Tempting Fate

by Kerrigan Byrne

  One moment he was cataloguing his final vision of her. The sheen of her hair, the heightened color of her full lower lip as it emerged from between her teeth. The elegant arch of her neck, at the base of which little fair wisps formed tight ringlets in the humidity of the hothouse.

  And the next moment… she’d bounced off his back like an adorable beam of sunlight.

  Gabriel had been speechless as he turned to see her gaping over at him. Even rumpled in a soiled apron and a streak of dirt dashed across one pale cheek, she was unutterably lovely.

  Ethereal.

  He’d been frozen with the fear that she’d recognize him. Even though he looked nothing like himself— nothing like the monster who’d terrified her a year prior. He’d spent the past several months perfecting an English accent. He’d allowed his hair to grow out for the first time in decades.

  But he had other identifiable characteristics.

  His height and breadth, for one. The depth of his voice. The color of his eyes. And a myriad of scars, albeit less severe ones, that still marred his features.

  Felicity’s eyes, blue as the Mediterranean, had glimmered with worry for him rather than approbation. She’d asked if she’d hurt him, and it was all he could do not to laugh.

  Gabriel couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.

  It astonished him that she’d offered him the position while he bumbled around like a demented buffoon.

  She couldn’t possibly understand the effect she had on him. Didn’t realize that her apology had been the first he’d received from someone not bleeding and/or about to die.

  Nor that she was the first woman to ever reach for him of her own accord, let alone tug at his arm.

  While he’d struggled to process that monumental occasion, she’d invited him into her parlor, and into her employ, before he’d quite understood what was going on.

  He could choke on the bitter irony of the entire bloody situation.

  After he and Raphael were reported to have died in a fire, Gabriel had lurked about Cresthaven Place for several months as he recovered from his multiple surgeries, telling himself he wasn’t watching Felicity, but guarding her. He feared that Marco Villanueve, the man he had betrayed before he’d faked his death, would come to harm her, if only to get his revenge.

  Gabriel had lied to himself for a while, convincing himself he was only looking after family. Raphael had married her twin, after all.

  But he couldn’t deny how hungry he was for a mere peek at her. For the barest glimpse of her golden hair as she swept from a carriage to her home. For the sound of her voice as she replied to a greeting from a neighbor.

  As it happened, Marco Villanueve had disappeared from the face of the planet months ago. Everyone assumed him dead, run afoul of the underworld.

  Cresthaven had been quiet and safe since her parents’ deaths, as callers outside of the family were not allowed during mourning. Not to mention, Felicity had always been surrounded and protected by loved ones.

  And so, after a long year, Gabriel could no longer put off fulfilling his promise to join his brother.

  He’d lingered in the darkness too long, feeling a one-sided companionship when her lamp would go on at all hours. Knowing she couldn’t sleep either, that dreams were not a safe place for her troubled mind. Wishing to hold and soothe her.

  Wishing she would do the same.

  On his favorite nights, she would pull the drapes aside and gaze out into the dark as if searching for something.

  In his more pitiful moments, he’d fancy that something was him.

  Just as Gabriel had promised to give up the deviant and obsessive proclivity of guarding her, of watching her…

  She’d been attacked.

  Whoever said irony was humorous could fuck right off.

  Well, there was no chance he’d leave now, not until he made certain her world was safe once more.

  Though, he’d help get her a husband over his own dead body.

  Granted, to her he’d been dead nigh on a year now. And he had to remain that way, to keep her safe. Safe from his past. From his enemies. From his sins and his crimes and his consuming, nigh demonic need.

  Her brother-in-law, Chief Inspector Carlton Morley, had cautioned that if he caught Gabriel in London again, there would be no saving him from the noose.

  Yes, he was bloody well aware he played a dangerous game venturing into her life.

  Into her home.

  This would be a treacherous lie.

  Good thing he was used to danger. That he could think of no better death than one spent in service of her life.

