Alex's Angel

by Natasha Blackthorne

  She’d never be ready.

  She reached for her wineglass.

  He touched her hand, feathering his fingers over hers.

  Her hand shook on the glass and the wine sloshed. A vision splashed across her mind. The dance of firelight upon the walls, fine linen sheets sliding like silk against her bare body, strong hands reaching for her, touching her, pulling her close to his naked, utterly masculine body, his whispers in her ear…

  Her insides went all fluttery and she inhaled deeply. When she’d come here tonight, she hadn’t thought much about being bedded by a man beyond the money. She especially hadn’t anticipated that there would be any pleasure associated with it. But here with this man, she could feel how it would be.

  She hadn’t expected to be able to choose a man—certainly never a handsome and charming one. But he was her choice.

  Suddenly, she felt lighter than she had in all the days since she’d first decided to sell herself. She did a have a modicum of power in this situation.

  He dropped his hand from hers.

  She immediately brought the glass to her lips and gulped half of the remaining contents. It burnt all the way down, centring her.

  “Well?”

  His commanding tone sent her nerves bristling. So did the way he tapped the stack of bills. She took a closer look. Twenty dollars lay on the table. Enough money to pay her rent, yes, but still…

  She took another deep breath, set the glass down and flicked her gaze back to his. “Can’t you ask any better than that?”

  His deep, rich laugh sent another thrill through her, right down to her very toes. “I see—expensive and hard to acquire.”

  Retrieving the money, he pulled aside his frockcoat to stash the bills in his waistcoat, his body rippling against the close-fitting, striped satin.

  She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight.

  How would it feel to be held against that trim, hard waist? Her nipples pebbled and another wave of tingling heat centred in her sex.

  His hand froze halfway into his pocket. Looking up from his abdomen, she met his eyes. His expression was a shade speculative and maybe a bit amused. Dear heavens, he’d caught her ogling his midsection. Her face flamed and she glanced away quickly.

  Had she just ruined her chance with him? Was he totally put off now? Oh, what a stupid, green girl she’d proved herself to be. She wanted nothing more desperately than to hide her feelings. She’d show him that his rejection didn’t matter.

  “You might still stand a chance with her,” she said, nodding at the curvy redhead, who sat with several mariners, giggling.

  “She’ll be around. I’d rather talk to you.” He tapped her gloved hand with a natural authority that rankled her. Grandmother had never ceased in her complaints about how arrogant gentlemen were.

  She jerked her hand away. “Just like a man—so smugly sure of your appeal.”

  “And just how much do you know of men?”

  “Oh, I’ve had many—all quite handsome and wealthy,” she rejoined, in what she hoped was a casual tone.

  He narrowed his eyes speculatively. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  He laughed. This time it was a soft, sensual sound that sent delicious shivers down her spine. “More like fifteen, possibly sixteen, but a very immature sixteen.”

  “I’m nineteen!”

  A small, satisfied smile spread over his lips and she regretted her outburst. In fact, she itched to wipe the smugness off his face. She took a deep breath and continued far more sedately. “The women in my family age very slowly. My grandmother looks about fifty.”

  “Tell me something—why aren’t you with her now?”

  She stared at him blankly, her heart pounding in short jags of rapid beats.

  Grandmother was dead.

  For ever and ever.

  She didn’t want to talk about it.

  Quickly, she rolled one shoulder up. “I refuse to live under her thumb.”

  “Ah, and you’d rather have men vie for your favours in a Hell City tavern?”

  “Something like that.” Suddenly, his glibness was wearing thin.

  He picked up her hand and held it. He traced his fingertips over her palm in a light, sensual fashion. Even through her gloves she could feel the sparking fire of his touch. Without warning, heat flared through her whole body, centring directly between her thighs. This time, wetness flooded her. Heavens, it was going to soak through her shift and petticoats. Thank God she was wearing her cloak.

