by Shana Galen
Brook broke away from her, stepping back and releasing her. She clung to him for another moment before realizing she was free and forcing her legs to hold her weight.
Her eyes were so dark they were almost amber. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips red as a ripe rose and just as plump. Brook clenched his hands in order to resist taking her in his arms again.
“I don’t forgive you,” she said, her voice breaking on the last word. “In the future, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t accost me.”
He raised a brow. “Accost you? Is that what it’s called?”
“I don’t wish to have you paw at me whenever the mood strikes you.”
Brook’s hands clenched again but not from desire. “I neither accosted you nor pawed you, madam.” He stepped closer to her, but she didn’t back up. Even if she’d wanted to, her back was to the wall. “I kissed you, and you bloody well liked it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I beg your pardon, but your moans and the way your hands clung to my person confused me momentarily.”
Her color rose higher and so did her chin. “Do not kiss me again.”
“I’ll kiss you whenever I want. Someone ought to. You don’t know the first thing about it.”
Her jaw dropped, which had the added effect of bringing her chin down a notch. “Are you implying I don’t kiss well?”
“If you think that was only implied, you haven’t understood a word I said.”
She let out a cry of outrage and rushed at him. Brook wasn’t certain what she would have done had he allowed her to touch him. He had agile reflexes, honed by years in the rookeries, and he moved quickly aside. She stumbled past him with a startled cry.
“Get out!” she yelled.
“This is my flat. You get out.”
She turned toward the door, as though to do just that, and then seemed to reconsider. For all her fury, she wasn’t too angry to think straight.
Slowly, she turned back to face him. “I can’t leave. I have nowhere to go.”
“And a price on your head.”
“A fat lot you care.” She swiped her hand out. “You only want my father’s money.”
“I don’t give a damn about your father’s money. He could give me a hundred thousand pounds, and it wouldn’t be enough to put up with the likes of you. You’re a stubborn, spoiled brat, and you always have been.”
“You’re an immoral, ill-mannered arse!”
He would concede the ill-mannered arse. He could be both at times, but he was rather proud of his morals. “Immoral? What the devil do you know of my morals?”
“I know you have half a dozen by-blows spread throughout the countryside!” She’d positioned her hands on her waist, and her tone was that of one who thinks she has won the argument.
Brook leaned a hip against the dainty escritoire. “This is the second mention you have made of bastards. As I said, I have no bastards. The children you read of in my private correspondence are youths I pulled out of the rookeries. These children were orphans who only wanted a better life and asked for my help. I gave it to them by finding them positions as servants in large, well-to-do homes. They’re safe, fed, and well away from the gangs and thugs who would have preyed on them in the city.”
She stared at him, her mouth slightly parted with what he imagined was her next riposte. Then she closed her mouth and swallowed. Color rose in her cheeks again, but he imagined this time it was from shame.
“You helped those children?”
“I’m trying to. Not all of them are children either. Geoffrey is almost seventeen. I would have had to sire him at fourteen or fifteen. I promise you, I had any number of items on my mind at that age and none of them were tossing up a girl’s skirts.”
“I see.” She wrung her hands together. “I suppose I should apologize.”
“Go ahead.” Now he was being an ill-mannered arse.
“Very well, I am sorry for assuming the worst about you.”
He would have nodded. The apology was enough for him. He’d actually been surprised she’d made one at all.
“And I also apologize for reading your private letters. I should not have done that, and I really have no excuse.”
“All is—”
“And I probably should not have had your flat refurbished without asking for your permission. That was quite selfish of me and probably a rather underhanded method of punishing you for stashing me away here.” She lowered her lashes and swiped at her cheek.
Did she brush tears away or was it merely an itch?
“It’s unjust of me to blame you,” Lila said. “You are only trying to help me, the same way you helped those children. I do appreciate it, and I beg you to understand that the events of the past few days have been quite a shock. I hope you will forgive me.”
She raised her gaze to his, and Brook tried to remember what he had been angry about. “Who the devil are you?” he asked. “What have you done with Lady Lila?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not attempting to amuse you. Is this apology some sort of jest?”
She exhaled, her expression a mixture of hurt and shock. “I suppose that will teach me to apologize. You don’t even believe me.”
“No, I don’t. I know you, Lila.”
“That’s where you are wrong. I’m not the girl you knew.”
With that, she turned her back on him and flounced away—acting very much like the girl he’d known. With a dramatic flourish, she slammed the door to the bedroom, leaving him alone in the common room.
Alone except for the dinner.
Brook couldn’t argue with those circumstances.
If he was truly the ill-mannered arse she made him out to be, he would have eaten all of the meal Mrs. O’Dwyer had brought. Instead, he left some for Lila to eat if and when she emerged from exile.
His belly full, he lay down in front of the hearth and closed his eyes, opening them again as soon as he heard Hunt’s foot on the steps. Hunt knocked softly, identified himself, and Brook opened the door and took the valise.
