Desire Me Now

by Tiffany Clare

  She picked up her stride, even though she’d developed a stitch in her side that made breathing difficult. She had only been in London for three weeks. Not enough time to make friends or learn her way around. She didn’t even know where she could find decent, safe lodgings. She supposed there was enough money to put herself on a train and go back home to her brother.

  No. Never that.

  She refused to lower herself to that type of desperation. She would find another job. In fact, she would demand a new placement from the agency. She was well educated and the daughter of a once-prominent earl, which made her valuable and an asset for any job requiring someone intelligent and capable.

  The only problem was that she’d told no one in London of her true identity.

  Someone jostled her shoulder, spinning her from the path she walked.

  “Pardon, ma’am,” he said, grasping her under the arm to right her footing.

  Before she could turn and offer her gratitude, he was just another bobbing hat on the street. Reaching for her reticule to pull out her handkerchief, she came up empty-handed.

  “That thief!” she shouted, then slapped her hand over her mouth.

  Those around her called up the alarm. She pointed in the direction she was sure the thief had gone, but there wasn’t a suspicious soul to be seen.

  Amelia started pushing through the crowded street, apologizing along the way when she knocked into a few pedestrians. She grew frantic and inhaled in great gulps, trying to get air into her lungs and to keep at bay the panic that was threatening to rob her of her ability to think rationally.

  Eventually, her feet slowed as the cramping in her side worsened. She could barely see beyond the tears falling from her eyes. Her face was damp, and she had nothing to wipe it clean except the sleeve of her day dress. She was unfit to go to the agency, but what other choice did she have?

  Despair robbed her of the last of her breath, and she was forced to stop her pursuit.

  Bracing one arm against an old stone building, she breathed in and out until she was calm. The last of her tears had dried on her face and made her cheeks stiff.

  She should give up, crawl back to her brother, and beg for his eternal forgiveness. There were few viable choices left to her. She couldn’t stay out in the streets. Awful things happened to women who had no place to go. Things far worse than what she had escaped, though in a moment of clarity, she might refute that statement.

  Walking around to the side of the building where she’d stopped, she threw up the dinner she’d eaten the previous night. Feeling dizzy and unwell, she drew on the last of her courage, straightened her shoulders, and somehow found the strength to continue walking.

  She needed to find new employment and accommodations without delay. The agency had been a room full of women; they would understand the situation she’d found herself in. They would help her.

  Light-headed, she walked toward Fleet Street where the agency was tucked neatly behind a printing house. While the day had started rather dreary and dull in so many senses, the odd peek of sunshine cut through the coal-heavy air and pressed against her face. The sun warming her skin gave her a glimmer of optimism.

  When the sun disappeared behind the clouds again, she focused on her surroundings and caught sight of a group of urchins, recognizing the tallest of the bunch immediately.

  “You little swindler. Give me back what is mine,” she cried out loud and clear.

  The boy, who had been counting the contents in her reticule, pocketed her money and took off at a full run. His pace was quick and light-footed, and she was sure he took one step to her three, though she still tried to catch up to him.

  Shaken, with a cramp in her side and the dizzy feeling growing worse through her body, Amelia refused to give in. When the urchin dodged across a street heavy with traffic, she knew there was no time for hesitation. She needed that money back.

  Before she made it halfway across the road, the urchin was lost among the carts. Tears welled in her eyes again, blurring her vision. Someone yelled for her to get off the road; someone else emphasized his point with obscenities she didn’t fully comprehend.

  Though nearly to the other side, she didn’t move quite fast enough for the two-seat open carriage clipping down the street much more swiftly than the other carts.

  “Move, you bloody fool,” the driver bellowed.

  His speeding horses, black as pitch, headed toward her like the devil on her heels. She hiked up her skirts and ran but tripped over the stone curb and tumbled hard to her knees, twisting her foot on the way down. The pain of the impact caused black spots to dot across her vision. As she tried to gain her footing, she collapsed back onto her bruised, pained knees and cried.

  A strong arm supported her under her elbow and hauled her to her feet, but it was apparent to them both that she couldn’t stand on her own. When the stranger knelt before her, all she saw was his tall beaver hat as he put one arm around her back and shoulders and the other under her legs. That was all the warning he gave before he lifted her into his arms and walked up the lawn as if she weighed nothing.

  “Thank you,” she said weakly, her heated face pressed into his finely made wool jacket. His cologne was subtle and masculine with undertones of amber and citrus. She inhaled the scent deeper, wanting that comforting smell to wrap around her, wishing it would let her forget just how her day had unfolded.

  Instead of releasing her when they were away from the road, he continued walking up the slight incline of the grassy field. A flush washed over her face as she stuttered for words of admonishment that anyone might see this gentleman carrying a poor, injured woman in his arms. She didn’t actually want him to put her down, but common decency demanded it of her.

  Gazing at the face under his well-made top hat stopped any further protestations. She dropped her gaze and stared at his striped necktie tucked neatly into a charcoal vest.

  “You need not carry me. I can find my way,” she said, but her request lacked any conviction.

  The sun shone through the clouds once more, shining directly in her eyes and allowing her to pull away from the power that radiated from his gaze.