  She’d known her own tendencies to be a wanton. It had been a secret covered by the darkness during nights in her own bed. But she’d never suspected herself capable of such immediate, intense responses just to be touched by some strange man.

  “I sympathise,” he said. “My father expected that I’d attend Harvard and be a model scholar. But at thirteen I wasn’t of a mind to waste my time with my nose pressed in old books, reading about dead men. I signed on to a privateer instead.”

  Her mouth dropped open. He’d said that so casually. How could anyone throw away the chance of a higher education?

  Something burnt through her. Envy. At thirteen, with her schoolmaster grandfather newly deceased, she’d been made to put aside her studies. She’d been trapped under her grandmother’s watchful eye and forced to concentrate on insipid things. Needlepoint, bland watercolour paintings of sedate sunsets, the proper way to serve tea and make boring, polite conversation.

  She’d have given anything to be able to study at college and continue the stimulating education her grandfather had introduced her to. This man had thrown it all away to muck about with mariners.

  For a sun god, he wasn’t very wise.

  “Oh? And how did life at sea suit you?” she asked coldly.

  “At first I found it very exciting.”

  His tone didn’t match his words. It sounded as if he was speaking of attending a funeral. She looked up. His beautiful eyes gazed past her, tortured, as they peered into some distant yet well-remembered hell. He grimaced—a mask of anguish so intense that she sucked in her breath. An echoing, piercing pain blossomed in her chest, followed by a bone-deep ache to know him, to be able to understand what had caused such torment.

  She arched her back, leaning forward, laying her arms on the table, wishing she could get closer to him. Wishing that she dared to touch him. “Where did you sail?”

  He picked up his wine glass and appeared to make a study of its contents.

  “During the war, we captured fat British merchantmen throughout the Caribbean, then afterwards we traded with Europe.” His voice sounded flat, disconnected from those experiences.

  She bit her lip, wondering what the right thing to say would be. Anything to keep him talking. “How exciting to see the world like that.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Exciting, eh?”

  Something in his tone made her feel like a child. “I’ve never been outside of Philadelphia.”

  He set the wine glass down and looked up, his pale eyes remote, as if he still didn’t really see her. He nodded slightly. “Oh, I certainly got to see some of the world.”

  Then he chuckled, a sound so hollow and empty that it gave her sudden chills. She peered hard into his handsome face, trying to catch a glimpse of those distant, exotic places calling. All she saw was the self-mockery that quirked his lip upwards.

  “After several years, I came home. In my absence, Father had sickened and he was having a hard time keeping his affairs in order. He was running himself into bankruptcy. I immediately took over the business. However, instead of enjoying some respite, he died the next spring.”

  His voice resonated with such guilt that Emily’s heart gave a pang. She couldn’t keep herself from reaching out to touch his arm. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  He looked down at her hand and he compressed his lips. He pulled his arm away, then glanced at her, all that suffering and the faraway look gone, replaced by th
e same glib charm he’d displayed for the majority of the evening. “Well, thank you, but the loss isn’t so fresh now.”

  She had the sense of a door being shut. The disappointment seemed crushing.

  Alex veiled his eyes from Emily’s soul-piercing gaze. Yet he still felt her under his skin. Only once before had anyone invaded his feelings, his inner being like that, and it hadn’t been pleasant. He shifted in his seat and folded his arms over his chest.

  What the hell had happened? How had he lost all control over the situation? He had ended up dumping out some of his history in a truly weak and embarrassingly emotional rush. To a tavern harlot—and a pitiful example of a tavern harlot, at that.

  Damn it all, anyway. What was he doing still sitting here? He’d already ascertained that Green hadn’t hurt her too badly. And he’d satisfied his gentlemanly worry that she was some innocent kitten lost in the night.

  Once again, he eyed his companion critically. Yes, she was far too thin and her face was all sharp angles. Like a little fox. Her complexion was sallow. And she was painfully young. Not to mention that ridiculously overstuffed and obviously false bosom.