He stripped off his wet breeches and pulled on dry ones.
He reached for a clean, pressed shirt, but Hunt produced the shaving kit.
Brook gave him a warning look.
“The landlady is on her way with warm water. What else did you want it for?”
Brook sighed. He might have taken a bath, except that he didn’t have a tub at the flat. Instead, when Mrs. O’Dwyer knocked a few minutes later, Hunt took the warm water, poured some into a bowl to use for shaving, and gave the rest to Brook, who used it and a clean towel to wash the dirt and grime from the last few days off.
Then he sat to be shaved, leaning his head back, and closing his eyes. He could catch ten minutes’ sleep in this fashion and not need to rest for another three or four hours.
“Where’s the missus?” Hunt asked, placing a warm wet towel on Brook’s face.
Brook opened his eyes.
Hunt used the strop to sharpen the razor, continuing his task as though he didn’t see the way Brook glared at him.
“Finnegan and Turner said she’s kept herself, and them, quite busy.”
Brook gestured to the room. “As you see.”
Hunt nodded and proceeded to employ the brush to spread the shaving soap on Brook’s cheeks and jaw. “Much improved.”
Brook pushed forward and glanced around again. “What was wrong with it before?”
“Not a thing.” Hunt waited for him to sit back again and then began sliding the razor in neat strips along Brook’s cheek. “But now it has a woman’s touch.”
“If by that you mean it has an abundance of velvet and satin, I concur. And I have no doubt she’s in the bedroom right this minute planning her next purchase, but I won’t have her using Turner and Finnegan as her lackeys.”
“That won’t go over well with her.”
“She already called me an immoral, ill-mannered arse. It can’t get worse.”
“Oh, yes it
can. And you’re not immoral.”
Brook pointed at him. “Thank you.”
For a few moments, there was only the sound of the razor on stubble. “You might give her another chance,” Hunt said, shaving Brook’s neck, which meant Brook dare not reply or even breathe. “After all, she’s attempting to take an interest.”
Brook lowered his brows in question.
Hunt nodded at the nearby chaise longue. “The book on the Peloponnesian War. The one you’ve been reading for three years. She’s reading it now.”
As soon as Hunt had removed the blade, Brook sat and stared at the book open on the longue. He’d noted it before—he generally saw everything—but he hadn’t taken an interest in it. He’d supposed it was one of the novels ladies were always reading, but now he saw it was indeed the book he read when he couldn’t fall asleep at night.
It was boring as hell, but she’d made more progress than he had.
Was she interested in history? He’d never imagined Lila was much of a reader. Perhaps he did not know her as well as he thought.
And why the devil did he care? He didn’t need to know her. He only needed to keep her safe for a few more days.
Hunt dried his face and neck and then helped Brook dress in the clean clothing. “Is it still raining, Hunt?”
“Yes, sir. And it’s dark.” And because Hunt could see Brook still wasn’t dissuaded, he added, “And cold.”
“Beezle can’t stay inside forever.”
Hunt muttered something about dry weather, but Brook ignored it.
“We may very well catch him tonight.”
An hour or so later, Brook and Hunt shooed a prostitute away and took up their old positions. The moll returned though, and Brook couldn’t help but notice she was just a girl, wet and shivering. He reached into his pocket and pulled out several coins. “Half-crown for a bit of information.”
“Go on,” she said. “You call it information if you want. Come back here with me, and I’ll give you information.”
Brook nodded at Hunt and followed her, not because he wanted to take her against the wall, as she assumed, but because it would be better for her if she wasn’t seen conversing with him.
In the light from a window above, he saw the girl lean against a wall and open her arms to him. Brook shook his head. “I meant what I said. I want information.” He kept his voice low.
“You want me to snitch?”
“I’ll pay you.” He jingled the coins in his hand. “You answer my questions. That’s all.”
“I don’t lift my skirt?”
“I won’t touch you.”
She stared at the wall, thinking it over. Without the mask of forced sensuality over her features, she looked young and vulnerable.
“You a Runner?”
“Of sorts.”
“Who you after?”
“Beezle.”
“Oh no.” She shook her head and slid several inches away. “He’ll slit my throat.”
“Which is why we’re not standing on the open street.” He jingled the coins again, making sure she saw the crown. “You know where his flash ken is.”
“I know it.” Of course she did. She’d been standing across from it for the better part of the evening.
“Did you happen to see anyone go in or out?”
“I saw you and that tall one go and come back. I kept my eye on you.”
“Good. Was anyone else watching me?”
She bit her lip, and Brook jingled the coins again.
“Might be someone followed you.”
“Who?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“You’re a clever girl. You know. Crown to jog your memory.”
She glanced around. “If I was clever, I wouldn’t be ’ere talking to you.”
“Was it Beezle?”
She shook her head.
“Stub?”
Another shake.
“Racer?”
She hesitated.
“Damn it.” Even Brook knew how Racer had a reputation for running through the congested streets as fast as a town hack. “Did he come back while I was away?”