  But not before he lethally and efficiently dismantled anyone who threatened her.

  Was he a violent man, she’d asked.

  He was violence personified.

  Which was why he could never be the man for her.

  No, she’d marry a lord who could keep her cosseted in the society in which she’d been born. Who could offer her a name and a pedigree and all the gentility bred into the upper class.

  Gentility he never even hoped to possess.

  “You shouldn’t have invited me in,” he muttered as he followed her up the grand staircase. He would have protected her no matter whom she selected to employ. And as he watched her rear sway at eye level, he began to fear that spending any time in her company was a perilous mistake.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked over her shoulder.

  He cast about for an answer, not meaning to have spoken his thoughts aloud. “You haven’t seen my references. Nor my skills. Your decision was hasty. I could be terrible at my job.”

  She snorted a little. “It’s rather worse than that; I haven’t even seen your face. But I believe you know what you’re about, and that you are not the sort of man who would look for a position he could not fill. Besides, I imagine that your mere presence would prove a discouragement to trouble. Should anyone come at you, they’d break like waves on the rocks.”

  He grunted. That was true enough.

  Wait… His brow furrowed. What did she mean she hadn’t seen his face?

  Out of habit, he brought his fingers up to check to see if the mask that had been a part of his life since the age of sixteen had somehow magically appeared affixed to his brow.

  Though he’d been a year without it, he often still felt quite naked.

  Exposed.

  No. His features were bare, so why—?

  Felicity’s hip crashed into a delicately carved side table, sending an empty vase flying into the air.

  Gabriel caught it and gingerly returned the delicate object to the table once she righted it again.

  “Thank you.” She huffed out an anxious giggle, turning away without looking at him, to press her hands against flaming red cheeks. “I really need to find my spectacles, or I’ll be hopelessly blind for tomorrow night.”

  “What’s tomorrow night?”

  She heaved a soul-weary sigh. “Lady Brentwell is hosting a ball. It’s my first foray back into society since my parents’ deaths.” She paused as if plucking a thought out of the sky. “I’m hoping you have formal wear, Mr. Severand. If not, Mr. Bartholomew is a more than adequate tailor in a pinch—”

  “I’ll send for some things,” he clipped, liking the idea of the sour-faced Mr. Bartholomew attending him only slightly more than the ball he now dreaded with his entire being.

  “At my expense, of course,” she insisted.

  Gabriel wanted to argue. He was without question the wealthier of the two of them, but could not say so if he intended to keep up this ruse. Instead, he examined their surroundings as they climbed to the third floor.

  Cresthaven was a grand old place, the name as original as the dynasty that currently sat on the throne. It lacked some of the more modern amenities and popular Egyptian and East Asian influence in décor, hailing back to a more medieval aesthetic that evoked the gothic feel of Barcelona. Heavy tapestries did little to muffle the sounds of their footsteps on the marble floors, n
or the creaks of the ancient grand staircase.

  The opulence was undeniable, however, in the crystal tinkling beneath the gas lamps, and the expensive statuary lining the halls.

  “These windows over the garden trellis should be locked, as the structure could be easily climbed,” he noted aloud. He’d watched his brother do that very thing, and sneak into Mercy Goode’s bedroom to have his way with her.

  “The washroom skylights should be secured, as well.” He pointed at the doors, doing his best not to think of any sort of sex happening in this house, lest his body stir.

  Never. Not. Ever.

  “How did you know those were the washrooms?” she queried, moving to secure the window latches.

  Shit. He couldn’t very well say that he noted the tenants of the house carried lamps in the night to visit this very spot, only to return to their rooms. “Erm, many of my employers have been in this borough; the layouts are often the same in these houses.”

  “Oh, of course, I never thought of that.” She accepted his answer with blithe naiveté, and part of him hated that someday, learning the truth about him would teach her to be more cynical. To distrust and to suspect.

