Kissed at Midnight

by Holt, Samantha

  However, his anxiousness couldn’t be put down to a need for tobacco. So what was he doing? He’d returned from visiting the tunnel site expecting her to be home. Like a damned fool he looked forward to seeing her or perhaps even catching her sing. He’d become far too comfortable having her around.

  And at the same time she still caused far too much discomfort. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this frustrated. August hadn’t touched her again, but the temptation was there, calling to him. Every purse of her lips, every movement of her body begged him to draw her into his arms and strip her bare. Regardless, he’d avoided temptation thus far and enjoyed their meals together.

  “Bloody fool,” he murmured to himself.

  She’d be gone as soon as she found something better. Perhaps spending time with his ward was no bad thing but growing fond of the governess was an idiotic move.

  Where was she and why the hell was he still staring out of the window, watching for her? He had many other things he could be doing. A stack of paperwork awaited him in the study and he needed to write a progress report after his visit.

  His heart hitched into his throat when he spotted the coach of a special messenger coming down the street at far too quick a speed. Had something happened? Was she hurt? Was Elsie harmed? He clamped his hands at his side. He was behaving like a flapping woman.

  August’s mouth grew dry as the carriage drew to a halt. It could be for one of the neighbours. But no, the man on top climbed down and headed up the steps to his house. The knocker rattled and August’s heart followed suit. With several swift steps, he was at the door, waving away Jamieson who must have been close by.

  “Yes?” he barked.

  “Telegram for you, sir.”

  He resisted the desire to roll his eyes as he snatched the missive. “Where’s it from?”

  “Don’t know, sir. I wasn’t in the office at the time.”

  “Right, thanks.” He drew out the money clip from his jacket and handed over a pound note—far too much money really but he had no patience for rooting around for coins. He shut the door before the man could offer his thanks.

  Tearing open the missive, he glanced at Jamieson. The old man must have realised something was up as he was hanging around the hallway like a bad smell. Throat tight, he scanned the scrawled words. For a brief moment, relief came over him when he recognised the name of his foreman. That was until...

  “Fucking bloody hell.”

  “Sir?”

  August thrust a hand through his hair and let it rest on the back of his neck before reading the telegram once more. It was short and to the point. A cave-in at the tunnel. Five men dead. Two injured.

  Fury rushed through him and more inappropriate words begged to spill from his tongue. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut and screwed up the missive before stuffing it into his pocket.

  “Jamieson, I’m going out. I do not know when I’ll be back,” he declared.

  “Sir...”

  “Fetch me my coat and hat.” He drew in a breath while the butler rotated slowly and shook his head. “Never mind, I’ll get it.”

  Retrieving his hat and stuffing his arms into his light coat, he strode out into the street, barely acknowledging the greeting of one of his neighbours. He kept his head down when he spotted Mrs Pepperwhite in her window. He cringed, aware of her door opening behind him. He didn’t need to glance back to know she’d likely hastened out down the steps and intended to try to talk with him, but if he kept his pace brisk enough, she’d never catch up. The damned woman was becoming a real nuisance.

  The boxing saloon was only a fifteen minute walk away. He did it in ten. Since Ivy’s arrival—in fact since Elsie’s—he hadn’t been to Smythe’s. He used to frequent it on a weekly basis and he was fairly certain his waistline was growing wider from lack of exercise. He’d have to rectify that.

  August stepped under the white archs that adorned the red brick building and drew in the scent of sawdust and the stuffy smell of sweat and blood. Not appealing to some but, for him, it brought about a sense of relief and familiarity. Nothing about his life had been familiar recently.

  Not even the tang of ale and spirits coming from the bar to the right of the entrance hall doused the odour that seemed to seep through the wood-clad walls of the building and, whilst having a stiff drink was sorely tempting, his hunger for a better way of releasing his frustration drew him past the reception and to the boxing hall.

  Five men. Damn it. There was nothing he could do. He’d go up in a few days to check how far behind it would put them, but other than that he was powerless. They’d already lost men to a cholera outbreak in the tunnel and a few to minor accidents. Being a navvie was one of the most dangerous jobs about—everyone knew that—but it didn’t mean it didn’t eat inside of him every time someone died in the name of his vision.

  He changed and wrapped his hands in linen strips, leaving his torso bare. Few men were in the halls at this time of day but Holbert was guaranteed to be here and spoiling for a fight. The man never backed down from one and could take hit after hit.

  August warmed up on one of the bags, relishing the beat of leather against his knuckles. By the time his body was growing slick with sweat, Holbert approached.

  “Heard you were looking to spar.”

  August paused, swiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded. Together they stepped into the ring, cordoned off from the rest of the room by a few ropes. He eyed his opponent with a grim smile and got into position. Then he took the first swing.

  ***

  So much of him ached. His lips, his eye, his body. He relished it though. It gave him something else to think about. August staggered up the steps only for the front door to swing open before he could reach it. The glow of lamps spilled onto the darkened steps and silhouetted in the door was the most beautiful sight.

  Damn her, did she have to be so enchanting?