She glanced behind her again and then gave a quick jerk of her head.
“And then what?”
Another look over her shoulder. “Give me the blunt.”
“Tell me.”
“The blunt first.”
It went against every rule he had, but he gave her the crown plus a tanner. He’d have given it to her even if she hadn’t told him a thing.
“Racer came back and him and the other one you said—”
“Stub?”
Quick shake of her head.
“Beezle.”
“Them two set off. Next thing I know yer back.”
“What did—” But he was speaking to himself. She was gone, and she’d watch for him and keep out of his way. She wouldn’t want anyone to link her to him. Brook didn’t want that either.
He returned to the corner, where Hunt looked wet and miserable. “Sir.”
“Racer followed us then came back for Beezle. The two set out a little while ago,” Brook said without preamble.
“Do we wait for them to come back?”
Brook studied the flash ken. Like the rest of the buildings around, it looked dark and empty. No one in Seven Dials had tallow or lamp oil to waste. Brook wanted to settle back, watch the building until Beezle returned, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should go.
It wasn’t the rain or the cold, although those two factors made the work difficult.
He felt as though he’d forgotten something.
“I have a bad feeling about this, Hunt.”
“We weren’t followed, sir.” Hunt had a way of cutting to the point.
“Not from here to the flat,” Brook said slowly, his thoughts locking into place as he spoke. “Even Racer isn’t that fast. How did you go from the flat to Derring House? Walked?”
“Of course.” Hunt didn’t need to point out he didn’t own a coach.
“Beezle knows Derring House.” Bloody hell.
“You think Racer went to Derring House, saw me, and followed me back to the flat.”
“I have a bad feeling, Hunt.”
“I know your bad feelings, sir. I trust them too.” He’d already started back the way they’d come.
Brook was right behind him. At the end of the street, Brook began to run.
* * *
Lila had left the bedroom when she heard Brook exit but only to retrieve the book on the Peloponnesian War. She assumed her husband would be gone for the rest of the night, possibly the rest of the week. That should have made her happy, and she told herself the reason she was unhappy was because she felt lonely.
She didn’t mind solitude, but she’d had little of it in her life. After three days alone, she had begun to miss the company of others. Reading of the battles between Sparta and Athens comforted her—or at least put her problems into perspective.
And her biggest problem, at the moment, was Brook Derring. Of all the men in London, why did he have to be the one to rescue her? Why did he have to be the one to marry her? Protect her? Kiss her?
No, she would not think about that kiss.
She turned another page in the book and stared at the words, which had begun to resemble ancient Greek.
How could she not think of the kiss? Who kissed like that? There was nothing proper or dignified about the way Brook had kissed her.
She should have been appalled at having been treated so cavalierly. He’d yanked her against him. Like some conquering general, he’d captured her mouth with his and made her bend to his will.
The worst part was that he was right when he said she’d liked it.
She had liked it. She’d liked being pressed against his hard, bare chest. She liked the feel of his mouth on hers. She liked that he didn’t kiss her like a gentleman.
She wanted to be taken.
Lila supposed that was what galled her the
most. For years her father and mother had admonished her to act like a lady. Any small infraction, from slouching to stepping too loudly on the stairs, had been met with stern lectures and reprimands. Lila had strived to meet their high standards. She’d wanted to be just like her mother, who had behaved like a lady even as she took her dying breath.
Now she knew why her parents were so hard on her. They must have seen that she wasn’t really a lady at all. Inside, she was no better than a harlot who liked… What was it the prostitutes had said? A good poke.
Perhaps she’d never be anything more to Brook than a good poke. After all, he hadn’t treated her much better than a whore.
And that wasn’t a fair assessment either. He could have deflowered her right there in the common room. He hadn’t. He’d stopped, even when it was quite clear from one glance at him that he hadn’t wanted to.
But he hadn’t wanted her enough to make her his wife in truth.
And which was worse? That he did want her or that he didn’t want her enough?
Her head had begun to pound, and she remembered why she hadn’t wanted to think about that kiss. She lifted the book again, determined to focus on the page before her.
A moment later, she turned the page, hoping the tide turned and Sparta’s Lysander did not prevail over Athens’s navy, when she heard a quiet tap. She ignored it, going back to Lysander and his plan to lure Athens into battle by sailing for Hellespont and the source of Athens’s grain.
The tap sounded again, and she realized someone was knocking on the outer door. This time she set the book on the bed and went into the common room. Finnegan and the other guard usually called out when they were at the door. But perhaps this was Mrs. O’Dwyer, returning for her tray.
She stopped before the door and laid her hand on the lock. “Who is it?”
“Open the door, my lady.”
It wasn’t Mrs. O’Dwyer. It didn’t sound like Finnegan either, but neither was she familiar enough with him to recognize his voice upon hearing it.
“Who is it?”
“Landlord.”
“Mr. O’Dwyer?”