Bec McMaster - [London Steampunk 02]

by Heart of Iron

  Will drew her up against him. “Well?”

  “There are…ways.” Her hands rested against his abdomen, trying to restrain him. “Let me go, Will. This is unseemly.”

  “What kind o’ ‘ways’?”

  Lena glared at him. “I submit. All he wants is blood. It costs me nothing. He can’t afford to take too much and have me die. I’m not…not just some poor, unprotected coal lass.”

  The words pierced him like a knife. White-hot fury seared his brain, the world narrowing in around him until all he saw was Lena’s frightened face. “Like hell you will.”

  Lena flinched as his hands tightened unconsciously. “Stop it, Will. Let me go!”

  A gasp from the doorway caught his attention. Mrs. Wade stood there, her black skirts enveloping her like the sail from a ship. “I leave you alone for five minutes and this is what happens! Sir, you will remove your hands at once.”

  He hadn’t even heard her coming.

  Whatever expression was on his face, Lena whispered, “Don’t you dare.”

  Her expression turned mulish, completely unafraid of him. It was that that earned Mrs. Wade a reprieve. Few people ever saw a man when they looked at him. Only a monster. He couldn’t sully his image in Lena’s eyes. Couldn’t act like the beast the world thought him.

  Eyes shuttering, he opened his hands and she stepped back with a sharp little intake of breath, rubbing at her arms.

  Will caught her skirt, leaned close. He wasn’t finished by half. “If he makes so much as a single move in your direction I’ll kill him, Lena. I’ll bury ’im so deep, won’t nobody ever find ’im. So either you find a way to stop him. Or I will.”

  Ten

  Five days later, Lena popped a cherry in her mouth and nibbled on it, watching as Will paced the room. He’d spent the morning being fitted for a new wardrobe with Leo. Though she was in charge of introducing him to the Echelon, there were some events she wasn’t allowed to oversee.

  A pity, she thought, running her gaze across his broad shoulders.

  “Back straight,” she called, as she lounged on the daybed in Leo’s sitting room. “Do try and walk as if you’re out for a stroll, rather than stalking some footpad through the alleys.”

  She couldn’t deny his grace of movement was appealing, but there was something dangerous about the way he moved. Even when he was still, he looked ready to pounce.

  Will shot her a dark look. “I ain’t gonna mince around like one of them puff-shirted vultures. No matter how many times you make me do this.”

  Lena sat up. This was the fourth lesson they’d had and he was fighting her at every turn. The problem wasn’t that he couldn’t do this; the problem was that he didn’t give a damn about the rules of etiquette. “Once more,” she said, daring him to disobey.

  Will crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t see the point.”

  “You never do. The point is that I told you to do it. And you agreed to obey me. I know this world. You don’t. And right now, you look like some rookery bruiser prepared to smash someone’s head in.”

  Visibly grinding his teeth together, he turned and stalked back toward the window.

  Lena clapped a hand to her eyes, restraining herself from a sigh. This was going to be a long afternoon. “Tell me, how many sources of power are there in the Echelon?”

  “The Council o’ Dukes make all the decisions.”

  “And who sits on the Council?”

  “The seven heads o’ the great Houses and the prince consort.”

  “Who can overrule their vote?”

  “Technic’ly the queen, through Right of Regency,” he retorted, turning on his heel with a flourish that almost reminded her of Blade. “Though she speaks with the prince consort’s voice.”

  The words could have been her own. Despite his lack of education, Will could parrot things back at her verbatim.

  “How do you remember all of this?” So far he hadn’t missed a single question, though when she lectured him on the power plays of the Echelon she’d been certain he was paying her no mind.

  “Blade taught me. We don’t write things down in the warren. So we gotta remember it all. Who owes us some tin, how much, who’s paid, street addresses, names, who’s been beatin’ his moll up…” He shrugged. “Ain’t hard.”

  Will sauntered back toward her. He’d stripped his coat off, as he often did when he was indoors. A gray tweed waistcoat sculpted the broad planes of his chest and he’d rolled his sleeves up again. On the inside of his wrist was a tattoo of a pair of crossed daggers. Blade’s mark. A tattoo all of his Reaver’s gang wore.

