by The Impostor
“Or put me out of my misery with a bullet. Either one will do.” The Sergeant didn’t sound as if he cared one way or the other.
Dalton looked from the animal’s unsheathed claws to the red marks on the Sergeant’s hands and arms. He himself had unbuttoned his frock coat and removed it along with his waistcoat when he’d entered his study a few moments before. He looked down at his shirtfront, then took another look at the bloody rips in the front of the Sergeant’s sopping shirt.
Dalton put his waistcoat back on. Then he added his frock coat as well, buttoning it tight. Clothing could be replaced, but the Sergeant didn’t ‘look as though he would heal for some time.
“Uri, fetch some toweling,” Dalton ordered.
The young footman took a step back. “M-me, my lord?”
Unbelievable. Uri was a former soldier, a brave and lethal swordsman, and an utterly dependable servant. Dalton glowered at him. “Coward.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“The toweling is for the Sergeant, Uri. And for me.”
Uri gulped in relief. “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” He tore off down the hallway, shouting for linens from the chambermaid.
When the toweling came, Dalton wrapped a portion of it around both forearms and carefully approached the long-suffering Sergeant. A deadly growl emanated from the dangling beast, and a claw swiped lightning-fast in Dalton’s direction.
“Are you hurting it. Sergeant?” Rose wouldn’t like it if her pet was damaged.
“Not at all, my lord. The monster’s quite comfortable, aside from bein’ wet.”
“Ah… good.” Dalton moved another step closer. Another slash and a truly unholy howl. Dalton took a breath. “Sergeant, may I inquire as to your previous strategy? So I know what to avoid, you understand.”
“No, my lord, you may not. You’re stalling.”
Dalton sighed. “Yes, I fear I am.”
“On the count of three, my lord, I am dropping the animal and running for my life. You may keep my severance to hire yourself an army.”
“Really, Sergeant. There’s no need for such dramatics—”
“One.”
“After all, it is only a cat—”
“Two.”
“Oh, very well!” Dalton lunged forward, his towel-wrapped hands extended. He managed to get some of the cloth around the back legs, pinning the shredding claws neatly down. That inspired him to fling the rest of the toweling snugly around the creature’s front legs and head, leaving only a pink nose and half a set of whiskers emerging from the bundle.
It now looked as though he held a baby in his arms. A demon baby whose banshee howls were not muffled in the slightest.
“I leave you to it then, my lord.”
The bundle twisted and screeched in Dalton’s hands. “No, Sergeant, wait—” The Sergeant, a man who would have stood at Dalton’s back were they outnumbered by one hundred, was gone, escaping down the hall like a rat deserting a sinking ship.
He was on his own. Carefully Dalton shifted the bundle under one arm. The toweling was already very damp and the room was chill. Cats liked warmth, did they not? He carried it closer to the fireplace, using his free hand to tug his chair around to face the coals.
He sat, gingerly letting the swaddled animal rest on his lap. In afterthought, perhaps not the best idea. A vulnerable spot, that. He made a long arm and nicked a cushion from the sofa, placing it between the cat and his personal effects.
Only then did he allow himself to relax the smallest amount. He could sit here for a time and allow the warmth to dry the creature. Perhaps the mishandled bath had been enough to clean it.
Weren’t cats supposed to keep themselves clean? Life must have been hard indeed for the creature if it had given up on such a basic function. A flash of sympathy caught him unaware.
He ought to feel sorry for the Sergeant, were he to feel sorry for anyone. Or even for himself, for being stuck with caring for the beast until he’d kept his promise to Rose.
Rose. Dalton realized that he was smiling. He found himself doing that more often recently, usually when he was thinking about a certain housemaid.
The cat had stopped its yowling and lay unmoving in the bundle. Worriedly, Dalton leaned over to peer through the narrow tunnel of cloth to see a single malevolent green eye glowing within. “Kit-kit-kit,” he called softly.