  His short, close-clipped beard emphasized the strong line of his jaw. Black hair fanned out a little under his hat, longer than fashionable, but suiting to the rough edge this man carried.

  She could tell that his mouth, though pinched, was full, the bow on top well defined. The type of lips young ladies tittered and wrote poems about.

  “I just witnessed you hike up your skirts well past your shins to run across one of the busiest streets in London.” His voice was gruff, with a sensual quality that warmed her right to the very core.

  Just as she thought her blush couldn’t get worse, she felt her ears burning from the blunt observation of what he’d witnessed.

  Amelia cleared her throat, realizing she’d been staring at him too long. “I am sorry you had to witness that.”

  He settled her down on a slated wood bench under the shade of an ancient burled oak tree. “It’s arguable that you did that in a careful manner,” he said.

  The gentleman removed his leather gloves, set them on the bench beside her, and went down on his knees to stretch out her foot to look at the injury she’d done herself.

  She tucked her feet under the bench, away from his searching hands. They were in the open, and anyone could see his familiarity. “I only need to rest a minute. I wish I could repay you for your troubles, but I have nothing of value . . . ”

  When he looked at her—really looked at her—she was struck speechless by the sincerity of his regard. His eyes were gray like flint and as hard as steel. Unusual and beautiful, she thought. But it wasn’t the color that had her at a loss for words. It was the intensity behind his gaze that made her feel that she was the only person in the world he was focused on; almost like nothing but the two of them existed on this tiny patch of grass in the middle of the bustling city.

  This perfect man before her, who clea
rly didn’t have to worry about putting a roof over his head or bread on the table, held a maelstrom of emotions in his cool, assessing gaze. She trusted what she saw in his eyes, trusted a man for the first time in she didn’t know how long.

  She wanted to reach toward his face but grasped the edge of the bench tightly instead.

  Just how dire her situation was hit her so hard, she swayed where she sat. Her money was gone, her only picture of her parents taken with it.

  And then she cried.

  She didn’t mean to. She didn’t even think she had the energy left for such an outpouring. But she couldn’t stop now that the dam had broken on her emotions. Histrionics didn’t seem to put her rescuer off, because he only huffed a helpless breath and waited for her to calm herself, which she tried to do in great gulping breaths.

  “Let me get you to a doctor.” His voice was deep and commanding. He would never have to raise his voice to draw the attention of those around him. It was the kind of voice to which one was naturally drawn, and it stirred something deep inside her.

  She shook her head at his offer.

  She needed to loosen whatever spell he had over her.

  She felt the command of his stare but did not turn her face up to his again.

  “Let me see you to a doctor to ensure it is nothing more than a turned ankle,” he offered, his voice full of sincerity.

  She shook her head again. She tried to explain about the agency, but none of what she said came out coherently, and her tears fell harder.

  Before she could attempt saying anything more, her rescuer lifted her in his arms once again and strode toward the street.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bloody women. Why did they have to cry?

  Nick called a carriage over to the curb, the inconsolable woman tucked tightly against his chest. Her sobs calmed only slightly after what felt like forever. He couldn’t complain about holding on to her, though; she had curves in all the right places, and his hand squeezed a little tighter than needed around her ribs. He was an ass, but she felt good in his arms.

  He was almost reluctant to slide her into the seat but must needs . . .

  Had this woman not had an uncanny resemblance to someone he’d known a long time ago, he might not have been so quick to cart her back to his home. He’d seen her by chance as he walked through the park. Then, she’d dashed through the traffic, giving him pause and causing him to think that she was headed in his direction. His heart had practically fallen out of his chest when she’d stumbled into the path of a moving carriage. And before he knew it, he was hauling her to her feet, looking her over for injury.

  With a knock at the side of the carriage, the horse pulled forward, easing into the busy street with well-practiced precision. Soon, they were clipping at a pace in stride with the rest of the carriages and carts. The inside of the cab smelled musty, with a faint trace of tobacco smoke, and while the odor didn’t bother him, the woman across from him wrinkled her nose. He opened the window a smidgen to allow fresh air in.

  Twisting around on the worn leather seat, she looked out the window, wiping the tears away from her swollen eyes. Even while she cried, she was pretty.

  “Allow me to introduce myself.” He took off his hat and tipped it toward her. “Nicholas Riley, though everyone calls me Nick.”

  “Miss Som—” When her voice caught on another sob, he handed her a handkerchief from his vest pocket. Her fingers brushed against his. It took everything he had in him not to hold on and pull her over to the bench he sat on.

  “Thank you.” She blew her nose. “Miss Grant. Amelia Grant.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure, though I would have preferred introductions under better circumstances. I will have my physician assess your injury when we are back at my townhouse.”

  “You’re far too kind and need not go to the trouble.” When she looked at him, he could tell she was out of her element, lost. A look he was familiar with. “I have an appointment I cannot be late for. You may drop me off wherever is convenient for you so I can be on my way.”

  Tenacious. He did love that quality in a woman.