  “You’ll have to stop doing that,” she noted. “Sleeves remain down.” And coat remains on. But she was enjoying the view enough not to mention it. Taking another cherry, she twirled the stem off it and slid it between her lips.

  His gaze lingered on her mouth. “What next? We’ve covered bowin’ and scrapin’, mincin’ about, who I need to be wary of, who holds the power, who doesn’t, what I oughta wear…”

  Lena bit through the plump, juicy flesh and swallowed. “Dancing.”

  “Not more dancin’.” He knelt on the edge of the daybed and reached for one of the cherries. “We’ve already done that.”

  With Mrs. Wade watching on like a disapproving mama. Now that they were alone… “Definitely more dancing.”

  Tugging out a pair of cherries, he leaned forward, dangling them over her lips. “You’re doin’ this to torture me.”

  Lena bit into one of them and tugged it free with her teeth. “Absolutely.”

  Lifting the other to his own mouth, he chewed in a considering manner. “Later,” he said. “All this prancin’ about’s borin’ me and I ain’t been to sleep yet.”

  “I’m so sorry my company’s wearying you.”

  Leaning back on his hand, he slid her feet up so he could sit properly. He did look tired, the scrape of his stubble shadowing his jaw and his eyes darker than usual. “It ain’t your company. Last night someone decided to torch a shop Blade’s offered his protection to. Had to find ’em. Some drunk fool who nearly shat himself when he saw us. So gin-soaked he hadn’t even seen the pair of crossed daggers carved into the door.”

  “Fine,” she said, sitting up. “Perhaps we’ll save the dancing for later.”

  “No more lecturin’ either.”

  Lena’s lips firmed. “No dancing. No instruction. Perhaps you’d find a demonstration better?”

  “Definitely.”

  With a little smile, she shifted to her knees. The door remained open and every so often Mrs. Wade popped her head in, but for the moment they were alone. And she felt like teaching him a lesson about finding her company wearying.

  “Tell me,” she murmured. “How does a woman demonstrate her availability as a potential thrall?”

  “Ain’t the foggiest.”

  Dragging her skirts behind her, Lena stood and crossed to the cherry bowl, adding an extra little swish to her stride. Picking up the gilded bowl, she settled beside him, her emerald skirts brushing his thighs. It was finer than what she usually wore for day dress, but he would never know that.

  Will tensed. She’d never before realized how much coiled power his muscular frame held, but it was almost vibrating off him.

  “She wears white, to begin with,” Lena said, tugging another cherry out of the bowl. “But only during the evening, for it’s considered passé during the day. Cherry?”

  He stared at her as she lifted it to his lips. For a moment she wasn’t sure he would take it from her, but then he reached out and bit into the sweet fruit, vibrant red juice coloring his lips.

  “Would you do this?” he asked thickly. “For a blue blood?”

  Lena glanced up from beneath her lashes. Then licked the spilled juice from her fingers. “They’d consider me fast. That’s a dangerous reputation
for a debutante.”

  His lashes lowered, shuttering those beautiful eyes. “So this is a game you’re playin’? With me?”

  “It’s all games,” she replied, giving a little shrug. Watching the color of his eyes change, she lifted another cherry toward his lips. “I’m not putting you to sleep, am I?”

  Will caught her wrist. “No.”

  Taking the cherry from her trapped hand, she bit into it. “Good.” Leaning closer, she gestured to her throat, trailing her fingers lightly across the skin there. “There are certain points on a woman’s body that she reveals if she’s shopping for a patron. Covering them means she’s not interested.

  “The throat, for example.” Arching her neck, she presented the smooth skin to him with languid grace. “No debutante wears a necklace or choker unless she’s in the process of signing a contract.”

  Will’s pupils flared, his gaze dropping over her throat and lower, to her collarbone and the upthrust of her breasts. The gown was daring, even for her. The type of thing she’d only wear for him.

