by Eva Leigh
Tom turned to the lad sitting next to him. “How came you to work here?”
“Most days I’m an apprentice to a stonemason,” the bloke answered. “But a mate of mine, he said there was a place in Bloomsbury where the money was good and they treated you nice so long as you didn’t shirk, and didn’t mind an eyeful of folks joining giblets. That is,” he said, reddening as he glanced at Lucia, “guests having amorous relations with each other.”
Lucia gave a small laugh. “Gordon! I make my living watching people rut. No need to guard your tongue around me.”
Tom chuckled. “And I like your way of saying it better. Joining giblets—that’s a new one.”
“I got another for you, sir,” another man said from the other end of the table. “Dancing the blanket hornpipe.”
“Or a buttock ball,” Jenny threw in.
Within moments, everyone at the table shouted their favorite expressions for sex and roared with laughter.
“Inzuppare il biscotto,” Lucia said. “‘Dunking the biscuit.’”
Saints and sinners, but Tom liked hearing her say filthy things. It aroused him, heating his blood, but more than that, he loved to hear her so light and playful when so often she was made serious by the burdens of responsibility.
But hell if he’d be left out of the fun. “Board a long boat,” he added.
Pleasure coursed through him when the room erupted into more hoots, including Lucia’s laugh. Kitty clapped her hands over Liam’s ears, but her mirth was the loudest.
When everyone calmed down, Tom took a bite of stew. The cook watched him apprehensively.
The flavors of long-simmered meat combined with herbs and wine sang like a chorus. He shut his eyes and made a sound of deep animal pleasure. “Run away with me.”
“Ah, lad,” Jenny said breathlessly, “’tis but a plain stew.” She batted her eyelashes as she spoke. When she caught her assistants looking at her in disbelief, she snapped, “Go on, then! Have your supper, then come right quick to the kitchen. Can’t expect the guests to feed themselves.”
With that, she dashed off.
For several moments, the table was quiet save for the sounds of forks on plates and the draining of cups. It was informal and cozy, and a damned sight more agreeable than any of the elegant Mayfair dinners he’d attended.
Yet he couldn’t quite feel fully relaxed with Lucia beside him. Every time she moved, she brushed against his body, and it was bloody sensual to watch her eat with an unrestrained appetite. She would make small noises of appreciation, rocketing him back to their night together, and recalling the sounds she made when lost in her passion.
“You’ve got a brogue, sir,” Rose, one of the maids said, her words also marked by an Irish lilt. “County Galway?”
He snapped his thoughts back to less erotic subjects.
“Kerry,” he said. “Close to Tralee. Born here in London, but they took me to Ireland as a babe. My ma wanted me raised as she’d been.” As he spoke, he could hear his accent thicken. “It was a grand childhood—I ran wild in the Slieve Mish Mountains—but they brought me back to England when I turned twelve for schooling. I miss it there, I do.”
“The longing for home never quite goes away,” Lucia murmured. Her gaze was down-turned and faraway.
“That, it doesn’t.” The need to take her hand in his and offer her comfort burned strongly, but he couldn’t be so forward in front of the other staff.
“And you?” he asked Rose.
“Ardcath,” she said. “But the farming life wasn’t for me, and I wanted far away, so I came to London.”
“I heard that you Irish make the best storytellers,” one of the men said. “Can’t trust a word out of your mouths.”
Tom stilled, and he heard Lucia’s quick intake of breath.
“Arthur,” she said in a warning tone.
As anger pushed along his limbs, Tom’s hands curled into fists beneath the table.
Though it had been spoken in jest, Arthur had just called Tom a liar. Jibes about his Irish blood rose up from time to time, like sores, and he’d brawled often at Harrow and Oxford for lesser slights.
But this was Lucia’s place of employment. He could swallow his anger—for her.
After a moment, he exhaled slowly. “Might I say that you are indeed extraordinarily handsome.”