  But he would not give her what she wanted. When he’d inspected her in the park, he had also noticed how delicate she was. She was half a foot shorter than he was, which made her taller than average for a woman. But her frame was slight, beneath the ill-fitting plain dress she wore.

  “Your accent is not typical of a Londoner,” he said, knowing full well he was ignoring her request.

  Wisps of her hair that had escaped the tight chignon at the base of her hat revealed the color as a sun-kissed brown. A becoming color next to her fair skin tone, though the bruise on her cheek stood out in stark contrast.

  “I lived in northern England most of my life.” She tucked the stray tendril of hair behind her ear.

  “How did a country girl end up in London instead of married with a brood of her own?”

  Miss Grant didn’t seem taken aback by his blunt question and kept her stormy blue eyes steady on him, though he did notice her curling and twisting the handkerchief between her fingers. Did he make her nervous?

  “You are rather direct, Mr. Riley.”

  “A forward approach tends to garner truer words,” he said honestly.

  “When my father died, there wasn’t much left of his estate. There are few marriages open to a woman of gentle breeding when there are no coffers to cushion the failing estates across England. And there are even fewer jobs available for a young woman. I came here to teach.” She screwed up her nose. “Which seemed logical at the time, considering my education.”

  Made sense to him. “How long have you been in London?”

  “Nearly a month.”

  When they hit a rut in the road, Miss Grant let out a sound filled with pain as the motion jarred her bad foot. Nick wanted to haul her into his arms and comfort her. That would only frighten her, he realized, so he settled for the next best thing, because, dammit, he wanted to touch her.

  “Here,” Nick said, hiking up her skirts before she realized his intention.

  Panicked, she tried to push his hands away, which only confirmed the source of the bruise darkening by the minute on her cheek. He ground his teeth together. The bastard who had done that would pay dearly.

  He gentled his voice, not wanting to frighten her any further. “You need to elevate your foot. To alleviate the swelling.”

  Pressing himself against the far right of the carriage, he motioned to the vacated side of his seat, hoping she’d humor him in raising her foot herself; otherwise, he’d have to insist.

  “The carriage is enough to satisfy any momentary pain I’m feeling.” The defiance in her voice only added to the strong vibrancy of her character. He wasn’t a man who often gave in to emotion—it revealed weaknesses to those around him—but he wanted to smile at her stubbornness.

  He liked Miss Grant. Perhaps more than he should have, considering how little he knew about her.

  This time when he lowered his hands, he didn’t try to lift the soiled hem of her skirts out of the way. He grasped her booted foot, raised it carefully, and perched it on the bench next to his thigh. The motion forced her to focus on balancing herself instead of pushing him away.

  “We should arrive at my house shortly.”

  “I was telling the truth about my appointment.”

  “And what could be more important than seeing to your well-being? I can send a note along if you tell me where you were headed.”

  She pinched her lips together, contemplating her answer. “To an employment agency.”

  “Your teaching job did not work out?” He searched her eyes, knowing full well that the bruise could only have come from her last job.

  She looked away from him, confirming his suspicions. His hands curled into fists so tight that his knuckles cracked on one hand. When Miss Grant flinched, he forced himself to relax.

  Finally, they pulled up to the front of his townhouse. Opening the door, he stepped out of the
carriage and tossed the fare up to the driver. Reaching inside, he gathered Miss Grant in his arms. He told himself it was because she shouldn’t walk, but he knew damn well it was because he needed to feel her in his arms again.

  As he approached the stairs, his man of all affairs, Huxley, opened the front door. If he was astonished to see a woman in Nick’s arms, Huxley didn’t give it away with any sort of facial expression; it was as if it were business as usual.

  Many might guess Huxley to be in his midthirties, judging from the lack of wrinkles on his clean-shaven, pock-marked face, but Nick knew the man was close to fifty. Huxley was discreet and never gave an opinion when outside of Nick’s company. Though he doubled as Nick’s valet, they had a much darker, intertwined past, one that had first overlapped some fifteen years ago. Huxley’s loyalty was unwavering, and Nick trusted him implicitly.

  “Huxley,” he said as the door closed behind him. “This is Miss Amelia Grant. Conveniently, I found her on my way home, and she is in need of employment. She will be our new secretary. Would you call my physician to the house? By appearances, she has sprained her ankle but the doctor will need to confirm.”

  Some might question Nick’s sanity for taking a woman on for such a task, but his mind was made on the matter. Nick held tighter to his prize when Amelia wiggled to be put down. Walking past Huxley, who left to do Nick’s bidding with no more than a grunt, Nick headed toward the parlor.

  He approached the oversized yellow-and-pink floral-patterned sofa; he was reluctant to release her, but he ceded to better judgment and set her down as carefully as possible. She pressed her back to the farthest cushion from him and stared at him with furrowed brows.

  “I cannot be your secretary, Mr. Riley.”

  “Oh, but you will be. It’s a generous offer, and I have no ulterior motives.” Which was a lie, but the one thing he wouldn’t do was hurt her. He motioned toward her cheek. “You will not find that kind of treatment in this household.”

  She touched it fleetingly before tucking her hand away and sitting up straighter to face him, though she fiddled with a crease at the front of her dress.