  “Where else?” The words were soft, but they buffeted her skin, raised a shiver.

  His eyes were a dare.

  Leaning closer, she presented the interior of her wrist to him. The soft creamy skin, veins pulsing blue beneath it. “Here.” Their eyes met. “Do you remember how you greet a woman?”

  He took her hand by reflex, but she kept her wrist presented up, toward him. Will stilled, uncertainty tightening the hard planes of his face.

  “You press your lips to the back of her hand,” she whispered, lifting her wrist toward him. “For a woman to signify her interest, she presents her wrist instead.”

  His head lowered, his lips brushing against the delicate inner skin of her wrist. A cool caress. Barely a ghost of sensation. The prickle of his stubble rasped through her, her nipples pressing hard against the stiff black lace of her corset. Lena pressed her tongue against her teeth to stifle a gasp.

  “If a blue blood is interested, he lingers,” she murmured. “Perhaps a trace of his tongue.”

  Will lowered his head again, his eyes watching her. Lena’s lips parted as his mouth covered her wrist, suckling the soft flesh. The wet rasp of his tongue seemed to touch her deep inside and she pressed her thighs together, feeling it there, feeling the chafe of her drawers.

  “That,” she whispered, “is rather provocative for a blue blood.”

  Will’s mouth broke from her skin, his warm breath cooling the wetness. Lena’s heart thundered behind the constriction of her corset. What was he doing to her? How had he turned the tables so deftly? She couldn’t bear it.

  His hand was warm on hers, a blaze of welcoming heat. A considering look entered his eyes. “How often do you present your wrist?”

  “Why?” She shifted.

  The amber in his irises flared. “Tell me.”

  The possessive quality of his voice thrilled her. “What does it matter?”

  “Tell me.” His grasp on her hand tightened.

  “Once,” she admitted. “I was young and Lord Ramsay was handsome. I learned my lesson, however. I’ve not offered it since. Not until now.”

  “I’m not interested in your blood.”

  “Then what are you interested in?” Lena leaned forward, knowing that her bodice gaped and her curls tumbled around her face.

  A long breathless moment. Will leaned toward her unconsciously, as if some invisible force drew him. Reaching out, he brushed the backs of his fingers against her bodice, lightly stroking the silk as if memorizing the texture. The touch sparked through her and she leaned against it, forcing his hand against her aching nipples. That was where she wanted to be touched. There.

  Every little hair on her body stiffened. A sudden yearning sprang to life, a desperate need to have his hands on her. Lena leaned forward, her hand sliding over his thigh, feeling the corded power in the bunched muscles, her face tilting toward his…

  Opening his mouth, Will tried to say something, but the words died in a harsh growl. “Damn it, Lena.” His gaze skittered away. He pushed her firmly away and sat back, arms spread over the back of the daybed. “Learnin’ how to do what I’m here for. That’s what interests me.”

  Just like that, she’d lost him. Confusion and frustration yawned like a gaping pit within her. Unfulfilled need. She’d never had any trouble wrapping men around her fingers, but Will constantly defied her.

  She could barely breathe. Gave it one last attempt. “Of course, as with the throat, a covered wrist has different meanings also.” Gesturing to her gloves on the table. “You’ll notice I wear full-length for evening or gloves that cover my wrists quite decently.”

  “As you should,” he muttered.

  She shot him a glance, but his expression was flat, unreadable. He leaned his elbows on his knees and glared stonily at her.

  “A lady wearing half gloves is another matter. It bares the wrist to a blue blood’s lips. A sure sign that she’s available, perhaps even a little fast.”

  “And bare wrists?”

  “Never. Only a patron sees a woman with bare wrists. It’s considered highly personal.”

  “Yet you ain’t wearin’ them now.”

  “You said yourself you’re not interested in my blood.”

  His expression darkened. Lena leaned against the back of the daybed, her fingers toying with his sleeve. “You might be more interested in the distinction between blood rights and rights of the flesh,” she murmured.

  The muscles in his arm coiled. “What’s that mean?”