  Had she even looked in the mirror before deciding to go out like that? It wasn’t very promising. Elegant women who knew how to conduct themselves were what he enjoyed. He hadn’t intended to take this girl upstairs. And he’d certainly known that she was older than sixteen the moment he’d seen her walk. Her hips swayed like a woman’s.

  An exceptionally sensual, sexually experienced woman.

  But something about her prickly manner had driven him to try to provoke her. The way her eyes sparked at him had warmed his blood.

  He gave himself an inward shake. There were other, truly beautiful, far more compliant Philadelphian women he might be with. Brigit, for one. He still hadn’t seen her since he’d come home, and her aggrieved note lay folded in his pocket. So what was he doing here with this girl, whom he would never in a hundred years take to his bed? Damned if he knew.

  Maybe it was her air of innocence, yet knowing, the way her lithe body moved so sensually.

  And she did have compelling eyes—large, lushly lashed and the colour of firelight through sherry. She had kept staring at him, staring into his soul. She possessed a brilliance about her. As if she held some special knowledge about how to live. Some wisdom that he had lost—or perhaps had never even possessed. But it fascinated him. Honestly, her inner fire warmed him. Had made him reluctant to leave her.

  What nonsense. She was just a little tavern strumpet. And he’d wasted enough time—

  Her sharp, hitching inhalation broke into his thoughts. She sneezed three times in a row. Her full bottom lip quivered in the aftermath. That mouth—his heartbeat quickened and all his blood went rushing south to swell his cock.

  God, she had a lovely mouth.

  He offered her his handkerchief, but she had her own. She blew her nose as delicately as any elegant lady.

  “Are you hungry?” As soon as the words left his lips, he started. Had he really just asked her to supper? Yes, he feared he had. But Christ, she was so thin that her cheeks were hollow.

  She could certainly use a decent meal. It was the humane thing to do.

  “Hungry?” she asked, raising those huge, lushly lashed eyes to his.

  “Yes. Perhaps you’d like a late supper?”

  She glanced about and wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you.”

  So, despite being a harlot in a Hell City tavern, she had discriminating tastes and high standards. He definitely approved. He chuckled softly. “Not here. Someplace where they serve palatable food.”

  * * * *

  From the shadows, Richard Green watched Alexander Dalton help the thin, dark-haired girl into his carriage.

  “I knew they were working together.”

  Then he took a deep swig of whisky from the bottle he held.

  “Dalton works so hard to find new ways to make me lose face.”

  As the last drops fell into his mouth, he frowned then threw the bottle to the street’s paving stones. The sound of smashing glass echoed loudly. He reached into his pocket and fished about.

  Nothing.

  “Well, I’ll be double-damned.” He whistled low. He’d left home today with two hundred dollars. He’d been looking forward to some quality female companionship—he fingered his ribs and winced—or at least he had been before the fight.

  When had the little cut-purse cat done it? Most likely when Dalton had distracted him by challenging him.

  Who would have dreamt, once upon a time, that it would all come to a pass like this?

  In his mind’s eye flashed a smooth-faced seventeen-year-old boy with ghostly blue-grey, fever-glazed eyes. The rasp of that boy’s coughs resonated in the silence.

  You deserved it, you shirking coward, the inner voice chided him.

  It was always there. Tormenting him. Lying.

  “No, I’ll not feel guilt! It was a rational choice. No one can fault me—they weren’t there!”

  Chapter Three

  He was watching her, silently, and it was setting her nerves jangling far more than the carriage rattling along on the paving stones of the street. Emily had never been out on her own at night, and certainly had never been out alone with a man. She’d never had any suitors at all, for that matter.

  Grandmother hadn’t thought much of the male sex as a whole and she’d been of the firm opinion that no one could ever be good enough for her only granddaughter. No one was going to take her beloved Emily away from her. She had seemed to expect that Emily would remain unmarried and live with her forever.

