The Scoundrel in Her Bed

by Lorraine Heath

  He lifted his gaze and pinned her to the spot as effectively as Neville had fastened dead butterflies he’d found to a small board for his collection when he was much younger. She’d always found the practice morbid, and whenever he went away to school for a few months, she’d free the colorful creatures and give them a proper burial.

  At the moment, however, she feared she was in danger of expiring because it was a challenge to draw breath into her lungs with his dark, penetrating eyes focused so intently on her. Slowly he came to his feet, and she had the unsettling thought that she’d made a terrible mistake in coming here, in agreeing to be his partner. Certainly, she could find safer means for earning money—climbing on to rooftops and cleaning chimneys, for example.

  “Are you ready to get to work?” he asked.

  With those few words, he broke the spell and she could breathe again. She’d applied her signature to an agreement, which she would honor to the best of her ability. He needed her knowledge, what she knew in her head, not her body. If only he hadn’t kissed her the day before, if only he hadn’t reminded her of what he was capable of making her feel. She swallowed hard, inhaled deeply. “Yes, quite.”

  She was rather pleased she managed to stroll to her desk without giving the impression her legs were somewhat weakened by his nearness. She sat in the comfy leather chair and began taking stock of the items on her desk: parchment, pen, inkwell, his backside.

  He’d wandered over and taken up his position as though he were completely unaware of the inappropriateness of his putting that portion of his anatomy within easy reach, as though he were oblivious to the way the cloth of his trousers pulled taut against his backside, outlined his hard thigh. He’d removed his jacket so nothing shielded her eyes from the scandalous sight, and she remembered how lovely it had felt to dig her fingers into that firm flesh and muscle.

  Leaning forward, he planted his forearm on that enticing thigh. “We have a cook.”

  She feared he detected a hunger in her eyes and was misinterpreting it. “So we have kitchens?” Inane question. If they didn’t, why would they need a cook?

  “Down below. So if you fancy a cup of tea or some lemonade or anything else for that matter, she can prepare it for you. We have”—he furrowed his brow—“they’re not exactly servants, but they see to the place, tidying it up, running errands, fetching things. We’ll get you a little bell, so you can call for them when you’re in need of something.”

  “I don’t need them waiting on me.”

  “There’s a time when you would have.”

  “Yes, well, that time has passed. Truly, Finn, I’ve left that life behind. I enjoy seeing to my own needs.”

  “All of them?” His voice was low, sensual, flavored with decadence.

  She knew to what he was referring, the naughty scamp. The pleasuring of herself. Angling her chin haughtily, she strove to look down on him even though he towered over her. “The ones that need seeing to.”

  “I’m always available if any require assistance.”

  She sighed. “Finn, if you continue to persist in this unacceptable manner, our partnership is likely to become unpleasant for us both.”

  He grinned. “You’re using some of my earlier argument against me.”

  “We are business partners. We can be nothing more.”

  “In spite of how things ended, it was good between us, Vivi.”

  “We were young and foolish.”

  “Now, we’re older and wiser. It should be even better.”

  She was prepared to argue further, but he shoved himself off the desk, taking that lovely backside with him.

  “Come along,” he said, grabbing his jacket from where it rested on the back of his chair and working his way into it. “Let’s introduce you to the staff we presently have on hand.”

  There was the cook, who looked to be too thin to do much sampling of her own work, a man referred to as “The Boss,” who was charged with keeping order on the gaming floor, the dealers and croupiers, a barman, young lads who saw to the guests’ needs, bringing drinks when requested, two footmen who served the meals in the dining room, two girls who swept, mopped, dusted, and set the fires.

  “Why can’t women serve as dealers?” she asked, once she was again seated behind her desk and he was behind his.

  He scooted his chair back, and she feared he was going to bring that backside within reach. Instead he simply twisted around, placed his elbow on his desk and his chin in his palm, and studied her. “Because it’s a man’s job.”

