He allowed her to remove the paper collar and unbutton the top button of his shirt. Against the backs of her fingers, the skin of his throat was hot and smoothly shaved. He swallowed, and she felt the movement against her skin. After cleaning a bit of the dried blood, she reached for his second button gingerly, fearing that once she began undressing him, she wouldn’t wish to stop.
“Leave it,” he said, as he clasped her hand and stroked his thumb in dizzying circles against her palm. “I’ll wash when I get home.”
“Home, where you live with your sister, whose name you still won’t tell me.”
He released her hand and started up from the stool.
Clary flattened a palm against his shoulder. “I’m not done yet.”
Settling back, he trained his gaze on her, watching her every move. With a clean damp rag, she removed the last bits of blood near his ear, then above his temple. She lifted the fall of hair over his brow to ensure there were no injuries on his forehead and found herself stroking the strands back, running her fingers through the thick waves.
Dropping her hand lower, she pressed two fingers under his jaw and tipped his head up. Bending close to swipe at a spot below his chin, she felt his breath coming in quick, hot gusts against her face. Her own breath quickened. When she finally looked into his eyes, the heat in his gaze warmed her from her chest to her toes.
“Won’t you tell me what happened?” she whispered, their mouths inches apart.
“No,” he whispered back.
“Because you refuse to confess anything about yourself.” When she began to pull away, he took her waist between his hands to hold her near.
“I won’t let my past touch you.” He lifted his hands from her body. “I shouldn’t touch you.”
Clary pressed one hand to his shoulder, the other to his cheek. “What if I want you to?”
He shuttered his gaze. “What would your brother say, Miss Ruthven?”
“Don’t call me that.” She gripped the fabric of his coat in her fist and pressed between his spread thighs until her chest was flush with his. “Here, tonight, I’m Clary to you. Just a woman. Like any other.”
He let out a ragged chuckle. “You’re not like any other.”
No, Clary knew she never would be. Not beautiful like Sophia, or an organized mathematics goddess like Helen, or domestically inclined, as her mother had been. But she did know what mattered to her, and when she cared about a cause or a person, she did so fiercely. With her whole heart.
She cared about Gabriel Adamson.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and rose from the stool, nearly lifting her off her boots. “I need to go.” Rather than keep her close, he released her, setting her away from him and starting for the door. “Thank you for tending to my wounds.” Glancing up, he pinned her with a look that singed her straight through. A gaze filled with yearning. “Good night, Clary.”
Frustration bubbled up, a trapped shout to call him back. All that yearning she’d seen in his gaze? She felt the same. Yet he possessed what she lacked. Skill at hiding himself away, pretending to feel nothing.
“Good night,” she told him, looking into his eyes. Trying desperately for the cool facade he’d mastered. “Sleep well, Mr. Adamson.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek, and fire sparked in his winter-blue eyes. He wrenched the door open, and Clary turned so she wouldn’t have to watch him walk away. The door slammed shut behind her.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.
His boot heels sounded at her back, and she whirled to face him. Gabe pulled her into his arms, bent his head, and took her lips. A hard, hungry kiss that had her clutching at his shoulders, curling her fingers around his nape to draw up onto her toes. Then he gentled, drawing his mouth over hers slowly, nipping gently at her lower lip before dipping his head to kiss her neck. “I want to hear you say my name,” he whispered against her skin.
“Gabriel,” she moaned when he swept his tongue across her skin.
With a flick of his thumb, he undid the first button of her shirtwaist, kissing every swath of skin he exposed. Clary immediately reached up to help him, unfastening the next two buttons.
If she had her way, she’d remove every stitch of clothing between them. All the secrets too. Anything that kept her from getting close to him.
When he kissed the swell of breast, just above her corset, her body caught fire. Heat rushed down her chest, her belly, pooling at the apex of her thighs. He pushed her chemise aside and ran his teeth along the edge of her corset, and her knees buckled. She gripped the warm, muscled swell of his shoulder to stay on her feet.
