“I suppose you’re right,” she ceded, but added, “however, there is a vast divide between improper advances and treating me as though I were a plague victim.”
“Then I suppose I have misjudged your character, and played my hand far too cautiously.” He placed his hands atop hers where they rested on her knee. “I hope this has no ill-consequence on our engagement. Although, if it should, at least give my mother the reprieve of the weekend before announcing our parting in the papers.”
Now, this was an odd pickle, indeed! If she should wish it, she could end their engagement with a word, and no ill-feelings between them. But how did she intend to spend the rest of her life? Chasing after some strange man in a mask and goggles, who had made no gestures that did not have to do with matters carnal?
“Don’t be absurd, Wallace, I…have feelings for you.” She wasn’t sure what those feelings were, beyond apathy, but she was sure they would develop, eventually. After all, in such a short time she’d developed a number of disturbing affections toward a man whose face she’d never even seen.
“You believe I’m your last chance,” he stated plainly.
Such an insult could not be tolerated. She shot to her feet. “I’ll have you know that you are not the first man who has pursued me!”
“I never assumed I was.” He stretched out his legs, bracing his hands on the stone bench.
Somehow, that was even more insulting. “You know, I think I liked you better when you were silent and boring!”
“Boring?” That got him to his feet. He stepped closer with each word he uttered next. “You think I am the boring one in this couple?”
They stood toe to toe, her skirt brushing over his spats. She composed herself and choked out, “And what would lead you to believe that I am boring?”
“I’m sure embroidering cushions becomes tiresome at some point,” he seethed. “Aren’t you the slightest bit dissatisfied with your life?”
Somehow, they were in an argument. Arguing. With Wallace Sterling. She’d never imagined that Wallace had the passion to become angry over anything, but he loomed over her, dark eyes burning with fury.
Angry though he may be, how dare he question her…whatever it was he was questioning her about. Really, the more she thought about it, the more she got the distinct feeling that whatever he was arguing with her about had nothing to do with why she argued with him. She straightened her spine. “I have very little patience for a drunk, Mister Sterling. Excuse me.”
“I am not drunk!” He grabbed her arm! The man who had never touched her a single time in their entire courtship until their engagement party now made free to…to…manhandle her!
“Let go of me!”
His mouth descended upon hers with an almost cruel urgency. His lips pried hers apart and his tongue invaded, tangling with hers, which, to her horror, fought back with sexual instinct. She did not mind when he pressed her body close to his, delighted to find that he was just as solid as that other male body she’d been recently pressed against. She slid her hands down his arms, then up again to tangle about his neck. It occurred to her that she had never been kissed before, and she almost laughed at how preposterous that was, considering all she had done with her stranger.
And that thought sobered her instantly. There they were, in full view of anyone who cared to look, kissing the way an engaged couple should not be kissing. What on earth would Wallace think of her now? He, who had been so proper, to the point of cold-fishery, would probably be horrified at the way she responded to him. What had she done to herself, allowing that club and that stranger to turn her into some kind of sex-hungry trollop?
Though her body fairly burned, she did not shove him against the wall and have her way with him. She shoved him away and ran for the French doors. She pushed her way through the throng inside, past her mother who shrilled, “Permilia, where on earth are you going?” and through the front doors. At the curb, she hailed a cab without slowing her steps, and vaulted into it before the driver could climb down to help her in. “Leaden Hall and Bishop, if you please,” she ordered, rather impolitely, but she was certain it wasn’t the first time someone had been impolite to a cab driver.
The gears squeaked and the wheels creaked, and Permilia watched as the lights and sounds of the party were swallowed by the traffic on the street. She settled back and sighed, not a sigh of relief, but anticipation of relief to come.
Chapter Nine
Blast! Wallace pulled his jacket back on and smoothed his hair before following in Permilia’s wake. Inside, all eyes fell to him in curiosity and recrimination. Of course, how would it look, that he had been alone with his intended and she had bolted?
“This is why I suggested a chaperone!” his mother cried, looking as though she were about to be in need of some air, herself. “You’ve ruined both of your reputations, now!”
“Mother, be quiet!” Wallace had never uttered such words to his mother in his entire life, but her sputtering hysterics would only make the situation far worse. “No one has been ruined. Where did she go?”
“Out the front door, like a shot!” a gentleman beside him said, chortling. “Gave her a start, did you? Have to be careful with these young mares, they chafe at the bridle!”
“Really, William!” a woman, probably the man’s wife, shrieked, and all at once the entire party became a sea of righteous indignation. Wallace’s mother fainted. A woman screamed. A glass broke.
“Now would be the time to make your escape, brother,” Horace said, nodding toward the door as his arms were full of their unconscious mother.
Wallace pushed through the throng and down the steps, emerging on the street in time to see Permilia climbing into a Hansom cab. There was little doubt in his mind as to where she was headed. He hurried into the street and whistled. A Hansom pulled up, puffing steam from its clockwork horse. The driver on the back hauled back on the break lever, and sparks shot from the metal hooves of the machine-beast.
