric of his cloak. Why had she divulged that? She met his eyes, determined to revive their banter, but stopped. It was unnerving, his complete lack of surprise.
“Of course you hate them. But you’ve never really played, have you?”
“My father tried to teach me to play whist long ago.” She had stubbornly refused to show any aptitude for it. She knew it was childish, but it had been something in her control, and she’d needed the outlet.
“Yes, and your desire to abstain in no way stems from your irresponsible father’s decisions. I am happy you do not let his idiocy rule your choices.”
She sighed. “Will you not let me have my immaturity?”
“Not in this.” His smile was dangerously cheerful once more.
Maybe . . . “You play for money.”
“Nothing to worry about.” He waved a hand. “And you’ll do wonderfully. I’ll help.”
She grimaced, but nodded to satiate him. Once play began, and he was immersed like her father, she could retreat to watch and keep at least one of her comforting, old standards of control in place.
She pulled up the hood of the cloak when the carriage rolled to a stop. Roman said something to the driver after he helped her dismount, then led her through the back door, where they were immediately beset. Five boys stood there, three hopping and nearly bursting at the seams.
“Sir, sir, there is a run on table four,” a small boy said.
“And that bastard Treverly is cheating again, but Jimmy can’t catch how he’s doing it,” a larger one eagerly spoke up.
“—Gimling’s up. Charity has the rue. Tyson can’t be found.”
“—Bernie’s drunk.”
“—Captain Stabley punched Johnny Tinsdale. In the groin.”
“—We ran out of Popler’s.”
Roman let go of her hand and clapped his hard. “Boys.”
There was immediate silence.
“What night is it?” His voice was deceptively even.
Eyes widened, and nervous looks ensued. A few curious gazes finally turned her way, trying to pierce through the shadows of her hood.
“Sir?” The largest boy seemed to accept the task of voicing the single question.
“Shut down four, tell Jimmy to watch the side, have Gimling deal with Charity, Tyson will be here at three, ring Bernie’s bell—hard.” He barked the last. “Take the pitch off Tinsdale, send to the highway for more, and for the love of cheating St. Nick, go to Donald with these.”
They hopped to, the smallest one, with a jagged scar the breadth of his forehead, even sent a cheeky salute as his tiny frame disappeared through the door to the hell proper. Loud voices and the clink of chips rose, then muted as the door swung shut.
Roman shook his head in annoyance, though there had been something oddly pleased in his eyes for a moment at the smallest boy’s cheek. He took her hand and led her up the stairs. She said nothing, nerves grabbing hold of her again. Pushing down thoughts and desires.
They walked through the hall, opening that same door he had unlocked so many weeks ago. She could hear voices as he pushed it open and ushered her inside.
All talk stopped as three heads turned their way. The click of the door engaging sounded like a gunshot in the silence. Only long practice stopped Charlotte from shifting. She concentrated on the darkest gaze. Andreas Merrick looked coldly furious.
“Good evening,” Roman said, drawing next to and slightly ahead of her, enough so that she could see him in her peripheral vision, a wide smile on his face.
She couldn’t move, though. Couldn’t understand how Roman didn’t feel at least a little intimidated by the stare the darker man leveled upon him.