“Well then – then you know why I cannot trust you.”
“Aye, I suppose ye would see it that way,” he said thoughtfully. “But I already told ye I’m not after using ye. Didn’t I say this was not a game? The women I’ve been with before…” He cupped the back of his neck. Squeezed the corded muscles tight. “They were different.”
“Because you wanted to have an illicit affair with them and you want to court me?” she asked, her voice sugary sweet and all the more dangerous for it. Felicity was not a woman who threw vases or screamed or left the room in a dramatic huff when she was angry or wanted to make her point known. Instead she used her words like daggers, slicing with the precision of a surgeon.
“Yes.” He scowled. “No. I – bloody ‘ell, ye are twisting my words. I do want to court ye. I am courtin’ ye.”
It was Felicity’s turn to arch a brow. “I may not remember the exact specifics of what a courtship entails, but I know it does not involve entering the lady’s place of residence without her permission.”
“I brought ye pastries.”
“Blueberry scones do not negate the fact that you picked the lock on my door.”
“And how the devil else was I supposed to get in?” he demanded.
“You could have knocked.”
“Ye would have told me to go away.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “and then this conversation would have never needed to take place.”
“Which is why I let myself in.” He frowned at her. “I might ‘ave never courted a fine lady such as yourself before, but I think you’re supposed to be more grateful.”
Of all the preposterous–
“Have I told you how absolutely incorrigible you are?” she snapped.
“Only once,” he said easily.
“Which should have been more than enough!” Stunned to realize she’d been close to shouting, Felicity immediately lowered her voice and pointed stiffly at the door. “You were not invited here, Mr. Spencer, you are certainly not welcome, and I need you to leave before the children wake up.”
Felix scratched at the bristle on his jaw. “Here I thought ye would be friendlier first thing in the morning.”
“You thought incorrectly.” She squared her shoulders, determined to get him out the door before he could charm his way in any further, for in addition to her exasperation she was beginning to feel the stirrings of desire as well.
Before she met Felix she’d never known the two could go hand in hand. Anger and lust. Irritation and arousal. Like two opposite sides of the same coin, there was no telling which one would land on top when the coin was flipped high into the air.
“Mr. Spencer, I really must insist–”
“Ye have soot on the end of your nose.” He stepped forward so quickly and so smoothly that she didn’t have time to blink let alone step out of arm’s reach. His hand touched the side of her cheek. Just a brush of rough knuckles against soft ivory skin, but the spark of electricity it created was nearly enough to send her to her knees.
Oh dear, she thought weakly as desire surged ahead of exasperation. Oh dear, oh dear.
“Mr. Spencer, you really must–”
“And in your hair.” He lifted a dark silky curl and it wound itself around his finger as if it had a mind of its own.
Traitor, Felicity thought furiously.
“You – you have to leave.” She was trembling. Why was she trembling? “Now, if you please.”
“But I don’t please.” His husky voice sent a shiver racing down the nape of her neck while arousal pooled in her belly like sweet, sticky honey. He tilted her chin up, tilted his head down. Their eyes met, dazed violet falling helplessly into deep, deep gold. “In fact, I don’t please a’tall.”
Then he was kissing her again, blast him, and this time she was kissing him back.
On a yearning moan she wrapped her arms around his neck, nails digging into skin as she surrendered to the need inside of her. The need to be held. The need to be touched. The need to be wanted. How long had it been since a man truly wanted her? Ezra had stopped so long ago she’d all but forgotten what it felt like.
Felix angled his mouth, deepening the kiss, and Felicity nearly wept from the pleasure of it. Even when Ezra had desired it had never been like this. Nothing she’d experienced had ever come close to this.
She pressed herself shamelessly against him, burrowing into the solid plane of his chest.
Her skin burned where it touched him. Tiny licks of flame that were fueling a smoldering fire between her thighs. She writhed, desperate to make the flames burn higher. Burn brighter. She didn’t want to just feel the fire. She wanted to be on fire.
