by Alyson Chase
Of course, it wouldn’t. He nodded to her footman as he opened the front door, bit out a polite reply to his carriage driver. There were some things that couldn’t be repaired, no matter how much a man might try. Some things just needed to be discarded.
Like hope.
He returned to the offices of the Bond Agency, ignored the correspondence on his desk, the steps he should take to find the man Vickers had killed, and instead pulled a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer and fell onto the cot he’d had installed for late nights.
He drank and felt sorry for himself until threads of a grey dawn crept through the office’s windows. Then he went to the necessary, cast up his accounts, went back to the cot, and drank some more.
It was no use. Nothing would remove her from his thoughts. His memories. The scent of her still clung to that damndable costume, and he buried his nose in the fabric, breathing her deep.
A tag sewn into the inside hem of the skirts scratched his skin. He held the bit of white fabric to the light. The name The London House was stitched onto the square.
He sighed. Cerise’s theatre was careful with their costumes. If he had to have another uniform made, he’d make sure the tag was transferred. He’d—
He dropped the whiskey bottle, not caring that it spilled onto the thin mattress. “Oh fuck.” He staggered to his desk and the clock sitting on it. Almost noon.
Almost time for Cerise’s rehearsal.
He flung the uniform on the ground and raced out of the office as though the dogs of hell were chomping at his heels.
Chapter Four
“’This bud of love by summer’s ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when ne’re we meet.’”
“Stop!” Carl, the director at The London House Theatre, stomped onto the boards. “That’s not the line, Cerise. It’s when next we meet. Next. You’ve been muddling your lines all morning. What is wrong with you?”
Her cheeks warmed. She was having a bad morning, and she never had bad rehearsals. She remembered her lines, she hit her mark, and she always left audiences in awe.
She blamed the play. She detested Romeo and Juliet. A love story of entitled children too stupid to know life was more than their desires. Pathetic.
Her mind drifted to her own romantic hero. And the look of controlled hurt she’d put on his face when she’d asked him to leave last night.
She wouldn’t feel guilty for acting as though she didn’t care. It was important, for his sake, that he believed it. And she was sure that he did. She was a damned fine actress, after all.
Except for this morning, apparently.
Carl slapped the script against his thigh. “Let’s take a break. You two,” he said, pointing at her and Jonathan, the actor playing Romeo, “be back here in ten. With your lines memorized!” he shouted at her retreating back.
“Are you all right?” Jonathan asked.
“Perfect.” She gave him a tight smile and yanked open her dressing room door. “I’ll see you in ten.”
She slammed the door behind her and leaned back against it. It was good she’d decided that last night was the last time she’d see Wil. He was interfering with her job, getting in her head, and that was something she could not allow.
She was born for the stage. She’d worked her way up from Villager Number Two in the nastiest of playhouses to leading roles in a Theatre-Royal. She wasn’t going to stop until she was the darling of London. Of Europe. Until her parents, who’d thought her worthless and turned her out on the streets when she was but fourteen, saw what she was made of.
And she wouldn’t let a man who was the devil between her legs sway her from her purpose.
She stalked to her dressing table, feeling that man with each step she took. It was difficult to put someone out of your mind when the memory of his body, of the way he took you, was a constant ache. But forget him she would.
She yanked open the bottom drawer of her table, hoping to find a bottle of scotch. At this point, even sherry would do.
All she found was a small bag of Pomfret cakes rattling at the bottom. She huffed out a smile. Netta’s favorite treat. Cerise had bought them a month ago and forgotten to give them to her.
She pulled the bag from the drawer. The sweet scent of licorice teased her nose. Oh well. Her treat now.
Fabric rustled behind her dressing screen, and Cerise started. “Who’s there? Is that you, Ella?” The stage mistress frequently came into clean and mend the costumes.
But it wasn’t the sweet, grandmotherly woman who stepped out from behind the screen. And it wasn’t a sewing needle he held in his hand.
The blade was short, only the length of his palm. But a bolt of fear skittered down her spine nonetheless. To a man who knew how to use a dagger, its size was of no consequence.
And this man looked like he knew how to use it.
“Who are you?” She lifted her chin, tried to sound unafraid.
The edges of his lips curled up. “So you didn’t see me last night. I didn’t think you had, but then, I had to be certain.” He pulled a crumpled maid’s cap from his pocket. Showed her the tag that read London House.
Her gaze dropped to his feet. And the long gash running along the toe of his right boot.
A tremor ran through her limbs. She hadn’t thought about that tag last night. She’d left a damn calling card laying in the streets.