He traced the line of her corset seam with his finger, right above the spot where she was hard and taut and aching.
“Please,” Clary whispered against his hair. She pulled her chemise lower, tugging at the edge of her corset. “I want you to touch me.”
She lowered her hands to push the front of her corset together and free a few of the hooks, but he stopped her.
“If we don’t stop now,” he rasped, “we won’t stop at all.”
“Then let’s carry on.” Clary pressed her lips to his, drew a finger lightly along his stubbled jaw as she kissed him.
He broke their kiss and cradled her face in his hands. “Say it one more time.”
“Gabriel.”
He rewarded her with another kiss, and when he lifted his head, Clary was breathless. But she still wanted more.
“All this just to hear me say your name?”
He smiled, a genuine, face-creasing, devastating smile. “Because I couldn’t resist you anymore.”
Clary gave a muffled laugh. “No one’s ever found me irresistible.”
“Then they’re idiots.” He stroked a finger down her cheek, and she bent toward his touch. “As difficult as walking away from you will be, I must go. Sara will be worried.”
“Sara? Your sister.”
He nodded, sliding a hand down her neck, “I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“Me too.” Wrapping her fingers around the warm wool of his coat lapels, she teased, “Perhaps now you’ll stop resisting me.”
“I must.” His demeanor changed, all the heat and desire cooling bit by bit, until his face fell into an expression of pure misery. He drew back, dropping his hand. “I wish circumstances were different, but nothing’s changed.”
“Everything’s changed.”
“When we enter Ruthven’s tomorrow, you’ll still be an owner, and I’ll still be an employee. Your brother looks to me to mentor you, and he’d merrily murder me if he knew I’d laid a finger on you.”
Clary threw up her hands and spun away from him, pacing the narrow stretch of bare wood floor in front of Helen’s desk. “Why are you more concerned with my brother’s opinion than I am?”
“Because Ruthven’s pays my wages,” he barked. “And he’s right to wish to protect you,” he added more gently. “If you had any sense of your own safety, you wouldn’t spend your time in this part of London.” He ducked his head, as if he couldn’t quite face her to say the rest. “And if you had any discernment, you wouldn’t want a man like me to touch you.”
Clary’s throat burned. Her chest, which had been so full and warm and fizzing with bliss, went hollow. “You kiss me, and now you’re trying to make me despise you?”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe.”
He stared at her a moment, keeping all his thoughts and emotions hidden behind the icy surface of his gaze. Then he left her alone.
Don’t cry. She swiped at a tear. Don’t you dare cry.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Nothing puts an ocean of distance between two people like a secret.”
—JOURNAL OF CLARY RUTHVEN
On Tuesday after the incident at Fisk Academy, Clary stood on the pavement outside Ruthven’s awhile before going inside. The gas lamps suspended above clerks in the workroom blazed through the glass.
She’d come late today, her eagerness to get inside vying with uncerta
inty about facing Gabriel.
As she stepped inside, she smiled at the buzzing activity of the place. Book stock had been delivered from the bindery and would soon be sorted for distribution to various shops around the city. The scents of Ruthven’s were familiar now—paper, binding glue, ink, and the peppermint sweets Daughtry kept in a bowl atop his desk.
“The wife insisted I bring them in to share,” he’d always say before popping another in his mouth.
Winding its way through them all, Gabriel’s scent set off an unbidden fluttering in her chest. Movement beyond the frosted glass of his office door caught her eye. He was here, and eventually she’d have to face him.
The kiss changed nothing, he’d said. But it had changed her. Now she was more determined than ever to discover the man behind his controlled facade. Whoever he truly was, he was a man she wished to know better.
One of the young clerks greeted her as she stepped toward her desk. “Good morning, Miss Ruthven.”
After smiling at the boy and greeting Daughtry, she scooped up a folder she’d prepared, pressed a hand to her cartwheeling stomach, and strode toward Gabriel’s office. She rapped twice and let herself in without giving him a chance to reply.