As if he could sense her mounting arousal Felix growled deep in his throat and shoved his fingers into her hair, sending pins flying in every direction.
Later, she thought dazedly as her lips parted beneath the demanding pressure of his mouth. I will pick them up later.
She tasted coffee on his tongue. Felt muscles hard as iron beneath her fingertips. Heard his sharp intake of breath when her hands slid down the front of his torso to clutch at the tapered edges of his waistcoat. She pulled and he pushed, forcing her back against the wall.
His arms held her captive as he used his tongue and teeth to claim her, nibbling at her bottom lip, the curve of her ear, the sensitive spot where her neck and shoulder met. Her chest rose and fell in time with her ragged breaths and her nipples ached when they scraped against the fabric of her thin bodice.
She wanted to feel the weight of his hands on her breasts. She wanted to feel the weight of his hands everywhere. And then suddenly, so suddenly it felt as though a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head, she didn’t.
“Wait,” she gasped, pushing weakly against Felix’s chest. “I – I cannot do this.”
Hands shoving her backwards. Mouth curled in a leer.
“This is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it?”
Her voice trapped inside her body. Her arms limp at her sides.
“This is what you’ve been asking for…”
“No,” she whispered. “No. I said NO!”
At her shrill cry Felix immediately released her and jumped back, his tawny gaze filled with confusion as it swept across her trembling frame. “Felicity love, what’s wrong?”
“I said no,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself in an effort to contain the helpless quivering of her limbs. “I said no.”
“Aye.” His nod was slow and wary. “That ye did.”
“I…” At a loss for words and unable to explain, she could only shake her head. Dark curls, tangled from Felix’s fingers, tumbled into her face as she peered up at him out of eyes glazed with tears. “I am sorry. I did not – I did not mean to shout.”
Not at him, at least. She hadn’t meant to shout at him. Rodger was the one she really wanted to yell at. But Rodger was dead and Felix was here and she’d spoken without thinking. Spoken the words she wished she’d been able to speak all those years ago when a horrible, despicable man had done the unimaginable.
She had worked so hard at blocking the memory of that morning that sometimes she thought she’d actually succeeded. There were days, weeks, even months where she didn’t think about it. Where she did not lay awake at night staring up at the ceiling and replaying every atrocious second in her mind. Ever touch. Every kiss. Every grunt and groan as Rodger shoved himself into her.
Then something as simple as a touch would bring it all rushing back. Every single horrible minute. And she’d realize it was never going to go away. Not completely. It would always be a part of her because there were some things a person simply could not forget, no matter how hard they tried.
Ezra had never understood that. He had believed it was something she just needed to get over, like a hacking cough or a fear of heights. So they’d both pretended she had forgotten it, and if she froze during their intimate moments, if her eyes turned glassy and she started gasping for air as dark, cloudy waves
of panic rolled over her, it was because she wasn’t feeling well. Or because of something she ate. Or because of the weather. But it was never, ever because of what had really happened.
“Ye have nothing to apologize for.” Felix took a step towards her. On a soft murmur of distress she shied to the side and he stopped short, his brow creasing in wounded bewilderment. “What have I–”
“Mum?” Standing in the bedroom doorway with his little fists rubbing at his eyes, Henry’s jaw stretched in an enormous yawn. “Mum, what is Mr. Spencer doing here?”
Feeling dazed and dizzy and not entirely well, Felicity made a half-hearted attempt to fix a smile on her face. She did not need Henry’s frown to tell her the attempt had failed, but it was the best she could do. “Mr. Spencer came to deliver a message from Aunt Scarlett. But he was just on his way out the door. Weren’t you, Mr. Spencer?”
Please, her violet eyes begged. Please, just this once, listen to me.
“Aye,” Felix said after a long pause where he searched her face for the secrets she was not ready to tell. “Aye, I was on my out.”