The responding growl was so deep that he felt it rather than heard it. The sound made the hair on the back of his neck rise and he sat back quickly. Fine. No peering. No kit-kit. Understood.
Dalton remained where he was, carefully holding the bundle and feeling the warmth of the coals on his face. The house was silent. The servants were all hiding belowstairs, no doubt. Bloody cowards.
He ought to be at the club, or at least be pondering the club, but frankly he was bone-weary of his battle for the Liars’ respect.
Liverpool assumed that Dalton wanted power and influence, that leadership of the Liars would put him in a position for advancement to Prime Minister someday.
Liverpool had it completely wrong.
Dalton’s lap was vibrating. In astonishment, he looked down to find that he was absently stroking the damp bundle he held. Leaning closer, careful not to stop his rhythmic caress, he cocked an ear toward the cat.
The sound emanating from the animal was none other than a rusty purr. It liked him?
Dalton dropped his head onto the chair back and laughed out loud. Someone finally liked him, someone no one else could stand.
Except for Rose. “She likes us both, doesn’t she?” The cat continued its deranged sawing sound. “The monster and the thief.”
But would she like him if she knew he wasn’t a thief? Clara finally made her escape into the attic, but only after she’d told the edited version of her adventures to the twins at least five times.
This time Clara awaited Monty with an open window and a lighted candle. She’d had a very long day, however, and fell asleep on the pallet of old draperies that she’d scavenged from a trunk.
She awoke to find him kneeling over her, her cheek still tingling from the touch of his warm fingers. Lulled by her weariness, she only smiled up at him sleepily.
“Are you all right, rosebud? Did the master work you too hard this day?”
Clara nodded and opened her mouth to answer, only to be surprised by a sudden yawn. She clapped one hand over her mouth, embarrassed, but Monty only chuckled.
“You should be yawning. You’re up very late.”
“No later than you,” she retorted with a smile. Oh, she was happy to see him. His gray eyes twinkled behind his mask and his teeth shone white in the candlelight. The light from the candle flame was small and dim, yet it was the brightest in which she’d ever seen him.
“You are handsome,” she breathed, then caught herself. She blushed. “At least, I think you are. I wouldn’t really know, now would I?”
Monty leaned close to whisper in her ear, his breath warm and caressing. “I’ll let you take me mask off,” he teased, “… last.”
The very thought of undressing his hard body sent hot fire through her belly. Suddenly—desperately—she wanted him. He must have seen it in her face as he drew back, for his teasing smile died and his eyes grew dark. “I’m sorry. Rose. I shouldn’t play—”
“Nay, you shouldn’t!” She sat up quickly, giving his shoulder a shove when he remained in her way. Once she was on her feet she found it a bit easier to breathe.
Dalton cursed himself as he stood to face her. He had no intention of taking advantage of Rose, yet whenever he was near her he couldn’t seem to help but speak with Monty’s flirtatious manner. It was as if Monty were a real man, perhaps even the real man inside of him. After all, who knew what was left after the years of polish?
Sometimes he couldn’t even recognize himself in the mirror, only a younger reflection of Liverpool.
Now his fearless Rose was looking at him with doubt and longing in her eyes. He was a bounder to string he
r along this way. What if she fell in love with him? What would it do to her to learn that he was a gentleman and a peer, miles above her reach, and had only been using her to gain entry to Wadsworth’s house?
She could be sacked for what she was doing for him.
Or hanged?
His breath left him in a hurry. Dear God, he’d never thought of that. He would get her out of this house directly, he decided. Not to hire her himself, of course. That wouldn’t be right, feeling about her as he did—rather, with her feeling about him as she did.
He’d talk to Agatha and Simon tomorrow and ask them to take her into their household. She’d be well treated among that bunch of odd ducks, and he’d be able to see her on occasion—
No. It would be best not to see her at all. It would only confuse her further. She mustn’t acquire any hopes in his direction at all. After tonight, he would secure her a comfortable position far away, never to see her again.
