“Leave it,” Blackstone cautioned, his voice urgent.
Trevor’s arms shook with the effort of remaining still. When the door shut behind Galsmith, Trevor sank into the nearest chair, feeling for all the world like Lucy’s former employer had shot him in a duel. His chest hurt, and his breath was still ragged. He spoke into the hands that covered his face. “How can I let that stand?”
“The more important question is what will you do about Miss Greenleaf?”
He looked up, momentarily confused. Had she come into the room? No, they were alone. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll have to marry her. Her reputation is ruined if any of this gets out.”
“What?” Had the whole world gone mad? Murder seemed like a reasonable response to the insult. But marriage? He was the last person Lucy should marry. She deserved a hell of a lot better than him. All Trevor could do was laugh, though it came out sounding bitter and hollow, even to his own ears. “No one saw. The room was practically empty.”
“This is what a gentleman does when a lady’s reputation is a stake, Bailey. I can think of more than one marriage I know of that arose from such circumstances.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Blackstone. She doesn’t expect it—that’s the last thing she would want, in fact.”
“An offer of marriage when her reputation has been impugned would be unwelcome?”
He sometimes forgot about the gulf between their backgrounds. “I’m different from you, with your society and your rules. How many times do I have to tell you that? I’m not like you aristocrats. Neither is Lucy.” Blackstone was so practical in so many ways, having had any soft edges he might have possessed hardened off after years as a soldier and spy. But it seemed that blood ran deep.
“You’re like us when it suits you.”
Trevor looked at his friend sharply. There was no pity in those glittering, dark eyes.
“Well, at the very least,” Blackstone said, curling his upper lip slightly, “you can go out there and act like all is well. And pray to God you haven’t ruined everything.”
“Everything being the Jade or the bloody mission you brought into my hotel?”
The earl narrowed his eyes. “Both.”
Resigned and angry in equal measure, Trevor headed for the door.
“Wait.” When he turned, Blackstone’s eyes had softened a little. He placed a hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “Tell me. I won’t make you do anything, and I won’t repeat it. But tell me. What is she to you?”
Trevor paused. He thought about not answering. But, finally, the truth won out. He owed Blackstone that much. “I don’t know.”
Chapter Twelve
“Act like everything is normal.”
Lucy stifled a shriek as Trevor’s strong hand came to rest on her arm, but this time the touch was gentle, unthreatening. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from these tonnish types,” he said, “it’s that often if you act the part long enough, you become the part.”
She took a deep breath to calm her still-churning stomach. “Well, thankfully, everything is normal, so no acting is required. I don’t think anyone saw what happened between you and…him.” She had trouble even saying his name now. It was one thing for him to have preyed on her inside his house. But now he’d been in hers. Well, no—she checked herself. He’d been inside her place of employment. And she supposed that since he was an investor, technically the Jade was his place more than hers, though the idea rankled. She pasted on a smile. “Catharine put it around you’d beat Galsmith at cards, and he was refusing to pay up. That’s how she explained his hasty exit.”
“Ah, the perfect lie. Everyone knows a gentleman never calls up his debts.” He shot her a wicked grin, as if the whole dreadful evening had not happened. “And everyone knows that I am not a gentleman.” Before she realized what was happening, they were walking toward the center of the room, where couples were pairing off for a country dance.
“No, no, no.” Something close to panic rose in her throat. “I don’t dance.” He shot her a skeptical look. “Where would I have learned to dance?”
“What did they teach you at that school?”
“Not dancing. They were training us to be governesses, Trevor. Glorified servants.”
Without stopping, he veered so they were now walking past the dancers. “Then we’ll go outside. It’s better anyway.”
“Better how? What do you mean?”
“Outside.” It sounded like an order, and indeed, he proceeded to tow her out the French windows that led from the ballroom to a large veranda.
She glanced around, trying to discover if anyone was watching them. “What will people think?”
He shrugged. “That I’m not a gentleman?”
He gave her a little push then—not anything like a shove, but he exerted more pressure on the small of her back than she imagined a gentleman holding himself to the strictest standards would.
Why did that make her shiver and feel hot at the same time?
They emerged into the formal garden. It wasn’t large, this being the middle of London, but she had done her best to make sure it was as attractive as possible given that they hadn’t started planting until midsummer. Before she could assess whether they were alone, he started with the pushing again, the warmth of his large hand seeping through her silk-clad back. He was aiming her toward the small private courtyard they’d been using to enter and exit the Jade all the weeks they’d been working to finish it. He’d been planning to wait until next year to plant a kitchen garden in the space, but she’d convinced him to let her plant a few rows of beans and lettuces. There was a small door in the fence that separated the two spaces, hardly noticeable unless one was looking for it. She ducked through, eyes on the ground so as not to step on the tender plants.
And then he had her backed against the fence. Before she could exhale her surprise his mouth came down on hers, hard, sending a shock of sensation down her spine. As soon as her mind caught up to what was happening, he stopped. Lifting his head, he breathed into her ear, “A gentleman wouldn’t do this.” He pulled back then and studied her face. “But I am enough of a gentleman that I’ll stop if I’m asked.”