  “Where have you been?”

  He stopped at the top step, waiting for her reaction. Last he’d seen, his eye was swollen and his mouth bloodied. He never usually allowed himself to get into such a state but tonight he hadn’t cared.

  Ivy’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “August!”

  “Looks worse than it is.”

  He slipped past her, aware he slurred his words as though he were drunk. He almost wished he was because then maybe she wouldn’t be staring at him with such horror, or perhaps he would not be aware of it anyway.

  “What happened?” She gripped his arm. “August?”

  Pressing shut the door, he sighed and turned to face her. Concern creased her brow. “Did Jamieson not say?”

  “He didn’t know where you’d gone.”

  He searched his memories of when he’d received the news but they were clouded with a mist of anger and he couldn’t remember what he’d said. Perhaps he’d not said anything to the butler but surely Jamieson recalled his master enjoyed a good session at the boxing club? He supposed it had been so long since he’d been, Jamieson might not have realised and the old stick didn’t have the best memory.

  “I went to Smythe’s.”

  She looked at him blankly and lifted a hand to his face. He flinched away from the touch. He did not need any soft sentiments right now. The knowledge of five lives lost burning into his brain was hard enough to deal with as it was. For the moment, he wanted to cling to the throb of his bruises and hope the pain prevented him from thinking of anything else. The delicate touch of her fingers could well crack through the haze and he couldn’t have that.

  “Smthye’s is the boxing saloon near the library.”

  “You did this voluntarily?”

  He lifted a shoulder and winced. “I enjoy boxing.”

  “Oh, August...” The words held a tone of sympathy that he did not want or need. She wrapped a hand around his arm and led him through the back of the house. For some reason, he followed. Maybe because his body hurt too much to protest or perhaps it was because he was just
weak when around her.

  Ivy guided him onto a rickety chair in front the kitchen table. He sat wearily. Suddenly the pounding he’d taken drained him. The pain no longer distracted him from the thought of five men crushed to death building his tunnel. It weighed heavily once more, pressing down on this chest and making the bruises on his body throb. He grimaced and tried to ease the ache of his ribs by resting an arm on the table but it didn’t work, and she caught the movement.

  “You’re hurt all over, are you not?”

  He was tired. So tired. Tired of fighting his need for her, tired of the constant strain of work and being unable to unload it. And here she was, this extraordinary vibrant woman who had not only run away from home, travelled across the country and survived God knew what hardships, she had come into his house and taken care of his ward with nary a complaint. And she had taken care of him. Drawn him out of his stresses and strains and made him more... human?

  He’d snort at himself if he didn’t think it would hurt so much. But before Ivy he’d done nothing but work. Now he was having bloody breakfast with her and enjoying civil conversation. There were a few men of his acquaintance who would be truly astonished. Most thought him far too taciturn for their liking with the exception of the navvies. But they were far easier to talk to than the men of high society.

  Ivy began rooting around in one of the dressers. August dreaded to think how Mrs Cartwright would react when she found it all in disarray. She let out a little sound of triumph and placed several pots on the table. He lifted a brow as she fished out yet more small white pots and a bottle of some vile brown liquid.

  “I’m not dying,” he grumbled.

  If she was planning to slather him in every salve known to man and force some God-awful potion down his throat, he’d drag himself out of the room on his hands and knees if he had to.

  Which was about all his injuries would allow now he’d sat down.

  His body seemed to be seizing up and now he was stuck on the damned uncomfortable chair until she was done with him.

  She turned, bestowing that radiant smile on him that reached down inside him and drew up yet more uncomfortable feelings. Was it not enough he was already in agony outside? Did she also have to pry open the ache in his chest further?

  Hands to her hips, she eyed him with a certain look of determination in her gaze that made him want to shrink back.

  Damn. Intimidated by a woman. What the hell was wrong with him?

  Everything. Everything was wrong with him. And no lotion or potion could cure him of the painful throb that was coursing through him as he eyed the way her chemise caressed her waist or how her breasts pressed against the white fabric. Wanting her was what was wrong with him.

  But then she stepped close and his gaze was lined up beautifully with the top of her breasts. The chemise gave little away but it was enough. Enough to flame his fantasies and remind him exactly why he wanted to break every rule and take the woman who was subservient to him. No matter how wrong that desire was.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A certain darkness had crept into his gaze as it skimmed down her body and back up to her face. Ivy gulped. She pressed a hand to his chin and lifted his head this way and that to eye his injuries. Why had he allowed himself to get in such a state? Surely boxing clubs had certain rules? Whatever the reason, the troubled haze to his eyes sent swirling dread into her stomach.

  She kept smiling, however. After all, she was a performer. Smiling would do no harm and there was no sense in adding to his worries with her own. She wouldn’t confess how worried she’d been for him when he hadn’t returned or how her heart nearly broke in two when she saw him bloodied and beaten on the doorstep.

  It had to be to do with the letter he’d received. Jamieson had said a telegram arrived before he stormed out. What could it have possibly said that would have made him want to get into such a state?