“You…you work for Lord Vickers.” She felt behind her on her table, but nothing pointy met her hand. She felt nothing but those damn Pomfret cakes. “You’re the one who…”
“Killed for the earl,” he finished for her. He took a step closer, putting himself between her and the door. “What were you and your partner doing there? Were you friends of Harrison?”
“Harrison?” She shook her head. That must be the name of the murdered man. “We were there at the request of his wife. She thought he was unfaithful to her.”
The man barked a laugh. “And you in your little maid’s costume was supposed to prove his weakness.” He pointed the blade at her, waved it up and down her body. “Vickers wouldn’t have stood a chance.” His smile got even uglier. “Too bad I’m under a deadline, or we could have some fun together. But you did tell your actor friend ten minutes, yes? No time to enjoy that body.”
He rocked back on his heels, blinking, as the bag of confectionaries smacked into his nose. A trickle of blood ran from his left nostril, and he wiped it with his fingers, examined his hand. “You fucking slag.”
Thank heaven for stale Pomfret cakes. Now she only needed about fifty more of the bags to launch a full-scale assault. As that wasn’t an option, she grabbed whatever was at hand. Pots of face paint splattered against his jacket. Hair pins were flung into his eyes.
He recovered from the surprise of the attack much too quickly, and swiped the veil she’d flung at him from mid-air. With a roar, he charged, his body slamming into hers, her hip thumping into the table. They bounced off the wall, crashed into the screen, taking it down in a flurry of costumes and flailing legs.
Her heart raced in her chest. Her mind focused on only one object. She found the hand holding the blade and grabbed his wrist with both of her own hands. The only thing that mattered was keeping the blade away from her skin.
“Fucking slag,” he hissed in her ear.
She bit back a hysterical laugh. He was repeating his lines. He needed a better script writer.
He wrapped his free hand around her throat. Squeezed. And suddenly, keeping the blade at bay wasn’t her only concern. Getting air into her lungs became just as important.
Black spots danced before her eyes. She brought her leg up, made contact with his groin. But between her skirts and the awkward position, her knee did nothing more than make him grunt.
She let go of his wrist with one hand. Went for his eyes.
He howled with pain. Yanked back and backhanded her across the face.
Her ears rang.
Her jaw popped with pain. But at least she had a few seconds of blessed air. She didn’t know how long it would last, how long she could fend him off before he either cut her throat or choked her to death. But for a few moments her lungs weren’t screaming in agony, and the feeling was heavenly.
He pressed the tip of the blade between her breasts. “You fucking sl—”
“Slag. Yes, I know.” She looked him straight in the eye, refusing to show the bastard fear. He might take her life, but he wouldn’t take her pride. “You need to come up with better lines. You’re becoming repetitive.”
He blinked, surprise crossing his face.
And then he was gone.
Lifted off her by the angriest, most terrifying man she’d ever seen.
With one hand at the back of his pants, the other at his collar, Wil threw the killer head-first against the wall. He raked his eyes over her body, his expression looking barely human. “You all right?”
She nodded, for once no clever words falling from her tongue.
Wil looked feral. Like something sent from hell, ready to kill anyone who crossed his path.
The assassin didn’t stand a chance.
Wil leapt on the man. Cerise knew his leg would be aching later, but right now, he must have felt no pain.
He ripped the blade from the killer’s hand. Pummeled his face until it was nothing but a bloody mask.
A crowd gathered at her open door. Carl and Jonathan wore twin expressions of horror.
But no one stepped in to try to stop Wil.
No one wanted to face his wrath. Confront the beast.
Cerise stumbled to her feet. “Wil.” She cleared her rasping throat. Spoke louder. “Wil!”
He didn’t hear her, didn’t stop. The assassin lay motionless on the ground, but still Wil throttled him.
She hurried forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Wil,” she breathed. She squeezed him tight, hoping to bring him back to his senses.
He’d been defending her. There should be no legal consequences if he killed the man.
But there were consequences that went beyond law. That went right to the soul. She knew them too well. She didn’t want Wil to face them. Not on her behalf.
His chest heaved. He planted one bloody hand against the wall, not speaking, just looking down at the broken body before him.
Finally, finally, he grabbed on to the arm wrapped across his chest. Squeezed.
And she knew she had him back. Her sweet Wil. Her controlled Wil.
Her pain-in-the-ass Wil who just wouldn’t leave her be.
She let herself hold him for one more moment. Inhaled his musk, his heat, all the scents that made up Wil.