Then perhaps someday his chest would no longer ache at the thought of her.
Clara busied herself adjusting her cap while she recovered from her moment of yearning, then picked up the candle. When she turned back to Monty, she was quite sure not a bit of her feelings remained visible on her face.
“Do you wish to go to the study? His lordship was supposed to have had another meeting tonight.” There, her voice sounded quite normal.
Monty looked at her oddly. “Don’t you know if he did or not?”
Drat, she’d slipped. “I—I pled illness to come upstairs and wait for you.” Indeed, the real Rose was ill with a terrible cold. Even now she was sleeping in Clara’s attic with a warming pan at her feet and a poultice on her chest. “I’m sure the meeting occurred, for the cook has been workin’ all day for it.” The proof of that was in the smell of baking that had reached clear up to the attic this evening.
“Does he dine with them in his study?”
She laughed. “Of course not. They eat a late supper in the dining room, then retire t’ the study with port and cigars.”
He seemed intrigued. “Where’s the dining room?”
“Come, I’ll show you.”
They traveled down the servants’ stair to the ground floor, this time with the candlelight to guide them. Clara was quite sure that being in the dark with Monty was dangerous for both of them.
Thoughts of her handsome thief occupied her mind as she led him out of the hidden stair into the hall outside the dining room. The sconces were still lighted, so she doused her own light and left it on the stair.
When she opened the dining room doors she was stunned to see a fire blazing and the table all laid out for dinner in the bright light of the chandelier. Suddenly she realized why she could still smell a strong smell of cooking, even at this late hour.
“Oh, no!” She turned and pushed him back into the hall. “The meeting must’ve been delayed. Quickly, back to the stairs!”
He moved, but not swiftly enough. At the far end of the hall, the front door opened to admit a number of gentlemen who stood talking while Soames took their coats.
Clara yanked Monty back into the dining room by one arm and shut the door. He turned to run for the door in the far wall, but she held on and pulled him to a stop. “No, that’s down to the kitchen! It’ll be full of staff right now.”
There was no help for it. Clara towed him toward her favorite hiding place in the sideboard. She’d emptied it of its dusty tureens and tablecloths months ago and none of the servants had so much as noticed. It was roomy for one. She only hoped it would hold two.
She opened the large cupboard doors on the bottom and made to shove Monty inside. He climbed in readily, but then he pulled her in after him and shut the door, trapping them together in the darkness.
Wadsworth’s guests began their supper with a lively discussion of Sir Thorogood’s drawings, which made Clara feel a tiny spurt of pride. Voices were rising outside the cupboard. She’d certainly managed to inspire some rigorous debate on hired love. Or were they talking about the war?
“I rather like the notion,” one voice said. “A mistress is precisely what she is to me.”
“Rather too poetic for my tastes, sir,” another voice added, one that Clara recognized as Mr. Wadsworth. “I prefer to keep things businesslike. Payment for services rendered and so forth.”
A third voice entered the discussion, a low cultured tone that made Clara think of fine drawing rooms and genteel strolls in the park. “Wadsworth, your plebeian roots are showing. I cannot participate in business at my status level. The very idea. No, I prefer to think of a good wine, beginning as mere fruit, then aging to something altogether more… rewarding.”
This brought laughter and murmurs of agreement, although Clara was at a loss to understand why. She was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything but Monty. She was tucked deeply into the curl of his body, so deeply it was as if she’d climbed inside of him. His scent surrounded her and became her scent. His heat seeped through the layers of cloth separating them and became her heat.
“You’re trembling,” he breathed into her ear. “Only keep quiet and they’ll not find us here.”
He didn’t understand. The last thing on her mind was fear. Perhaps there was a bit of it, but it only added an edge to the other tension thrumming through her nerves.
His hand shifted a tiny amount on her hip, and she jumped. He pressed her hip down firmly. “Shh.”