  Innocence never lasted long in his world. He hated that it would dilute hers as well.

  Her life, though, was a worthy trade.

  “Here’s your room.” She opened a door and stepped aside, giving him a wide berth.

  “My room?” He peered into what was, even to him, a palatial accommodation done in masculine shades of green and bronze. “Shouldn’t I bed down in the servants’ quarters?”

  “The servants’ quarters are all occupied, I’m afraid, and they’re also very far away from my chamber, which is just there.” She motioned to the next door over. “Seeing as how the interloper made it into the house, I… I’d rather you were close by.”

  Gabriel was not a man prone to panic, but it rose within him now. There would only be a wall between them.

  This was a perilous fiction. He could— he should— confess everything right now.

  I’m Gabriel Sauvageau living as Gareth Severand. You’ve seen my ruined face. You’ve been terrified of me before. Having me beneath your roof might prove more dangerous than if I left you alone.

  Because I am a violent man, and other violent men want me to remain dead.

  They’d try to tear you apart just to make me watch.

  And then you’d meet the real me.

  The one drenched in blood.

  No, best he stayed a dead man. A distant memory. Someone she could say a polite fare-thee-well to when the time came. He could slip back into the lonely shadows, leaving her in the light where she belonged.

  The fact that her family— that her own twin— hadn’t confided the Severand names to her made it clear that they also wanted their sister protected from the truth. At least for now.

  Christ, this was complicated.

  Something she’d just said permeated the maelstrom of his thoughts. “Wait… you have a full servants’ quarters? A full staff, only for you?”

  “Well…” Her lips twisted in adorable chagrin. “I couldn’t let any of them go, could I? Not when I could afford to keep them. It’s not their fault Cresthaven emptied out rather quickly. First Nora, then Pru, Mercy, and my parents… The staff rely on me for income. Should I put out the second cook who is raising her grandchildren? Or perhaps Heather, one of our upstairs maids, a widow who cares for her ailing father? Or Mrs. Winterton, who was once my governess, but is recently orphaned and destitute. Why, she pays for the schooling of her younger sister. I’d be a monster to let her go.”

  “But have they anything to do?” he queried.

  “Certainly.” Her eyes shifted as she searched her thoughts for an answer. “I mean… our silver has never gleamed so brightly, and I challenge you to find a speck of dust.”

  Lord, but she was kind.

  Her exceedingly gentle heart was what had set her apart from her twin in the first place. Mercy Goode was like a storm, whirling about with a charming and brilliant chaos that endlessly entertained and enchanted his brother.

  Gabriel liked the woman, there was certainly no reason not to, but he was tired of chaos. His life had been one hurricane after another. One long and endless battle surrounded by subordinates equally as dangerous and untrustworthy as enemies.

  Felicity was a cool and quiet breeze in contrast to her sister’s bluster. The gentle rustle of leaves, the swish of long grass, and the flap of a hummingbird’s wings.

  She was the music that one must be still and quiet to hear.

  And he appreciated her all the more for it.

  Her heart was as large as the black hole swirling in his own chest, and he often wondered what it must be like to care so much. To feel so deeply. To love with such unabashed confidence.

  Such trust and grace.

  The self-conscious clearing of her throat made Gabriel painfully aware that he’d been contemplating her in silence for much too long.

  “Well, here I shall leave you to be settled…” She tucked a stray tousled ringlet behind her ear.

  “Miss Goode, I—”

  “Would you join me for dinner at half eight? I would like to discuss the particulars of my— our— upcoming schedule for the season. I’m certain you’ll find it exceedingly tedious, but—”

  “Yes.” He’d listen to the Iliad read in its original language if only to share a meal with her.

  “Excellent. Good afternoon, Mr. Severand.” She held out her hand, though her timid gaze didn’t lift above his vest.

  That was twice in one day she’d reached for him.