“Did you bring your sloop?” Henry asked, his sleepy face brightening with anticipation.
“No lad, not today. Tomorrow maybe,” he said, sliding a sideways glance at Felicity. “Take care of ye mother for me, won’t ye lad? And your sister. See to it she doesn’t get into trouble, or cause your mother any. You’re the man of the house. It’s your responsibility to look after your women.”
Henry nodded seriously, the sloop all but forgotten. “Yes sir. I will, sir.”
“That’s a good lad,” Felix crouched down and ruffled his hair. “We’ll make a Runner out of you yet.”
“Did you hear him, Mum?” Henry said excitedly after was gone. “Did you hear him? I am going to be a runner!”
“I heard him darling,” Felicity murmured as she wrapped her arms around Henry and drew him tightly against her waist, taking comfort in his warmth and his sturdiness and his boyish grin. Her life may have been crumbling into pieces but her son was happy. Her son was happy, and Felix was partly responsible. It was something to think about. When her head was clear and her heart wasn’t aching and her bones didn’t feel hollow it was something to think about. “I heard him.”
Chapter Eight
I’m going to find the bastard who put that fear in her eyes, Felix silently vowed, and I’m going to rip him limb from limb.
If Ezra Whitten thought he was safe in his gilded house in Grosvenor Square he was sorely mistaken. There was nowhere he could go. No place he could hide. Felix would find him. And when he did…when he did there would not be enough of the viscount left to identify his body.
He could feel the tight leash he kept on his temper beginning to loosen. Others must have felt it as well for he was given a wide berth as made his way towards Bow Street. Two well-bred ladies, parasols in hand, nearly stepped into the path of an oncoming carriage in their haste to get out of his way.
“Watch where you’re going,” he growled after he had yanked them both back to the safety of the pavement. Unfortunately, they did not take very kindly to his kindness.
“Unhand me, you brute!” one of them cried in a voice so shrill it made Felix wince. He winced again when the other woman struck him on the shoulder with her beaded reticule.
Bloody ‘ell. What the devil was she keeping in there? Rocks?
“Now see here,” he said, rubbing his shoulder, “I was only tryin’ to–”
“Is this ruffian bothering you?” Appearing seemingly out of nowhere, Grant offered the women a charming grin that had them instantly flocking to his side. It certainly didn’t hurt that he looked every inch the duke in his snowy white cravat, royal blue tailcoat, and high-waisted breeches. He might as well have had ‘Rich Nabob’ scrawled across his forehead whereas Felix, in his loose-fitting jacket and open collared shirt, could not have appeared more common.
“He was trying to rob us!”
“He tried to take my reticule!”
Felix snorted. “I’d need a damn winch to lift it off your arm.”
“I am not surprised,” Grant said seriously. “We’ve had complaints about him before. Not to worry ladies, I promise he will not bother you again. In fact, I will see to it he is delivered straight to Bow Street.”
“Oh thank you, my lord,” they both gushed. “You saved our lives.”
“And who kept ye from being flat as a flounder?” Felix wanted to know. “Aye, that’s right. I did. You’re bloody welcome,” he grumbled under his breath as the women gave Grant one last adoring glance before they snapped open their parasols and glided away.
“Wooing the ladies first thing in the morning, are we?” Sunlight reflected off Grant’s mocking grin as he fell in step beside Felix.
Grinding his teeth, Felix considered the consequences of sending the arrogant bounder sprawling on his arse…and ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. He may have gotten in one lucky clip to the jaw, but Grant was surprisingly agile for a blueblood and he didn’t pull his punches. The two men had gone toe to toe before and although neither one had been able to claim victory, they’d both been laid up in bed for the better part of a week. Felix had no interest in repeating the experience, or the blustering reprimand that had followed when the Captain discovered two of his best runners were out of commission.
But that didn’t mean he had to be civil.
“Sod off,” he grunted before he turned left down an alley so narrow his shoulders nearly scraped against the walls.