“Kit?”
“Clary. Good morning.” Her brother sat behind Gabriel’s desk, consternation crimping his features. “Where the hell is everything? Have you ever seen a desk this tidy in your life?”
Ruthvens weren’t known for their tidiness, except perhaps Sophia.
“He’s extremely organized. What are you looking for?” And why was he behind Gabriel’s desk?
“The report he provided last week.”
Clary pointed to a short wooden cabinet in the corner where Gabriel maintained documents and correspondence by topic, organized alphabetically. He’d shown her the filing system only briefly, giving the impression he did not trust anyone to rifle through its contents.
Kit opened the top drawer and began thumbing through the papers inside. A moment later, he’d retrieved the report and squared the sheet before him on the desk.
“Where is he?”
“Adamson? He’ll be in later,” Kit mumbled, his gaze fixed on the document on the blotter.
“Did he provide a reason?” A kiss he regretted, perhaps. A desire to avoid his mentee.
“Read the message if you like.” He retrieved a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and slid the note toward her.
The contents were as straightforward and devoid of detail as Kit’s explanation. Though Gabriel did at least mention a reason. Absence necessitated by a family matter.
“Odd, isn’t it?” Kit mused. “The man’s never requested a single hour away since Father died.”
Clary stared out the office’s single window and fought the heat flooding her cheeks.
“How’s the mentorship proceeding?” Kit chose precisely the wrong time to fold his hands on the desk and give her his full attention. “Is he teaching you everything you ever wished to know about Ruthven’s?”
Almost. And not nearly enough about himself.
“Do you know why Papa hired him, or when?”
“Business didn’t interest me back then.” Kit smiled and glanced down at Gabriel’s report. “To be honest, there are days when the details bore me now. We’re lucky to have Adamson at the helm.”
His words sparked an image in Clary’s mind. Gabriel at the helm, not of Ruthven’s but a ship. His black hair long, wild, and flowing around his shoulders. With his knack for management and physical strength, he’d make a fearsome pirate.
When the image faded, she found Kit scrutinizing her with a single dark brow winged high.
“You weren’t fond of him at first,” she said, recalling how the men had initially clashed.
“I didn’t know what to expect when I stepped into Ruthven’s after Father’s death. The West End theater world may be only a few miles away, but while I was living that life, it felt like a different world. Nothing could have persuaded me to set foot inside this place. When I met Adamson, I thought he was . . . ” Kit looked bemused, as if doubting whether he should continue.
“You found him what?”
“Insufferable. Arrogant, proud, and far too bloody young.” He chuckled and settled back in Gabriel’s chair. “Perhaps I envied an upstart managing Father’s enterprise so well when I hadn’t managed to stage a decent play in four years.”
“He must have been young when Papa hired him? Eighteen?”
“Younger than when I first pursued employment.”
“What convinced Papa to give him the opportunity?” Clary hadn’t known her father to be a particularly generous man, but she also had no real notion of how he’d run Ruthven’s. Business was a topic he’d never discussed with her.
Kit shrugged. “I suppose the old man saw potential in him. As I told Adamson recently, his hire may be the only decision Father ever made that I have reason to commend.”
Clary offered him a tight grin. After spending time with the girls at Fisk Academy, she knew that Leopold Ruthven, however controlling and cold and miserly, had been a good father compared to the horrors some of the girls experienced at their caretakers’ hands.
“What’s that?” Kit indicated the folder she pressed to her chest.
“Notes regarding my magazine project. I’d hoped to discuss them with”—Clary caught herself before calling Gabriel by his given name—“Mr. Adamson.”
“Let me have a look.”
She was happy to pass him the documents, including a few of the images she’d considered for the cover. At least he was showing more interest than he had when she’d first broached the concept at the company board meeting.
“You’ve put a good deal of thought into this.”