“Leaden Hall and Bishop,” Wallace ordered, training his eyes ahead for any cab that might be headed the same direction. What would happen when she arrived and her masked stranger wasn’t there?
Worse, what would happen if he arrived at the same time as she did? He supposed their secret would be in the open then, for all the good it might do him. The way she’d reacted to his advances made him seriously wonder if the Permilia who had been showing up to the club hadn’t been sleepwalking or hypnotized.
Or, she just doesn’t care for you, friend. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but the fact that his intended showed more passion for a total stranger than her fiancé was cause for concern.
Perhaps if her fiancé hadn’t acted like a raving lunatic—he stopped that line of reasoning in its tracks. He only acted like a lunatic because everyone’s expectations were turning him into one: his mother, who wanted him to marry Permilia in the hopes that her family’s fortune would someday line his pockets, his brothers, who felt he should be wholly concerned with the running of the club, his fiancée, who wanted him to romance her, but not too much…it was becoming all too much to bear.
It would all be so easy if he could just reveal himself as the Ace of Spades, but after her reaction to him tonight, that seemed impossible. And yet, there was no way to hide the truth. Once she saw him on their wedding night, she would know. A better man would tell her the truth and call off the wedding. A less honorable man would simply jilt her and protect his own interests. But the man Wallace feared he was would let her marry him, whether she wanted to be with a man as perverse as he, simply because he didn’t want to let her go.
The Ace of Spades wanted her. Did Wallace?
He stewed for the rest of the ride, and urged the driver to slow his mechanical beast’s paces as they approached the intersection of the two streets. The heavy traffic that usually peppered Leaden Hall had abated somewhat, being the dinner hour, and Wallace didn’t wish to be spotted when he alighted from the cab. He tossed the driver a few coins as he swung
down and made his way toward the pristine storefront on Bishop Street. He passed within feet of Permilia, who thankfully was too preoccupied counting out payment for her driver to look up. He had but a few seconds before she would venture further down Leaden Hall, to the alley where she would be admitted to the club, password or no. He’d stupidly made that stipulation when his brother had re-wired the doorman.
He burst through the front door of Sterling Metal Goods, ignoring the “Closed” placard in the window. Inside the darkened shop, silver teapots, candlesticks, platters and bedwarmers crammed the shelves, waiting for a traditionalist to walk in and snap up the whole lot. Not much had changed in the shop since his father’s death ten years ago, and it showed in both the painfully outmoded merchandise and the dismal ledgers. Richard had suggested several sure-fire money-makers, but their mother had insisted that store retain their father’s vision. Even if the vision had been bankrupting him before his death.
Wallace dropped his coat on the floor as he trod down the main aisle. He unbuttoned his vest and shirt cuffs as he passed the sales counter and began working on his shirt in earnest as he pushed through the door in the back. His brother, Richard, looked up from the meager supper he hunched over, and a guilty expression came over his young face.
“Oh, the engagement party,” Richard said, as if just remembering. A total lie, as Wallace himself had reminded him that morning. Since the accident that had left his brother crippled, Wallace had watched Richard gradually withdraw into total hermitage. He kept mostly to his workshop at the club and this tiny backroom in the shop, where he slept on a cot and ate beans from tins like a pauper.
Wallace did not have time to scold his younger brother. “Just passing through. Permilia is headed to the club.”
“During your engagement party?” Richard’s mouth gaped before he had the good manners to cover it with his napkin. “And I thought I would be the rudest guest not at the party.”
“You are, still.” Wallace kicked back the rug that covered the steel platform set in the floor. He positioned himself upon it and pulled the lever on the wall to begin his descent. “I’ll be back to talk to you later.”
“Don’t forget to return the platform when you disembark!” Richard called after him. “Don’t strand me here.”
I’ll strand you in the bloody desert, Wallace thought, but as soon as the platform came to a stop, he felt about in the darkness for the lever that would send it upwards once more. Once it was flush with the floor above, Wallace stood in total darkness in the access tunnel that ran beneath the cellars of the buildings above. As subterranean passages go, it was a rather pleasant one, dry and mostly straight, with a convenient brass rail to hold to keep one from running into walls. Richard had thought to put in gaslights, but Wallace and Horace had both convinced him not to, on the grounds that one suspicious explosion during installation would reveal both the club and its true owners, and their mother’s mortification would be like to send her to her grave.
With one hand skimming the rail, Wallace ran to the door at the other end, the one that let out at his office in The Two Aces. He ducked into the welcoming interior and left the gaslights within low. He didn’t need anyone wondering how the Ace of Spades suddenly appeared in his office without making an appearance in the club, nor did he wish for anyone to barge in before his identity was concealed. He’d stripped off his shirt and vest on the walk, and he hung them over the back of his chair to quickly doff his trousers and small clothes. Standing naked before the mahogany wardrobe, the first items he donned were his goggles and mask, then long leather gloves. Then he selected a pair of loose linen pants from a drawer and quickly pulled them on, rolling the top so they would sit about his hips, revealing the spade tattoo.
