by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
“Hurry,” she moaned. Her heart was racing so hard, her pulse seemed to reverberate through her whole body.
Evan smiled, that dangerous feral smile, and turned around to fetch the lantern. He set it down beside her and pushed the shutter open all the way. “You’ll drive me mad,” he said as he unfastened his trousers. His eyes seemed to feast on her bare skin.
She rolled her head coyly. Her hair had come undone, and was spread across the table and her shoulders. “It would only be fair.”
“Oh?” He stepped out of his shoes and trousers and kicked them aside. “How long have you wanted me?”
Her face heated. “The day you drove us to Soho Square…”
“My darling,” he said, running his hands back up her legs, “I wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you.” Palm on her belly, his thumb dipped lower, pushing inside her for a moment, and then she felt his erection there, thick and hard. She was so wet, so ready, he slid home easily, but the fullness made her catch her breath. When he was deep inside her, Evan paused. “Try to wait for me, darling.”
Her whole body was throbbing with incipient release. “I—I can’t—”
“Try.” He grasped her by the hips and pulled her toward the edge of the table until she had to hook her legs around his waist again for balance. And then he began to move, hard and steady but not nearly fast enough, flexing his spine with each thrust so that he seemed to touch something inside her that fractured Felicity’s mind into pieces. She gripped his wrists, struggling to breathe, trying to hold back the approaching flood. “Evan,” she begged, tears leaking down her temples. “I can’t wait—”
“Yes,” he rasped, and she let go. Pleasure roared through her as his thrusts grew harder, faster. The first wave had barely started to subside when he touched her. Felicity screamed at the intensity of the feeling, and Evan gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Again,” he ordered, stroking her in time with the plunging of his hips against hers. Incredibly the pleasure peaked anew, until she was almost crying from it, and then Evan thrust deep and threw back his head and gave a shout of elation.
It seemed an hour before she could hear anything but her own ragged breath. When she managed to focus her gaze, she saw only Evan, leaning over her. His hands still gripped her hips, and he was still inside her. A sheen of perspiration slicked his skin, and he wore a heavy-lidded expression that put her in mind of early mornings.
He raised his head. Gently, almost reverently, he lifted her face to his. This kiss was different: soft, yearning, the sort of kiss a man in love might give. Felicity returned it with fervor, wondering if he would feel the same thing.
“Was that satisfactory?” he murmured, his lips brushing hers.
“Very.” She ran her fingers through his hair.
“And it was only my first try.” He pressed another tender kiss on her mouth. “Take me to bed, love.”
Felicity’s heart quivered at the last word. If only she were his love. She sensed she could find herself head over heels for him, with very little provocation.
But for tonight, this was enough; it would have to be. She pulled her crumpled cloak around her, took him by the hand, and led him upstairs to her bed.
Chapter Ten
The next several days were the grandest in human history, to Evan’s mind.
Part of it was the anticipation of beginning the Vine Street project. He always felt a surge of energy and excitement when his plans, so long in the making, started to coalesce into stone and iron and plaster. He spent his days in the architect’s office now, poring over last-minute alterations and adjustments.
It was true that Madame Follette’s still sat in the middle of the street, occupied and open for business, while the last of the other tenants drove away in laden wagons, but Evan had a plan for that as well. He spoke to Mr. Jackson, who owned the Bond Street shop Felicity wanted. Jackson understood his request, but was dithering. What if Evan lost interest in the shop after a few months and declined to pay his guarantee, the man wanted to know. Evan was somewhat handicapped by not using Grantham for the negotiations, but thought he was getting on well enough without his customary solicitor. Sooner or later he and Jackson would find a way to agree, and then Felicity would have the shop her heart desired, he would have free rein in Vine Street … and he would have her.
Every evening, after Madame Follette’s closed, he went to her. When he discovered that she had been accustomed to getting something to eat from the chophouse nearby, he began bringing dinner. They ate in her cozy sitting room, where she showed him sketches she had made for clients—who now included his mother and sister—and he recounted how he’d become enchanted with building. They talked of their childhoods, hers in a busy London shop and his in rural Wales, and discovered they almost shared a birthday, being born just three days apart in October.