  “Why?”

  He blinked, his brow furrowed.

  “A woman can deal cards. I’ve often dealt when I played whist.”

  “These aren’t afternoon pastimes. The games are designed to bring us money.”

  “Why not have men doing the dusting?”

  “Men don’t dust.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “We’re not going to turn things upside down.”

  “I’m not asking you to, but, Finn, if you want women coming here, joining your club, playing your games, you need them to see that you view them as equal as men doing the same thing.”

  “You suggested we hire men to dance with them. Wouldn’t they prefer to have a handsome bloke flirting with them as he dealt the cards or handed them the dice?”

  He might have a point there. “Just consider the possibility of hiring women for positions other than tidying up.”

  He shrugged. “You’ll be part of the selection process in the future. You can weigh in on whom we should hire.”

  The thought of it sent a thrill and a shiver of dread through her. Her mother had taught her what to look for in a servant, a footman specifically since they were so visible in the household. She suspected the employees here needed more than matching heights and fetching calves. Still, she wasn’t going to divulge any trepidation on her part. “Very good. How many ladies should I invite?”

  “Every single one you know.”

  In retrospect, it was a silly question. “Most families are in the country now. Some will be returning for the Little Season. Perhaps we should have . . . not a ball exactly since this is for women only, but some sort of affair. A social evening where they can get a flavoring of what we offer. Maybe they could play at the tables for free that night.”

  “We’re not a charity.”

  “No, of course not. But a night where we dangle the fun to be had—like bait, when fishing. Then once they’re on the hook, they are ours.”

  “When have you ever been fishing?”

  “My father took me a time or two on the estate.” One of her more pleasant memories of him, when he’d been loving and gentle with her. Now all she could imagine when she thought of him was his role in seeing Finn hauled away.

  “Do you miss it? The life you had?”

  She heard true interest and sympathy in his tone. He wouldn’t fault her if she did. But she had no desire to travel that path at the moment. With determination, she picked up the pen he’d laid out for her and dipped it in the inkwell. “I shall invite them to an evening at the club three weeks hence, so if they aren’t in the city, they will have time to get to town should they decide to come.” She looked askance at him. “Does that meet with your approval?”

  “You’re in charge of getting them here. I leave it to you to determine the best way to do that.”

  She was surprised by the pleasure his words brought her. Having been on her own for three months now, she’d grown accustomed to making her own decisions, but no one had ever expressed a belief she would make the correct ones, that her opinions had merit. Even the sisters had occasionally questioned the wisdom of her actions, expressing their concerns. Although she’d appreciated that they cared enough to worry over her, it was somewhat reassuring now to have his support.

  But incredibly dangerous to wonder how much nicer it would be to have so much more than that—to once again have his heart.

  Chapter 18

  Finn sat sprawled in a lar
ge plush chair in his living quarters—he’d lied to her about these rooms not being furnished because he’d wanted her to have the room that carried his scent. After she’d mentioned it yesterday, he’d thought if she went to sleep in that room, she might dream of him—and fought not to think about how close she was, within reach, at the other end of a lengthy hallway. Having her here was a mistake because he’d gotten very little of his own work done having spent more time than was wise surreptitiously peering over to watch her. The way her brow pleated when she concentrated, the way she would touch the un-inked end of the pen against her lower lip, the way her mouth would curl up whenever she was pleased with whatever decision she made and began writing.

  She enjoyed making lists apparently. She’d created one of the ladies she would invite to the club, the tunes the orchestra would be asked to play, the types of refreshments they would have on hand, little foods that could be enjoyed while wandering around. From what he could gather, their club would very much resemble the festive atmosphere of a ball, not the dark, wicked place he’d envisioned, but he could see now the wisdom in not going that route.

  So while it was a mistake to have her so near because she served as a distraction, having her on hand to provide her expertise regarding what women of her caliber would fancy had been a wise move on his part, ensured his—their—club met with a measure of success.