  Holding his breath, he took her hand, afraid to put any pressure on the tiny bones of her elegant fingers. He shook thrice, forcing himself to let them go with an unstable exhale.

  She directed a winsome smile at his cravat, and scurried away.

  Gabriel shut the door and leaned against it, suddenly feeling as if he’d been released from some sort of velvet rope. A manacle chaining his body to hers. She could have walked him like a hound, and he’d happily submit to her leash.

  She was going to destroy him. That’s all there was to it.

  God. Why hadn’t he taken Raphael up on his advice to pay for a woman’s touch so long ago?

  Regardless of what his face used to look like, he could have had a strumpet in the dark, he could have… done any sort of thing, really. And if he had, maybe the mere press of Felicity’s hand wouldn’t have him tied up in absolute knots.

  He curled his fist around the ghost of her grip, savoring every whorl and ebb of gloveless fingertips.

  “Cheever,” the trill of her sweet voice rang from down the hall. “Could I trouble you to check in on Mr. Severand? He’ll need to arrange for his things to be brought for an extended stay.”

  “Of course, Miss Felicity, and I’ll set him a place in the servants’ hall for supper.”

  “Actually, he’ll be joining Mrs. Winterton and me for dinner; we’ll have much to discuss.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  Could I trouble you… Who spoke to their servants in such a way?

  Felicity Goode.

  Looking around the guest room, he felt so strange… he was in her house. Inside the very place he’d watched for so long in the golden glow of the windows as he stood outside in the cold.

  He’d have to remember not to get comfortable here. As soon as he put the severed pieces of the bastard who threatened her into the ground, he’d disappear.

  All he had to do was keep himself from killing the lucky blighter she selected to marry.

  Chapter 3

  Many people had accused Felicity of burying her face in a book, but in this instance, it was true in the literal sense.

  The search for her spectacles in the hothouse had been unsuccessful, and she hadn’t wanted to bother anyone else by asking them to hunt for her. She’d simply have to go to the optician and purchase a couple of new pairs.

  When a delivery cart arr
ived with a few sparse trunks for her intriguing new employee, she did what any self-respecting lady of the house might do…

  She hid in her parlor to avoid having to meet anyone.

  As pitiful as she was, she could only summon strength for so many strangers in a week’s time, and Gareth Severand took up a lot of space. Not only in the physical sense, but also more indistinguishable ways. It was as though she could feel where he stood beneath her roof, like a shadow in the walls.

  This awareness both enthralled and exhausted her, and she had to save herself for the torture that was tomorrow’s impending ball.

  When her parents were alive, she’d not been allowed to read novels, so she and Mercy had sneaked them from libraries and friends’ houses.

  But now she could keep them in the open on her very own bookshelves, and escape into the world of Fabian and Maryanne as they explored their passions on the high seas.

  She draped herself on the chaise by the fire, one foot propped on the seat and the other on the floor as she reclined on a tufted pillow.

  Even if she had recovered her spectacles, Felicity suspected she’d have held the book just as close to her eyes so her mind could absorb the words in a whisper. Each paragraph was so mortifyingly, titillatingly scandalous, she often had to peek around to make certain no one knew the debauchery in which her thoughts were absorbed.

  Fabian, a reprobate and a pirate, was stalking the prim and proper Maryanne. Not cornering her, per se, but wickedly seducing her.

  Relentlessly enticing her.

  And even though he’d stolen her from her betrothed, the handsome but villainous Duke of Rottersham, Maryanne had just succumbed to Fabian’s ravishing kiss.

  Felicity’s own lips parted as the scene came to life in her mind. A windswept sea. A man-o’-war bearing down upon the woman who would make this villain her lover.

  And a kiss that was both forbidden and unholy, sealing their fates and their hearts together.

  Every time Felicity encountered such a scene, her ever-tense muscles seemed to both awaken and melt. Inside, her body became both liquid and sharp.

  Several sensations twisted inside of her all at once.