When he exited his office, it was just in time to catch Permilia wandering about the club floor, in full society dress. Looking for him, he presumed. He locked the office door behind him and slipped the key into his glove as he approached her. What was she thinking, showing up here without a disguise for the second time? There were friends of her father here; Admiral Whitting had begged off the party citing a previous engagement, and that engagement appeared to be the young man sprawled beneath him on the corner couch. For Permilia to show up with no mask obscuring her identity, she sent the message that she didn’t care to separate herself publicly from the club. She was about to become Mrs. Wallace Sterling, one legal document away from Mr. Wallace Sterling, partial owner of the club and damned well trying to keep it secret.
Even more troubling, she didn’t mind flaunting her sexuality with the Ace of Spades, but she recoiled from Wallace’s advances. He forced that utterly bizarre jealousy to the back of his mind and slipped into the role he’d costumed himself for.
In the pit in the center of the floor, two men lay sandwiched between automatons, their legs entwined with each others’ and the fleshless system of gears belonging to the clockwork men. Permilia’s attention was caught by the sight for a moment, and Wallace slid beside her with enough stealth to startle her. “We can find a seat, if you like.”
She looked up, her pupils flaring wide with each rapid heartbeat, until her dark eyes appeared almost black. “You frightened me.”
“There’s nothing to be frightened of, here.” He ran his fingers down her arm. “You’re quite fancy tonight. Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?”
Her lips compressed in a tight line. “No. There is somewhere I should be, but…”
His heart gave a disturbing lurch as her words died off. He cleared his throat. “I see. Well, you didn’t come here to talk, did you?”
She arched one black brow. “No more than you came here to listen.”
“Shall I find us a room, then?” He slid his hand down her arm, remembering all too vividly the embrace they’d been in on the terrace. “Unless you’d rather stay here and become act two?”
“I thought perhaps…” she blushed furiously. “I thought I might try that machine…the one that Molly tried last time? Only not with so large an audience.”
“Ah. Well, let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?” He offered her his arm and led her away. “So, you prefer to watch, rather than be observed yourself?”
“Is that wrong?” She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Is it common courtesy to reciprocate by being watched, once you’ve been the one watching?”
He considered his answer carefully as he steered her past the voyeur rooms. “Courtesy has very little to do with such matters. There is much to experience here, but if you are profoundly uncomfortable with an act, there is no reason to submit to it out of politeness. That’s why we have words, like ‘music box’, so that no one is ever put into a position of powerlessness.”
“Would that we had such words in everyday life,” she said, with the most adorable little snort that Wallace had ever heard. “I would dearly love to beg off social engagements with a simple, ‘music box’.”
Her mention of engagements pricked him. He wanted to question her further, to ask if she referred to their engagement, but it seemed unethical to seek answers from her when she had no knowledge that it was him, Wallace, behind the mask. “Well, if the world were like this club, I think there would be far fewer wars fought, at least.”
She laughed in agreement as he opened the door. The room he had selected was most importantly stocked with the correct device, but it was also his favorite in terms of decor. Not dungeon-like, but decorated much like his home, with dark wood and a large fireplace, and plush cushions strewn on the comfortable furniture.
“This is lovely,” Permilia said as the gaslights illuminated their surroundings. “I prefer this to chains.”
“Oh, we could still have chains,” he whispered beside her ear as he moved past her. “But another time, perhaps?”
He went to the machine in the center of the room and pulled the silk cover from it. He heard Permilia’s intake of breath and didn’t have to see her face to know she would look much the same as she had reacte
d to it the last time. When he turned to face her, her eyes were fixed on the machine’s large phallus, her mouth parted, bosom rising and falling rapidly inside her gown.
A grin curved his mouth behind his mask. “You are wearing far too many clothes, my dear. A discreet tryst, skirts up against a wall, is fine for some. I prefer total exposure.”
She flushed deeply, endearing when considered in the context of their relationship. She pulled at her gloves and uttered a soft, “Yes, Master.”
“No, let me.” He stepped closer to her and took her hands in his. Slowly, loosening the fingertips of the gloves one at a time, he stripped the satin from her hands, stopping to brush the wild pulse in her wrist with his thumb before moving on to her gown.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispered as he unfastened the row of buttons down her back. The damnable mask prevented him from nibbling her ear, kissing her throat. It had been advantageous that she’d run from him on the terrace, or else he might not have been able to stop himself from throwing her against the rose trellis. He’d wanted to taste her skin for so long…the only thing that helped him keep his patience was the knowledge that soon, after they were wed, he could have all of her, without disguises between them.
“The gentleman I wore it for has never seemed to care how beautiful I looked.” Her head dipped for a moment in defeat, then she straightened her spine and pasted on a smile. “Until tonight.”
Oh, Permilia, I’ve always thought you beautiful. I’ve been too much of an ass to say it.. What a damnable mess he’d made of things. “He is a fool.”
“I do not wish to talk about him now.” She turned, the back of her dress hanging open, and faced him as she peeled the gown down her arms. “I don’t wish to think of him. I only want you.”
Infernal Devices (All Steamed Up) Page 6