His breath in her ear sent her thighs to trembling. She wanted him to move his hand. The only problem was, she wanted him to move it to a much more scandalous spot of her body. Several of them to be precise.
Chapter Fourteen
Dalton had a problem. And it was growing larger by the moment. Rose’s warm firm body was driving him mad. He’d bent his head slightly to whisper to her, and he hadn’t been able to make himself move away afterward. She smelled like warm heaven, like woman and rose petals and, rather suddenly, like passion.
The skin of her neck was so close that he could feel the heat on his lips. A fraction of an inch more and he would be able to taste her. And dear God, how he wanted to taste her.
The dining room beyond their hiding place changed tone with the clink of silver against china turning to the setting back of chairs. The dinner was over and the party would soon be moving to the study. They would be able to leave safely after the staff cleared the room.
He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay curled with Rose in this tiny space with their mingled breath warming their faces and their every movement a fragment of a much older dance. And he wanted more. He wanted so much more. …
He succumbed. Just a brief stolen taste. Just a whisper of his tongue on her fragrant skin.
She jerked slightly and he pressed her still with his palm on her firm rounded hip. Held her still with strength and the fear of discovery for this tiny ravagement. God help him, if she had objected further, he was not sure he would have listened.
Instead, she let her head fall back on his shoulder, exposing more soft neck to his exploring mouth.
A near silent sigh escaped her, a sigh of submission and longing, or so he chose to hear it.
Clara had no senses available to her but touch and scent. The darkness was comforting in its anonymity. If even they couldn’t see what they were doing, then perhaps on some level, it wasn’t truly done.
Yet the heat of his mouth on her flesh was very real, as was the tantalizing pressure of his hand on her hip. Especially now that his fingers were tracing a matching spiral to the pattern of his tongue.
Every tiny stroke left a trail of flame on her. She imagined that if she were to look down at his hand, she would see ghost fire trailing from his touch.
She pressed her thighs together involuntarily and her hips rotated without command of her mind. He was hard behind her, as if she lay against a rod of iron.
If she were not mistaken, it was a rather large rod. She swiveled against it experimentally and felt an answering press of his loins against her
bottom. Her own sex was hot wax between her thighs, swollen with unanswered need.
Her body was a stranger to her. Where had this need come from? Who was this woman pressed scandalously against a near stranger in the dark?
It was Rose. Rose who slid her hand up to cover the wide warm one on her hip. Rose who tilted her head to urge his hot mouth to her earlobe.
It was Rose who let the heat of him sink deeply into her and melt the frozen desires of years.
And it was Rose who slowly urged his hand to stroke up her waist, over her panting ribs to cover her breast.
She made a soft sound when he cupped her and rubbed his thumb across her nipple where it stood high against her bodice.
It was too loud, and they both froze, their passion ignited into heart-pounding fear for a long moment of suspense. But the murmur of talk never abated, and at last they allowed themselves to breathe.
Yet the momentary jolt of fear had only heightened their ache, had only made the future a more dangerous place, therefore providing an inner excuse to explore this tight, hot moment of erotic confinement to the limit.
Not content with the cloth-covered breast that filled his palm, Dalton slid his hand to her shoulder and began to ease down the neckline of the drab maid’s gown. Every slow fraction of inch of shoulder exposed was met with a kiss of greeting.
His Rose was shaking fully now, and for a moment Dalton hesitated, though it tore him a slash in his soul. Was this fear of him? Was he forcing something upon her that she did not want?
As he hesitated, she made a small growling sound and rotated her bottom against his erection, nearly making his eyes roll back with unspent lust. He was harder than he remembered ever being and growing harder still, his desire a literal ache deep in his scrotum.
His breath quickened, and his pulse raced, until he felt dangerous with desire. Yet breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat, her desire seemed to keep pace with his.
The long tight sleeve of the gown slid down only far enough to pin her arm to her side. Her breast was now even more tightly confined, the neckline making a deep dent in the softness of her flesh.