This was what they’d been talking about, Emily and Catharine. Lucy knew then, without a doubt, that her education on the topic at Miss Grisham’s had been incomplete.
There was so much…more. And she wanted to feel it.
So even though she might not know precisely what was going to happen, she knew exactly what she was doing when she looked him squarely in the eye and said, “Well, thank goodness you’re not a gentleman, then.”
He shot her a wicked grin before he lowered his head to her neck, kissing and licking. She could barely catch up with the sensation when he was on to her ear, nipping the tender lobe as he whispered, “Dancing was the gentlemanly way to touch you—and I had to touch you—but this is much better.”
Oh, she wanted him. Is this what had driven Mary to the brink of madness? Having these sensations and then being rejected by the man who brought them on? It nearly made her ill, this wanting. She hadn’t known such a thing was possible. “I am not what he said, though,” she whispered. It seemed important that he understand. She wasn’t her mother—thanks to him. She hated that he’d sent her away, but she could not deny that he had saved her by doing so.
He shook his head, continuing to nuzzle her neck. “I know. But it doesn’t matter what he says, or what you have or haven’t done. None of that matters to me.”
And then his hands—oh, she’d forgotten about his hands. They started at her face, cupping her cheeks, gently, almost reverently, as he pulled away suddenly, leaving her neck feeling naked, exposed. She could feel the intensity of his gaze and thanked heaven for the darkness that engulfed them. The gas lights on the veranda on the other side of the fence allowed her to make out the barest outline of him, but they were dim enough—she prayed—to hide her cheeks, which were so hot they must be bright red. Then those hands star
ted down, sliding along either side of her neck. There was no hesitation as they fell farther, over her breasts, leaving a trail of fire along their path, not stopping until they reached her hips. “You’re not a lightskirt. I’m not a gentleman. So where does that leave us? A gentleman would ask you if you were all right after that scene in the ballroom. A gentleman would fetch you a cup of tea, perhaps, or deliver you to the company of a woman friend.”
His hands tightened on her hips, and her breath quickened. Even though she’d given him implicit permission just a moment ago, he seemed to be asking again. God help her. She would probably end up regretting it, but it was as if someone else had control of her mind and body this evening. So she planted her hands on his cheeks and pulled his head down and kissed him for a long moment, the best way she knew how. When she broke the contact, he groaned and let his head fall forward, chin to chest, as if he were fighting an inner battle. It stayed there for a long moment—long enough for doubt to begin to take hold.
But then the onslaught began. One hand shot up and grasped her head, angling it just so as his mouth came down on hers. She opened, marveling at how the sensation of his tongue making increasingly bold incursions into her mouth seemed to be mirrored with an echoing throb between her legs. She moaned, and this seemed to embolden him even more. He grabbed a handful of her skirts and yanked them up. The night was warm, but the air was nevertheless a shock of coolness on the overheated skin of her thigh. He was touching her thigh! Stroking it. Continuing to plunder her mouth, he let his long fingers drift up, up, and—
“What are you doing?” Her hand shot out from where it had been resting, limp, forgotten against the gate, and clamped down on his forearm. She regretted immediately the shrill tone she hadn’t been able to keep from her voice. “What are you doing?” she tried again, whispering this time, as if simply repeating the same question with the right intonation would make any difference to these unusual proceedings.
His hand had stilled at her first outburst, but he hadn’t moved it. The meat of his palm pressed against her curls with a firm pressure that was, truth be told, quite delicious. For a moment they both stood panting, suspended.
“Do you trust me?” he rasped. His scratchy voice connected somehow with the hand resting against her, weaving a cord that connected her and his voice.
“Yes,” she whispered, and the admission tightened the cord.
“Then let me do this for you.”
Do what? Before she could voice the question aloud, he replaced the palm of his hand with the pads of two fingers and began drawing slow, small circles. Why was he doing this? Miss Grisham’s strict policy of informing its pupils about these matters so they could protect themselves against overzealous members of the families that would be their future employers had not included this in any of the lessons.
“Ahh,” she gasped, rolling her hips despite the spike of embarrassment the shameful movement inspired. She was unable to resist, feeling like she was struggling toward something vast and unknown.
“That’s right, just let it happen,” Trevor whispered. That voice, it was almost as wicked as his fingers. Everything clenched inside her, and her throat constricted. Yet she found she did not want to breathe if it meant the cessation of this…thing that was happening to her. He used his free hand to grab her bottom and urge it forward. Good heavens, he seemed to want her to move her hips.
“Let what happen?” she practically sobbed, frustrated at something she couldn’t articulate.
“Shhh. Stop talking. Let me do this for you.”
Do what? And then, ah, God, she understood. “Oh!” she gasped. It was like climbing a great cliff and then falling off. No, it was like being pushed off. It was like…
“Just let it happen.”
Shattering.
It took a few moments for her to come back to earth.
But by the time she did, a new project had taken shape in her mind. She had her lemon biscuits and her flower arranging. But this…this might be the most interesting project she had ever embarked upon. She vowed to give the shocking idea some measured thought over the next few days.