By tacit agreement neither brought up the relocation. Evan had promised he would find suitable premises for her; she had said she trusted him. They talked of everything else, and then they went to bed together, where no words were necessary to build a deeper bond between them than any Evan had ever experienced.
His visits grew longer and longer, until one morning he woke with Felicity in his arms and the sun in his face. And when she opened her eyes and gave him a sleepy smile, her golden hair wild around her bare shoulders, Evan had the thought that she was the missing piece in his life. Ever since he’d walked into Follette’s salon and laid eyes on her, he kept feeling the same sense of contentment, as if life was now complete, and finally he admitted it was because of her.
And rushing her out of Vine Street would ruin it.
Accordingly, when he returned home around dawn one morning, after a night spent making her cry out his name in rapture, to find one of Grantham’s clerks drowsing on his doorstep, his first reaction was to scowl. He knew what the man had come about, and he didn’t want to face it. His signature was needed to begin the demolition, and Evan had purposely not given it yet. He sent the man off with a curt promise to visit Grantham’s office in a few hours, but despite intense efforts while he washed, shaved, and changed, Evan had thought of no ideal solution to his problem when he was shown into the solicitor’s office.
Grantham was as blunt as usual. “How do you progress with the immovable modiste?”
Evan turned his back to hide his expression. Just the thought of Felicity made him want to smile, even when Grantham called her that. “Reasonably well,” he said, not directly answering the question.
“Thirty pounds per annum in the heart of Mayfair? It sounds nigh impossible to me.”
“I gave her my word.” He just needed Mr. Jackson to see reason. It was beginning to bother him that the man was delaying so long, and not for the first time Evan wished he could set Grantham on it.
Unfortunately he knew what Grantham would say: Don’t do it. He would guess at once why Evan was so keen to guarantee Felicity’s lease, and he would baldly ask if any woman was worth sixty pounds a year. Since Evan’s answer to that query was a strong yes, even inching toward worth any amount, he had avoided the whole topic with his friend.
“You know as well as I do that your word was not a binding contract,” Grantham reminded him. “Unlike these.” He tapped a stack of papers, signed and stamped by the Commissioner of Woods and Fields, which had approved the Vine Street endeavor. “It’s time to get on with it, Carmarthen.”
“I know,” Evan snapped. It was not simply his decision, now that significant money was at stake, including Treasury funds. Investors and tradesmen were waiting on him to give the order to proceed, and they didn’t give a damn about Felicity’s consent.
But he couldn’t force her out before he presented her with an alternative. She was fiercely devoted to her shop, and she ran it well; it wasn’t her fault that fashionable London kept moving westward, or that the development of Regent Street had cleaved her from that part of town. Madame Follette’s meant as much to her as Carmarthen Castle meant to him.
There seemed no way he could press forward on schedule with Vine Street, and still please Felicity; delaying the demolition would ruin his reputation, while breaking his word to Felicity…
Might ruin the rest of his life.
“Well. You should thank me, then,” said Thomas Grantham with a cocky smile. “I have solved the problem.”
Evan frowned. “What? You found premises?”
“No, I have found the means to extricate you from that devil’s bargain you seem determined to keep.” Grantham leaned forward and held out a sheaf of paper. “You told me to send someone to query the residents of Vine Street. Watson turned up a stray bit of gossip, which he followed on a whim, and it led him to this.”
He flipped the pages. It was an affidavit, signed by a Mrs. Mary Cartwright. “What is this?”
“Mary Cartwright was a seamstress for many years at Madame Follette’s. She was turned off last year when the daughter took over. It seems she’s grown bitter over that, and was all too eager to tell Mr. Watson every rumor and complaint she ever had with Mrs. Dawkins.”