  Now Emily had spent a whole evening away from home and in the company of a charming, handsome gentleman. She had made the choice to actually leave the Blue Duck with him. The sense of freedom in that was heady.

  “I’ve made a decision.”

  Alex’s deep voice, smooth as silk, cut into her thoughts. She looked up at him and he held her gaze with his as he scooted closer on the carriage seat. Any sense that she had control over the situation vanished. She held her breath and tried to suppress the panic beating in her blood.

  “A decision?” Was that hoarse voice really hers?

  “Yes.” He reached up and lifted one of her curls off her shoulder in a casual, proprietary gesture. He pressed the curl to his lips, then let it drop. “I’ve decided to let myself fall in love with you.”

  It was such an absurd comment that she gave a shaky laugh.

  “You think that’s funny, eh?” He caressed her hair. Though clearly teasing her, there was an underlying edge of presumption in the way he handled her, as if she was his for the asking. Yes, that would be the way of a gentleman with a woman he assumed to be a harlot. He brought the lantern close. Looking over his merchandise?

  He held a curl up to the light. “You’re not brunette at all, are you?”

  She’d always hated her hair. It looked like the darkest, dullest brown on first glance, but under the light it turned an odd wine colour.

  He moved his face incrementally closer to hers and touched the back of her head. Her heart sped up and she closed her eyes. He brushed her lips with his, then applied gentle but firm pressure. His kiss spread through her veins like warm honey.

  Alex lifted his head and her eyes popped open. Under his intense, speculative gaze, she took two quavering breaths. Had the carriage not been rolling quite so briskly, she was certain she’d have bolted straight out of the door.

  Then he touched his lips to hers again, slanting his mouth tenderly over hers. Her lips trembled under his. With his tongue, he traced the outline of her mouth deliberately, lingeringly. It should have seemed silly, but the sensation of his tongue sliding over her lips was liquid, silken bliss.

  Alex shifted his weight on the squabs and made room in his pantaloons for his growing erection. The erection had come as a complete surprise. Yes, he had flirted with her. What else would a man do when alone in a carriage with a nineteen-year-old strumpet? I
t wasn’t likely that they would discuss literature or have a friendly political debate or commiserate about the fluctuations of the exchange.

  And no man with any blood in his veins would allow the opportunity to pass by without at least tasting that gorgeous, berry-red mouth. He’d expected the kiss to be sweetly distracting—instead it had scorched his senses.

  He glanced, perplexed, at her face, her too-thin body. Usually it took a great deal of beauty in a woman—damn near perfection—to send him to heights like that. And never over a mere kiss, unless the woman’s lips were planted somewhere else.

  God, if just a kiss could produce that kind of sensation, what would it be like to taste her cunt and make her come, to bury himself balls-deep in her body? He could lose himself completely. And he hungered to lose himself, to forget himself and all the bitter corruption in his soul.

  The intensity of his anticipation made his mouth go dry.

  But it had probably been a fluke or a product of his extreme ennui.

  He’d better try it again to make certain.

  He cupped her face and she looked up at him, her eyes huge, luminous pools of sherry. The open hunger there sent an answering surge of desire slicing through him but he suppressed it. It never served a man’s purposes to come at a woman like a ravening beast.

  He touched his lips to hers again and applied steady, gentle intensity. She began to kiss him back, pressing her lips against his with heated softness. There wasn’t anything unexpected in such a response—nothing special—yet his heart began to pound and his cock grew longer, harder.

  Who the hell was this girl?

  What was she going to be to him?

  He slipped his hand down to her collarbone and gently gripped there. The feel of her pulse, rapid and strong, sent a thrill through him.

  The carriage came to a stop. He lifted his lips from hers and released her. A bittersweet aching swelled in his chest. A reluctance to let her go. How novel the sensation was. He sat back in the seat, so bemused by his own strange mood that when the carriage door swung open it startled him.