Still, it was important that he understood her first principle. “I’m never getting married.” She watched closely for his reaction, which, as his eyes narrowed and his brow knit, seemed to be tilting toward annoyance.
“Yes, you’ve made that clear,” he said briskly as he plucked a twig from her hair, all the heat gone from his touch.
Good. She needed to remind him—but also herself—of where she stood.
Trevor left his hand on Lucy for a very long time, taking shaky breaths as he waited for the aftershocks and tremors to fade. His throat was thick with something he very much feared was emotion. Tears, to be precise.
This had been a mistake.
Except he couldn’t quite make himself regret it. Later, he knew, when his mind cleared, the full weight of what he had done would come crashing in on him. But now, here, he understood with his soul that there was no way this evening could have gone otherwise. To imagine Galsmith trying to put his unwelcome hands on Lucy, to imagine her porcelain skin marred by the man’s brutish paws, her whole being subject to his degrading lusts—it was enough to unhinge him. He’d stalked out here, practically dragging her in his wake, out of his mind with suppressed rage, Blackstone’s assignment utterly abandoned.
He’d wanted—needed—to mark her. Even if no one else ever knew, she would know. And he would know: she was his. Even if he could never have her, not in any real sense of the word. For now, she was his.
But somewhere along the way, his motivations had changed. She’d proven so full of passion, so willing, even if she was clearly unschooled. The great champion of women had no idea where her power lay. She had no concept of the vast pleasures that were available to her. So then his goal had become simply to bring her pleasure. Lucy Greenleaf was brave, loyal, wise, and beautiful, and she deserved every pleasure he could rain down on her.
And now that it was over, he didn’t disagree with that noble sentiment. He wanted to bring back the vibrant, proud, happy woman who’d walked toward him in that ballroom, spreading her arms in amazement. He was still chasing that spark in her eyes. Galsmith—and life—had taken it away from her, and he wanted it back.
But when she’d shattered in his arms, harder and with more force than he’d ever seen in a woman, it planted a question in his mind, one he knew would torment him in the coming days. Hell, it would torment him for the rest of his life. What would she sound like when she was free to voice her pleasure unhindered?
“That was…” She sighed and left the sentence unfinished.
He very much wanted her to finish it. But he didn’t want to beg. “As I said before, that was something no gentleman would have done.” A sickening thought dropped into his gut, like a brick. Yes, here was the regret arriving. He was no better than Galsmith. Than the men of Seven Dials. How had he not seen that?
“Well…” She let the word trail off, as if she were tasting it, rolling it around in her mouth. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he grew even harder. “As I said before, thank goodness you’re not a gentleman, then. Did we not cover this already?”
He could sense rather than see her smile, so he pushed back against the remorse that was threatening and allowed an absurd rush of pride to puff up his chest. Regret and self-recrimination would come later, and he accepted that, but for now, he reveled in the idea that he’d brought her pleasure, even if it was only short-lived.
She smoothed her dress and looked around as if it were just dawning on her that they were outside. “What do we do now?”
Right. There was a party inside, a party on which the future of the Jade hung. He plucked a twig from her hair. “Now, we go inside and act like everything is normal.”
Chapter Thirteen
Trevor didn’t bother waiting until dawn the next morning. If he wasn’t going to fight Galsmith in a proper duel, there was no reason to wait for the sun.
And there was certainly no reason to observe the absurd proprieties that governed ton life. For example, one made morning calls, inexplicably, in the afternoon.
To hell with that.
Also, although there was no expressly articulated rule prohibiting it, when visiting, one generally did not batter the door like an escaped Bedlamite.
To hell with that, too.
Sometimes, it was convenient to be a grown-up gutter rat. Trevor stood in the dark, pounding his fist against the door in an unceasing rhythm, trying to remember all the reasons he was not supposed to murder the Viscount Galsmith.
When the door opened an inch, he seized the opportunity, sticking his foot into the opening to prevent the butler, who was peeking out, from slamming the door in his face. Then he simply yanked, opening the door fully to expose the blinking servant, whose coat had been donned atop a nightshirt.
“Bring me Galsmith,” he growled.
The butler stood to full height. “I’m sorry, sir, the viscount isn’t at home.”
Another of the goddamned nonsensical ton conventions.
“Of course he is. It’s two o’clock in the morning.” He struggled to keep his voice controlled, to contain the roiling sea of emotion that had been threatening to drown him ever since he parted ways with Lucy. He took a step closer and cracked his knuckles, allowing the man to see that he wasn’t wearing gloves. “Bring him to me, or I will come inside and tear this house apart until I find him.”
“What’s going on here?” Lucy’s former employer’s voice called from somewhere inside the house.
“There’s a…gentleman insisting he must see you, my lord.”
Trevor took advantage of the butler’s momentarily split attention and pushed past him, stepping into a dark entrance hall.
“Bailey? What the hell are you doing here?”
He reached into the rucksack he’d been carrying and produced a small, coarse burlap sack. Extending his arm, he let it dangle for a moment, feeling its weight. “I’m doing this.” He let the sack drop and even through the burlap, the coins made quite an impressive thump as the bag hit the marble floor.
The Likelihood of Lucy (Regency Reformers Book 2) Page 15