“Helen and I both have. We’re determined to move forward, even if we can’t use Ruthven’s presses. We’re going to take some of the funds we raised at the charity ball and pay two upcoming graduates of Fisk to work on an initial issue. They’ll produce articles. I’ll work on art and illustrations.”
“So you’ve been going to Whitechapel?”
“I teach the girls art and science.” Clary sat in a chair near Gabriel’s desk and leaned forward as far as her corset would allow. “After hearing about our plans, that’s your only question?”
“Does Adamson know you continue to venture to the East End?”
Clary bit her tongue. Gabriel wasn’t her keeper, and she wasn’t at all certain he’d want his own visits to the area divulged. She definitely didn’t wish Kit to hear a word about the matter with Keene. He’d lock her in the guest room in Bloomsbury Square and never let her see sunlight again.
“Why don’t you come to visit the school? See the good we’re doing. Bring Phee along.”
“I won’t expose Phee to danger.”
She wouldn’t win the debate. They could continue like this all afternoon, and Clary suspected she’d get no further in convincing her brother that working at a school in the East End was a worthy cause. Keene’s attack had left Sally shaken but, thankfully, unharmed. Now that he’d been arrested, the tension that had been hanging over Helen and the students had begun to ease.
“I’m sorry, Clary. I know you care about your causes.” He stood, his frown softening into the shadow of a brotherly grin as he looked at her. “I can’t stay. Sophia and I are meeting with one of the writers we hope will join the literary journal as a regular contributor.” He lifted the copy of Gabriel’s report. “I just wanted another look at these numbers.”
There was still something amiss between them. Not in tone or expression but an unsettledness she could feel like static in the air before a storm.
“I trust you’ll bring the plans for your magazine to the board meeting in a few days. If your project will keep you here at Ruthven’s more often, and I could make the decision myself, I’d send you up to use the lithographic press right now.” He dipped his head and swallowed hard. “Commanding you not to go back to Whitechapel holds en
ormous appeal, but you’d find a way, wouldn’t you?”
Clary gave a firm nod.
Kit pursed his lips and narrowed his gaze at her. “We Ruthvens can’t keep a desk clean to save our lives, but we’re stubborn as hell, aren’t we?”
Stubborn, tenacious—words of praise or reproof, depending on how they were wielded. Kit was enough of a wordsmith to know it was a compliment with a cut, and Clary bristled at the characterization.
She didn’t go to Fisk Academy because she was stubborn. She went because it was a place she was needed, a place where she could do good. And the sense of belonging was a thousand times what she felt anywhere else. Except perhaps here, at Ruthven’s. At least when Gabriel was sitting in the chair across from her.
“I only want you to be safe, Clary.” He approached and pecked a kiss on her cheek. “Can’t blame me for that. You are my baby sister.”
“And now a grown woman.”
“Indeed,” he said as he straightened his necktie and started toward the door. “I suppose you’re in charge until Adamson returns.”
“Do you ever plan on speaking to me again?” Sara placed a hand on Gabe’s sleeve as they approached their lodgings.
“I’m speaking to you now.” He reached out to steady her when she stumbled, not noticing a stone on the pavement. “Have a care.” Never one to be fussed over, she brushed away his hand, but Gabe reached for her again, hooking her arm in his. He noticed how pale she was. Now that he knew she was with child, he couldn’t help but be protective.
After days of sickness, he’d insisted on accompanying her to a doctor. She’d been shocked by the diagnosis. And from that day, she’d refused to believe that he did not judge her or think any less of Thomas Tidwell. All he truly felt was the pressure of gifting the man her dowry and seeing them married as soon as a wedding could be arranged. But first, Sara needed to inform her beau of how their future had changed.
“You’re ashamed of me. I know you are.”
“I’m not.” Gabe led his sister in through the front door and upstairs to their rooms. He didn’t wish to have a discussion where their landlady might overhear.
“What will Thomas say?” She wrung her hands and started pacing the length of their narrow sitting room.
How to Woo a Wallflower Page 15