  “A woman offers her blood rights to her patron when she becomes his thrall in exchange for protection and provision. Her flesh rights are another matter. That’s one of the mistakes the middle class makes. They assume a patron may take his thrall to bed as well as drink from her body.”

  Will’s gaze shot to hers.

  “Not unless she agrees,” she added softly, knowing she was treading dangerous ground. “Her flesh rights are hers to give freely. Perhaps this is more to your area of interest?” Leaning closer, she licked her lips, watched his gaze drop to them. “Do you crave flesh, Will?”

  “Are you offerin’ it?” His voice was harsh. “Cause we’ve a word for that, where I come from.” Jerking away from her, he found his feet as if hunted.

  “You’re confusing the two,” she replied. “Flesh rights are given freely. For nothing more than the cost of pleasure.”

  Hot color burnished Will’s cheeks. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “And how does a patron know if they’re bein’ offered?”

  Lena arched a brow. Stroked her finger across the smooth arch of her collarbone. “He finds her naked in his bed.”

  The bold statement drew a hiss from him. For a moment she was wondering if he pictured it. The way she was. The thought sent a thrill through her.

  “It’s not generally spoken of,” Lena continued, “but as well as lessons in etiquette and sewing and music, a young woman is often…given hints…in how to please a man, should she decide to offer him her flesh rights.”

  Not that she’d learned much before her father was murdered and she was dragged to Whitechapel. But he didn’t need to know that.

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m fairly sure you shouldn’t be speakin’ o’ this with a man who ain’t your patron.”

  “True.” Another shrug, displaying the smooth creamy skin of her shoulder. “I’m just teasing.”

  “More games,” he said in disgust. Hands clasped behind him, he paced the small rug in front of her. “Perhaps you need a lesson in what a man’d do in my world, were a women so bold with him.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” It was a statement, not a challenge. She knew how far she could push him. Knew he’d back away the moment she turned the game sexual.

  Will turned around. Met her gaze. “Wouldn’t I?”

 
He leaned forward, resting his knuckles on either side of her hips. One knee pressed between her legs, parting her thighs and pinning her skirts. Lena froze as he reached out and captured a lock of the dark hair that tumbled over her shoulder. “All these games you play… I wonder what you’d do if I played ’em back?”

  Excitement raced through her veins. He’d never flirted back before. “Don’t tell me I’m getting under your skin?” she whispered.

  “On me nerves, more like it.” His fingers gently rubbed her hair. Then sank into the pile of curls prettily knotted at the base of her nape. It drew a gasp from her lips as he tilted her face toward his. Their breath mingled. Uncomfortably close.

  And Lena was aware that she was pinned, trapped neatly beneath him. Catching a handful of his shirt, she stared up at him. His gaze was hard, almost cruel. Suddenly she didn’t like this game anymore.

  “Let me go,” she whispered.

  “Why? Ain’t this what you want? Me hands on your body? Ain’t that what you been playin’ at this last hour? Or have I pushed the boundaries? Either say what you mean, Lena. Or I’ll take this little game of yours where you don’t mean to take it.”

  One word. Yes. One word and he’d do it. But as she met the steely look in those extraordinary eyes, she realized he wasn’t playing. When had this become more than a game? More than a light flirtation?

  I’ll stake a hundred pounds that you’re wrong, Adele’s voice whispered in her head. That he’ll kiss you next time.

  Yes? Or no? Lena’s heart hammered in her chest. She’d kissed him once. A game, nothing more. But his message now was very clear. Will wouldn’t stand for any more games. And a part of her was afraid to play for real.

  She wasn’t that brave. Because if it meant nothing to him, if he used her and then discarded her without a care, she suddenly realized that it would matter. To her.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Will’s gaze shuttered. “No more of this then. I’ve had enough games. Enough of these lessons for the day. Most of it’s useless anyway.” He let her go and straightened.

  That drew her ire. She still felt shaky, surreal. As if the world had turned on its axis and she couldn’t quite keep up. “It’s not useless. I’m trying to help you, yet you don’t give a damn about anything I’m saying.”