“We’re both going to the same address.” Undeterred by the small space, Grant fell back behind him but continued to follow; an annoying shadow he couldn’t get rid of. “Unless you want to stop by Newgate first. I’m certain they have a cell ready and waiting with your name on it.”
“Aye you’d like that, wouldn’t ye?” Felix sneered.
“Nothing would please me more.”
“Then ye should have put me there when ye had the chance.” His sneer turned into a smirk when he angled a backwards glance over his shoulder and saw Grant’s jaw clench and his green eyes flash. He knew it stuck in the aristocrat’s craw that he was the one criminal he hadn’t put behind bars. Which was why he reminded him of his failure every time the opportunity presented itself. There were few things he liked better than getting under Grant’s skin. And nothing infuriated Grant more than the knowledge that Felix was not only out walking the streets, he was policing them.
“There’s time yet.” Although Grant’s tone was light, the underlying threat was unmistakable. Felix allowed it to slide off his back without a moment’s concern. High Society may have deemed Grant the worthier man in the ballroom, but on Bow Street they were equals. And unless Owen suddenly keeled over and Grant became the captain, there was nothing he could do about it.
The two men continued on in silence until they reached the building that served as their main office, a traditional three story brick house set back from the street behind a wrought iron fence. White shutters framed large windows and green ivy covered one wall, creeping up along the reddish brick in a tangle of leaf and vine.
The stately residence had once been the private home of Henry Fielding, Chief Magistrate and founder of the Runners. Following his death, his brother, Sir John Fielding, had taken control and turned the Runners – then a ragtag group of eight – into a fully functioning agency. He had eventually stepped down at the ripe old age of sixty-seven and Owen, with great reluctance, had taken his place.
At its height Bow Street had boasted a force of nearly four dozen men. But a diminishing crime rate and the rise of the Metropolitan Police Force had seen that number gradually shrink to ten over the past few years. Eleven if they counted Mrs. Wadsworth, a black cat who had been living at Bow Street for as long as anyone could remember.
Felix gave the feline an absent pat on her head as he walked through the front door and into the large, sparsely decorated room where they conducted most of their business. A large
table cluttered with stacks of paper, pieces of evidence, and Runner’s boots took up most of the space. Taking one of the few remaining seats, Felix found a place for his feet between a pile rags and a pitcher of water while Grant went to the far end.
Linking his hands together behind his neck, he tipped his chair back and took a cursory glance around the table as he noted who was present and who they were still waiting on. Morning meetings were a carryover from when the first Fielding had been in charge. He’d used them to check in with his Runners, discuss ongoing cases, and air any complaints. Now they were held more out of habit than necessity, but woe be the man who was late under Captain Steel’s watch.
As was his right, Owen sat at the head of the table. Tall and broad shouldered with dark hair that was beginning to gray at the temples and a glacial stare, he was a man of great integrity and responsibility. The son of a baker, he had come from the humblest of beginnings and risen to a position of high authority solely off of his own merit, a feat which not very many men could claim.
Felix still remembered, with vivid clarity, the first time he’d met Owen. How could he ever forget? It had been in the wee hours of a December morning so cold his breath had turned to frost the moment it touched the air. He should have been in bed with his mistress, a doe-eyed blonde actress whose talents between the sheets far exceeded those on the stage. But instead he’d followed a tip that had led him straight into a trap.
It was still a point of embarrassment for Felix that he’d made himself such an easy target. He’d known something wasn’t right. He’d felt it in his bones. But he had been arrogant, and greedy, and he’d gone after Lady Irvine’s emerald necklace even though the little voice in the back of his head had told him not to.
The house was pitch black when he entered. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust as he silently untied his boots and left them by the servant’s entrance before proceeding up the stairs. Dressed from head to toe in all black, he was nothing more than a shadow as he walked quickly down the hall, counting out the doors he passed in his head.
A Dangerous Proposal (Bow Street Brides Book 2) Page 8