There was a long pause, and then everyone at the table laughed at the joke. Lucia chuckled, too, but Tom could hear the relief in her laughter.
He kept himself from starting in surprise when he felt her hand curve around his beneath the table. At her touch, tension eased from him.
The rest of the meal passed quickly as talk flowed with the ease of colleagues who had seen just about everything. He found his food going undisturbed as he watched Lucia laugh and gossip, color high in her cheeks and her dark eyes bright. She was called upon to mediate a friendly dispute between two of the serving women, and her opinion was solicited when one of the male staff asked about the best gift to give a sweetheart. She even loaned the chap a few coins so he might buy a proper bouquet of flowers rather than pluck a lone blossom from someone’s yard.
Lucia had spoken of being far from home, and yet this was her home, amidst the boisterous camaraderie and controlled pandemonium beneath the Orchid Club. Whatever her grim thoughts on romantic love, what she felt for her staff and friends was pure and generous.
Conversation quieted as she checked her timepiece. “We’ve thirty minutes until the doors open. Time for a quince tart, and then it’s off to work.”
Everyone quickly downed the final bites of their meal before rising and hurrying to see to final remaining duties.
“Come with me,” she said to Tom as he stood.
Another kick of nervousness hit him as he wordlessly followed her back upstairs and into the foyer.
“The front door’s our responsibility for the next hour,” she said. She held up a purse. “You know our knock and the watchwords, but remember that the admittance fee is variable.”
“Guests pay what they can afford. A good policy. Ensures everyone has access to pleasure.”
She smiled at him and brightness spread through him at the sight. “Glad you see what makes the Orchid Club so special.” Her expression grew serious, and she picked up a dark blue mask from a nearby table. “Let us don our armor.”
With the look of a knight riding into battle, she tied the ribbons behind her head and adjusted the fit. Lucia was Amina once more.
His body reacted at once, growing tight. This was how he’d first seen her, how she’d carved a place within him. A lifetime would pass before the image of her in her mask could fail to move him.
“Do you have a mask?” she asked, clearly unaware of his thoughts. “We have spares for whoever forgets one.”
“Brought one from home.” Shouldering aside his instinctive response to her, he pulled a black mask from his coat and affixed it in place.
Her eyes darkened as she beheld him, filling him with pleasure that he wasn’t alone in this desire. They stared at each other for long moments, poised on the brink of doing something very, very foolish.
The special knock sounded at the door. He and Lucia broke the bond of their gazes as they went to admit the night’s first guest.
The next hour passed in a whirl. Tom and Lucia met guests at the door, took their money, and explained the rules of the house to any newcomers who did not show them the token. All the while, he felt Lucia’s attention on him, carefully observing as he interacted with the scores of people that passed across the establishment’s threshold.
When a hesitant series of taps heralded another guest, Lucia stepped back to let Tom admit them. A woman with graying hair timorously stepped inside, her slender fingers fidgeting with her mask. She exchanged the watchwords with him, all the while, her gaze darted around the foyer like a frightened mouse.
“This is your first time here, aye?” Tom asked.
The woman nodded and audibly swallowed. “I prom
ised myself I would come after my year of mourning was over.”
He offered her a gentle smile. “A lovely indulgence, and one you surely deserve. Remember, everything that transpires within is voluntary. There’s naught you have to do if you aren’t inclined to. If, at any time, you feel at all uneasy, find me or someone else on staff. We’re here to ensure your comfort, security, and enjoyment.”
The widow nodded, her shoulders straightening. “Thank you.”
Tom took her hand in his and bowed over it. “Entirely my pleasure.”
As the woman headed back toward the drawing room, Lucia drew close. “Beautifully done,” she said admiringly. “We’ve had newcomers turn and flee after taking two steps past the door.”
“A bit of reassurance was all she needed. She’ll find her way.”