  Letting go of his roughened jaw, she retrieved a damp cloth and dabbed away the blood from his lip and around his eye. Ivy fought the desire to press kisses to the cuts. He wouldn’t appreciate it. August had not tried to kiss her again since that night. Yes, he’d been pleasant indeed to live with and she enjoyed every mealtime with him, every little conversation, but the freedom to be able to touch him as she wished burned so hot in her chest, like a tiny spark just waiting to flare through her.

  And if she let herself she feared it really would consume her and turn into something deeper than mere desire.

  Like love?

  Oh dear, how could she fall for her master? No, that wouldn’t do. She had too many plans to be waylaid with an emotion like that, particularly to a man who might be searching for a wife before long. A husband and a child were certainly not in her future, even if August did want her.

  Which he did not.

  Smile in place, she finished cleaning away the grime and blood from his face and drew over a tub of salve. She slathered generous amounts on his cuts and bruises and he let her, surprising her with his malleability. However, the turbulent mien to his expression remained. His jaw tensed with every touch and when she glanced down, she saw his fingers digging into the table.

  Heat pricked her skin when she realised she’d seen to all the visible injuries. Ivy attempted to force down the lump in her throat and keep a quivering smile on her face.

  “Let us get that shirt off.”

  Two dark eyebrows rose but he made no protest when she began unbuttoning his waistcoat. She’d never undressed a man before. The little buttons seemed no bigger than ants to her fumbling hands. If he saw how nervous she was, he made no mention.

  August’s breaths brushed her hair as she bent to undo the bottom few buttons. Every part of her blazed with awareness. The spark inside her began to heat. No matter how she tried to distract herself with thoughts of the mundane, she feared it was burning brighter, lying in wait to singe its way through her body.

  His every wince and grimace tugged at her heart as she drew off his waistcoat. How she longed to press him to her breasts and tell him everything would be well. She hardly knew what was wrong with him, but it mattered little. She saw how much he took upon those great shoulders of his.

  And why would he not? He was an important man, in charge of a great undertaking and watched by all as he did it. But she only wished he would let himself loose of that burden just occasionally. Wished he would give up control for a few moments. He had once, perhaps, when he kissed her, and she heartily wished he would again, but that seemed unlikely.

  Drawing in a breath, she allowed her singing teacher’s instructions on how to breathe correctly echo through her mind. Breathing, it seemed, was becoming extremely difficult around August. Even in his bruised state. His handsome face was swollen and red and bristle covered his jaw. Was his crooked nose a product of the sport? How lucky he was to look completely charming with it.

  It might have been only seconds, but it felt like she’d been drawing up the courage to remove his shirt for hours, and his eyes had never strayed from her. Even when she didn’t look directly at him, she saw him skim over her again and again with his gaze. Her breaths thickened.

  One button. She drew in a breath. Two buttons. She released a long one. Oh Lord, he wore nothing beneath and it did not matter that she’d already seen his chest. She’d never been so close before or known that she would soon be touching it.

  Ivy finished unfastening the buttons and paused when she felt a tug on her skirt. He had the fabric clutched tight in his free hand, his knuckles white. It seemed doubtful he’d done it intentionally. Did he feel as full of tension and need as she? Did that explain the sheen on his forehead or was it simply pain causing that?

  Pushing the shirt from his shoulders, she gritted her teeth at the sight of bunched muscles marred with several bruises. One on his upper arm and a scattering across his abdomen. Her fingers flexed as she imagined spreading her palms across his chest and through the scattering of dark hair. Maybe she would even nuzzle against it.
/>   “Ivy?”

  Heat flooded her face. She’d been caught admiring when she should be nursing. Avoiding his gaze, she scooped up some of the cool salve and smeared it over the bruise on his arm. In spite of the kitchen not being particularly warm, his skin was. The little lines of muscle intrigued her and she couldn’t help trace them as she smoothed in the lotion.

  “Do you box often?” Her voice came out thin and weak like a cheap broth.

  He nodded.

  That would explain his build. She’d always puzzled over how a man who spent most of his life in the study was so strong and—she glanced down the rippled lines of his abdomen—firm.

  “At least until Elsie arrived.”

  His voice sounded gritty. Not weak like hers, but certainly strained. Everything about him from the bunching of his muscles to his continued grip on her skirts screamed of his need to break free of restraint.

  And she could not help believe he was holding back for the same reason she was. He wanted to kiss her, maybe even touch her. She felt it in her bones, in her blood. As elemental as the air in her lungs. Ivy feared if he did not break and give her that kiss, her body might waste away, starved of his touch.

  Licking her lips, she steeled herself for what was to come next. “Lift your arm.”

  She used the cloth to clean away some more of the grime and sweat from his body. “You are filthy,” she murmured in a bid to distract herself from the way his stomach muscles tensed as she slid the cloth down them.

  “Boxing rings are filthy places.”

  Suddenly the distance between them seemed so very great. He built railways and knew more than she ever would. He frequented places she would never step foot in. She might have some noble blood running through her but he was far superior to her in every way.