Then she let him go and stood back. “Zis is quite the mess you’ve made of my dressing room. I’ll expect your agency to reimburse me for the paint to cover the bloodstains.”
Chapter Five
They were all in Cerise’s townhouse. He’d insisted that a physician be sent for to attend her, ignoring her loud objections. The saw-bones had come and gone, declaring Cerise would suffer no permanent injury.
Only then had the fine tremors in his hands started to subside. Only then could Wil suck in a full breath.
John, Lord Summerset, and his wife, Lady Summerset, had come ‘round as soon as they’d heard of the attack on Cerise. Well, as soon as Summerset had talked with the local magistrate, made certain that there would be no legal repercussions for Wil’s attack on the still unidentified man.
It was nice having a powerful earl as one of the owners of the Bond Agency. And as his friend.
“Are you certain you’re all right.” Lady Summerset leaned forward in her chair and squeezed Cerise’s knee. “You could come stay with us for a couple days. You know John’s chef is exquisite and will serve you anything you want.”
Cerise patted her friend’s hand, her skirts brushing against Wil’s thigh.
He dug his fingers into the settee’s armrest. It was torture sitting so close to the woman and not being able to hold her.
“I am certain, Netta,” Cerise said. Her voice was husky, her throat bruised from the bastard’s hands, and Wil wanted to throttle him all over again.
Maybe if the man ever woke up, he would.
“Inquiries are being made as to how this Harrison and Vickers were connected.” Summerset ran his finger along his wife’s arm. “It would be nice if the hired killer recovered to where he could testify against Vickers, but alas, that doesn’t look likely.” He inclined his head to Wil. “What’s done is done.” And was needed to be done, his look said.
Summerset would understand the call to beat the living hell out of any man who touched the woman you loved. He’d been in that position himself.
The earl’s gaze flicked between Wil and Cerise, missing nothing.
Wil huffed. He could keep two inches between his and Cerise’s bodies, call her Miss DuBois, be as formally polite as any duke, but Summerset would still suspect the truth that there was something between them.
Perhaps Cerise had spoken to her friend about their relationship and she, in turn, had told John.
Perhaps Cerise had asked for advice on how best to rid herself of Wil.
His gut twisted. He clenched his hands, needing another target to beat his rage and all-consuming anguish out upon.
“Stop.” Cerise tapped his fist. “You’ll only make your knuckles bleed again.” She peeled back the linen she’d wrapped around his hands and examined his skin.
Summerset stood. “Perhaps it’s time we left. As I understand it, Lady Vickers will start divorce proceedings on the morrow. There’s a lot of paperwork for you to catch up on in order to assist her claims.” He smirked at Wil, knowing how much he hated paperwork.
Lady Summerset was more reluctant to leave. “Are you sure you’re all right, Cerise. I can—”
Her husband took her elbow, tugging her to the door. “Cerise knows where to find us if she needs anything.” He gave Cerise a look. “Anything at all, understand?”
“But of course.” Cerise didn’t stand to walk them to the door. Letting Wil know just how exhausted she truly was.
After he heard the front door close, he pulled Cerise into his arms and stood.
“What are you doing?” She slapped his shoulder. “Put me down zis instant.”
“I’m taking you to bed.”
She narrowed her eyes. Opened her mouth.
“To sleep,” he quickly added. “The doctor said you need rest, and I’m going to make certain you get it.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, looking adorably petulant. “You take liberties you have not earned.”
Oh, he’d earned them. There were other liberties he could never earn. He could only wait to see if she’d gift them to him.
But this, making sure she recovered fully from injuries that were his responsibility, he’d earned the hell out of these liberties.
Not letting her go, he pulled the covers back on her bed, settled them both on the mattress. He wrapped his arms around her, nestling her perfect backside against his hips. They fit together so well.
A fact Cerise would never recognize.
She sighed, snuggled deeper into his embrace, and let her muscles relax. “Because you saved me, you can sleep here tonight.” She was a queen, deigning to give her subject a scrap of meat. “But only sleeping. And only for tonight. Understood?”
He buried his nose in her hair. “Understood.”
He let thoughts of tomorrow drift from his mind. Tonight, right now, Cerise was safe. She was in his arms.
And if he could never have more than that, for tonight at least, it was enough.
###
Wil and Cerise will be starring in more short stories and in the upcoming Agents of Desire series which will follow the detectives of the Bond Agency and the women who steal their hearts.
Can’t wait for the new series to start? Check out how Cerise and Wil f
irst met in PLAYED BY THE EARL.
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