They looked at each other, her approval warming him. Their breath aligned, and he fought to keep from tracing his finger along the sleek line of her neck so he might feel the soft heat of her skin.
Her pupils widened and she wet her lips.
“I’m here to relieve you.” Elspeth’s voice broke the spell.
Lucia put several steps between herself and him, and it was like taking air from his lungs. In the voice he’d come to think of as the Manager, she said, “Please go down to the kitchen and make certain there are no problems. Ask Jenny if she needs anything.”
He nodded before striding off to fulfill her request, eager for a task to clear his head. Belowstairs, he found the cook bent over a tray of cakes, carefully piping little icing flowers onto each one.
“You’re an artist,” he said in amazement.
She blew a lock of hair off her forehead. “Wasted effort, if you ask me. People come here to fuck, not to marvel over sweetmeats.”
“True. But I’d wager they wouldn’t have much interest in fucking if you gave them substandard food.” He nodded sagely. “Can’t swive anyone properly on an empty stomach.”
One of the assistants giggled. “If I was the sort who had time for embroidery, I’d put that on a pillow.” The girl immediately got back to work when the cook shot her an irate scowl.
“Are you well provisioned?” Tom asked Jenny. “I’m at your service, should you require anything.”
“We’ve everything we need for tonight. Lucia makes certain of that.” She adjusted the placement of cake slices on a platter. Quick as an adder, she slapped Tom’s hand as he reached for a piece. “Lemon cake’s for guests, not thieving lads.”
“Such cruelty,” he said with a smile.
“Get on with that rogue’s grin of yours.” She waved him toward the door.
He edged around two servers bearing empty platters, and headed back upstairs.
The evening was in full swing, with guests abandoning themselves to the pursuit of pleasure. Several of them milled around the stage, awaiting the performances. Tom exchanged nods with the two burly men who served as muscle, including the one who’d called him a liar. He breathed around the flare of anger that wanted to grow into resentment. Instead, he winked at the serving woman from Ireland. She gave him a saucy wink in return.
They were all working together, laboring to keep the establishment running smoothly. This sense of fellowship was entirely absent from the House of Lords, and even at White’s, the members concerned themselves only with their own needs and gratification.
It was . . . strange. Oddly wonderful.
This was no cure for worries over alliances and the fate not only of his family but of the nation itself. Nothing went away. He never forgot who he was or what responsibilities weighed on him. And yet he could lose himself in the movement of straightforward work, and the camaraderie that came from truly putting one’s back into a shared enterprise.
He had no answers for the questions and doubts that plagued him. They might come . . . or they might not. For now, he was here, with the staff of the Orchid Club, laboring to make the night a success.
He found Lucia keeping an eye on the ballroom, and went to her as though drawn by unseen threads that tied them together. She always pulled him toward her.
“Happy to report that the kitchen is a smooth-sailing ship,” he said brightly. “Though your cook chased me away from a piece of lemon cake.”
Lucia patted his arm. “Should you discharge your duties well, I’ll make certain you get cake.”
“Bloody right, I will.” He affected a brooding glower, a contrast to the pleasure he found in being lighthearted with her. “My sweet tooth is a fearsome thing, and it will not be denied.”
Lucia opened her mouth, but before she could speak, a middle-aged male guest bore down on her.
“I was promised scenes from them naughty books,” he said with irritation. “Been here an hour, and there’s no one on that stage.”
Tom scowled at the man’s rudeness—and to see the guest direct that insolence to Lucia set his blood to boiling.
Yet her smile was placid. “Patience, sir. The performances will begin shortly.”
“When?” the man demanded. “I didn’t pay half a crown to watch amateurs fuck.”
Tension radiated up Tom’s arms and he realized he’d turned his hands into fists.
Lucia, however, showed no fear. Her expression remained placid. “My friend—”
The guest moved to grab her arm. Tom found himself standing between her and the guest, gripping his wrist. There was a roaring in his ears and he choked on the rage that clogged his throat.