“What has this got to do with our problem?” asked Evan testily. It was wrong to call Felicity a problem, even though she was at the center of the chaos in his life.
“Read it.” Grantham took off his spectacles and began polishing them with a handkerchief. “I’ll wait.”
With an odd sense of foreboding, Evan sat down and read. Much of it was minor complaints, such as the time Sophie-Louise altered a gown Mrs. Cartwright had made without telling her first, or how Mrs. Cartwright’s pay was withheld once over a ruined bolt of lace, but on the third page, Evan saw what had pleased his solicitor so much.
Sophie-Louise Follette had fled Paris at the height of the Terror with the family who employed her as a ladies’ maid, the comte and comtesse de Challe. They were stopped at the port, where the comte and his wife were detained while Sophie-Louise was allowed to get on the ship bound for England. Apparently thinking the revolutionaries guarding the port wanted to steal their money, the comtesse de Challe gave Sophie-Louise a notable—and very valuable—set of diamonds for safekeeping and urged her to continue on to London and wait for them there. Sophie-Louise took the diamonds, made it to England, and then sold the gems as if they were her own. With the money she bought Number Twelve Vine Street and became a modiste.
Mrs. Cartwright alleged that Sophie-Louise had confessed it all to her years ago, when they were working very late one night. The Frenchwoman had sworn her to secrecy at the time. Mrs. Cartwright had kept the secret because her employment depended on it, but now that Sophie-Louise and Felicity had served her so ill, she felt no obligation to remain quiet any longer.
Evan sat like a statue. The shop was purchased with stolen jewels. Grantham knew they could use this to coerce Sophie-Louise to sell the shop, and at a far lower price than Evan had expected to pay. And if the comte de Challe, or his descendants, could be located, they could send Sophie-Louise to prison.
Felicity would be devastated. She would lose everything she loved—and she would blame him.
“Do you believe this?” Evan asked, his thoughts racing.
Grantham shrugged. “It’s got a tinge of revenge, but I made a few enquiries. Mrs. Dawkins—who married Josiah Dawkins in 1795, according to the parish of St. Martin’s—purchased that building in September of 1794. She paid in full, and I can find no record of a mortgage. Indeed, Mrs. Cartwight said Mrs. Dawkins was quite proud of the fact that she owned the building outright.” He slid the spectacles back on his face. “Another interesting fact is that her daughter is likely not Josiah’s child. There’s a record of her age that suggests she was born before her mother’s marriage.”
It struck him like a slap to the face. Felicity was illegitimate. Her shop was built with stolen funds. Her mother was a thief and a liar.
And God help him, he wanted her anyway. He wanted her for the way her eyes lit up, for the teasing smile she gave him, for the way she blushed when he murmured seduction in her ear. He wanted to have her in his arms, in his bed, in his heart.
He folded the affidavit and slid it into his coat pocket. “Find them,” he said quietly.
“Find whom?” Grantham’s brows went up. “Carmarthen, this will ensure the Dawkinses cooperate, quickly and easily. Even if there’s no legal recourse, one whiff of illegitimacy or thievery—from an aristocratic employer, no less—would ruin their name and trade.”
“The diamonds.” Evan got to his feet. “Find the de Challe diamonds, and buy them.”
His solicitor stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Do what?”
“Buy the bloody diamonds! All of them!” He ran his hands over his head. He had no idea what he’d do with them, but it would gain him time to think of something.
“Carmarthen.” Thomas Grantham rose from his chair and leaned over his desk. He lowered his voice. “What are you contemplating?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but get those diamonds. If you can discover all this, I presume that shan’t be a problem.”
Grantham looked at him askance. “We don’t need them to pressure Mrs. Dawkins.”
“But I want them,” he said through his teeth. He didn’t have to explain himself to Grantham—not that he could explain, even to himself. “Will you find them or not?”
“Yes,” said the other man after a moment. “If you wish.”
Evan gave a curt nod and yanked on his coat. “Let me know when you have them. Until then, not a word of this to anyone. And learn what happened to the comte de Challe.” He strode from the office, his brain roiled with uncertainty.
Chapter Eleven
Humming quietly, Felicity went down the stairs to open the salon. She ought to be tired, since Evan had spent the night again and only left two hours before Alice and Sally arrived for the day, but these days she hardly seemed to need sleep. She blushed a little at the thought of how Evan kept her awake. If she let her mind dwell on it too long, she’d end up staring into space, smiling like a fool in love.
Love. Even the word brought a bittersweet smile to her face. She had known that man was dangerous the first day she saw him, but she hadn’t expected to fall so hard for him. He was an aristocrat while she was in trade, yet he treated her as his equal in intelligence and judgment. He listened to her, even when she spoke about the challenges of pleasing Lady Marjoribanks, who unfailingly requested gowns made in the least flattering colors—sometimes several within one gown. He amused her with stories of the things he’d found inside old buildings, from animal skeletons and diaries to the time his workmen tore down a wall and discovered some malicious maid, in the distant past, had emptied chamber pots into a hole in the wall. He brought dinner every night, which—after a long day that hardly allowed time to think, let alone eat—won her heart more than jewels ever could have.
To herself, Felicity admitted she was in love with him. To him… She didn’t dare say the word. She was under no illusions that he would fall in love with her, but if she professed her love aloud, it would prompt him to point out that he never promised her love. If she kept it to herself, Felicity reasoned, she could pretend it was still possible that he might one day return the feeling.
She went through the shop and unbolted the door, opening it to let in some fresh air while she swept the steps. Vine Street was quiet these days; every other tenant had left. Felicity kept her eyes on her own steps as she whisked the broom from side to side, not wanting to think about the impending mess. Evan had given his word that he would help her relocate, and she had promised to trust him. He hadn’t shown her a new shop in some time, though, and if she started thinking about it, she would wonder if he’d come to regret his promise, and if he’d end up forcing her out after all in spite of the wicked pleasures they shared in her bed every night. Therefore, Felicity tried not to think about it much. She didn’t want anything to ruin the glow of happiness inside her, not yet.
A carriage turned into the deserted street as she finished sweeping. For
a moment her heart skipped; could it be Evan? It was still very early for clients. But it was a hackney coach, and when it stopped in front of Follette’s and the door opened, a familiar figure stepped down.
Felicity’s eyes rounded. “Mama!” She dropped her broom and hurried to help her mother. “What are you doing here?”
Sophie-Louise drew herself up and pinned a stern look on her. “I have come to save my shop, that’s what I am doing. What do you mean by this suggestion we sell?” She pulled a letter from her reticule and flourished it in front of Felicity.
She winced. After Evan had given his word to help them relocate, she’d written to tell her mother. That had been part of her promise to Sophie-Louise, that she would write every fortnight about how the shop was going on. Her mother had demanded it as part of her agreement to take a holiday. “Yes, Mama. It’s time to sell, but—”
Sophie-Louise flipped her hand in disgust. “Never!” She marched into the shop, leaving Felicity to show the driver where to deposit her mother’s large valise. Felicity eyed that with alarm. It looked like her mother meant to stay. Not only would that put the shop into an uproar, it would end Evan’s visits.
Her mother had gone straight up to the workroom, where everyone greeted her with cries of surprise. Sophie-Louise was in her element, hugging Alice and Sally, sharing a quiet exchange with Selina, whose face was flushed with delight. She wanted to see everyone’s work, offering comments and compliments, until she paused in front of a gown on the wooden figure. “For which client is this?” she asked in surprise.
Felicity cleared her throat. “The Countess of Carmarthen, Mama.” Evan’s mother and sister had indeed come to Follette’s, and ordered a good number of gowns. Unsurprisingly, the countess wanted something bold and modern, and Felicity had taken great pains to use the fashionable touches that would most flatter Lady Carmarthen. As a result it looked nothing like the gowns produced under Sophie-Louise.