“Either calm yourself, sir,” he said through bared teeth, “or you will be shown the door and barred entrance. Understand?”
Grimacing in pain, the guest wilted. “Yes. I . . . I understand.”
Tom released him. Barely able to manage words, he growled, “Go.”
As soon as he could, the man scurried away, losing himself in the throng.
It took a moment before Tom felt he could speak, fury making anything but inarticulate snarls impossible.
“My apologies,” he finally rumbled as he faced her. “I know full well that you are capable of seeing to your own welfare. But when he went to grab you, I . . .” He shook his head as if that could dispel the anger that wanted to drive his body into motion. “If you want me to leave, I’ll abide by your will.”
“I . . .”
They stood face-to-face, a handbreadth between them. Her eyes wide and dark, she looked at him. Seeing that vulnerability in her gaze stirred dark, primal instincts in him, instincts that demanded he protect her and hurt whoever tried to harm her.
“Girls on the street and in the bawdy houses,” she finally said in a low voice, “we looked after each other. But we were comrades in arms. It’s been years since . . .”
“Since . . . ?”
She looked up at him, raw candor in her eyes. “Since anyone—especially a man—has come to my defense.”
Her spare confession shook him, down to the depths where the hulking, rough part of himself dwelt. He wanted to rip the city apart in search of anyone who’d hurt her, and tear those bastards into shreds. “You’re worth protecting.”
Protectiveness was not new to him—when it came to Maeve, he would literally kill anyone who hurt his sister. When it came to safeguarding others, he tried to stand up for them, and then, when the threat had passed, his anger would dissipate quickly. He’d once come to Blakemere’s aid when three toughs had attacked in a country pub—and thirty minutes later, bought them a round of ale as they nursed blackened eyes and bloodied noses.
Yet to bear witness to someone threatening and bullying Lucia . . . He could not let go of his fury. It clenched him tightly, needing release. But it wouldn’t matter if he had the opportunity to thrash that son of a bitch, his rage would continue. Because she had been hurt, because there had been times where no one had protected her. That was unacceptable, unendurable.
He’d been living a life of ease and privilege, not knowing that at the same time she’d been fighting for survival. Yet he knew that now. And from this moment forward, he
swore she’d never again know suffering or injury.
He was a fucking duke. He could make anything happen.
She pressed her lips together, and a gloss of what suspiciously looked like tears shone in her eyes, until she blinked them gone before he could reach up to brush them away. “No need to depart. Your consideration is appreciated.”
“I’m happy to pummel him into a smear on the carpet,” he added darkly.
“Not necessary.” She edged back slightly, donning that invisible mask of the Manager again, yet he could see the vulnerability beneath in the dusk of her gaze. “But I would like you to take a turn through the rooms and ask the staff if they need anything. On your way, let our muscle know about that guest and that they ought to keep a close watch on him. If he acts out again, put him on the curb.”
Much as he wanted to stay, he had to yield to her authority. He took a step, then turned back to her.
“Having you in command . . .” The hell with being professional with her—he’d lost that ability long ago. He felt his gaze heat. “I like it.”
Before she could answer, he strode off, once again grateful for something to do. The stage of being smitten with her was long past. Hell, if he was being honest with himself, he was already beguiled by Lucia, and it wouldn’t take much for that to tip into infatuation.
Doesn’t matter what you feel. You want to protect her, then keep away from her. The line between you can’t be crossed.
He kept himself busy by talking with the two burly men keeping guard, and then he looked in on the young woman washing glasses. They glittered like a wall of crystal as they were stacked beside her.
Suds climbed up her forearms and she shot him a wry look. “I’ll never give up my life of glamor.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“You’re a darling, but there’s nothing to be done but make my way through this.”
Logically, he knew servants kept Northfield House operational. Without them, there would be no meals, no baths, no clean clothes and beds. Yet to truly see how much arduous labor was involved was humbling.