  Shoving himself to his feet, he began pacing the room like a caged animal, desperate for freedom. He’d done that for five years in his small cell, thinking about gaining vengeance on her and her family, her father especially. But when he’d finally been released, he’d simply wanted to be done with it all. Especially as her father had died while he’d been locked away.

  But since the final time he’d heard the clank of the key going into the lock of his cell door, he’d been unable to stay in a room for long. He certainly wasn’t going to remain in his quarters simply because she was inhabiting hers. He needed to get out for a bit. He needed a drink.

  He stepped out of his rooms and onto the landing that circled the upper floor and looked down on the gaming area. A dozen or so ladies—the wives or daughters or sisters of wealthy merchants he’d met through their association with Mick—were testing their luck at a couple of the card tables. They were desperately in need of more patrons, not only to give their employees something to do but to refill their coffers. Vivi’s timeline of three weeks seemed far too long. He needed the elite ladies she could bring in to make a difference as soon as possible.

  Heading for the front stairway, he noted that light was spilling out of the office. Stopping, he glanced inside. She was working, even though they’d both decided not more than an hour ago when the clock struck eight to be done for the day. Leaning against the doorjamb, he watched her, making note of the fact that she appeared . . . at ease, content. Years ago, she’d seemed happy to be with him, but he’d always had the impression she saw gladness as a fleeting thing, only to be had when she was in his company. He wondered now if she’d agreed to marry him because she’d thought he’d bring her happiness, had been placing the burden of that responsibility on him. He’d been willing to take it, to do anything to make her smile. He’d liked feeling needed, wanted, desired. But there was something much more powerful about desiring this woman who had found her own happiness—not in nice clothing or a comfortable dwelling or myriad items, but in herself. “Don’t you think—”

  Releasing a little screech, she flung herself back in the chair, nearly tipping it over. Breathing heavily, staring at him with wide eyes, she pressed a hand to her chest. “My God, Finn, you startled me.”

  It took everything within him to bite back the laughter he was fairly certain she wouldn’t appreciate. “Terrified, more like.”

  “I was lost in my efforts here.”

  “Thought we’d decided to call it a day.”

  “This is personal.” She gathered up several sheaves of paper, opened a drawer, and placed everything inside.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I was hoping we were past keeping secrets from each other.”

  She clasped her hands together on top of the desk. He could see her knuckles turning white as she studied them. He was struck hard with the disappointment that after all they’d discovered, after they’d become partners in the club, she didn’t trust him, wouldn’t share with him. “I’m going to Gillie’s for a pint.”

  He turned on his heel—

  “Finn?”

  He stopped, waited three heartbeats, needing the time to turn his expression into an unreadable mask. He swung back around, wishing she didn’t look so bloody vulnerable.

  “I’m writing an article about my experiences in the streets. It is my hope to have it published in a newspaper, to bring attention to the reforms that are needed when it comes to the treatment of our most vulnerable.”

  Even from this distance he could see her cheeks turning red as though she were embarrassed by the admission.

  “I suspect it’s not good enough to be published—”

  “If you pour half your passion into it, Vivi, it’ll be good enough.”

  “You’re kind to say so, but you were always a voracious reader so you know it takes more than a desire to form a well-turned phrase. It takes a certain skill, which I fear I might lack. I’m trying to be incredibly honest with the words I use, about what I’ve seen, the women I’ve met. It’s terribly hard. It’s like baring one’s soul. Sometimes what I write makes me feel as though I’m in the process of discarding my clothes in preparation of walking through the streets naked.”

  Quietly, he ambled into the room until he was standing before her. “I should think that is what honest writing requires.”

  She looked incredibly nervous, biting into her lip, a furrow between her brows. “Will you read it?”

  The joy that hit him—that she would trust him with her words—was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. It also humbled him, greatly. “I’d be honored.”

  With a quick nod, she opened the drawer, pulled out the papers she’d placed in there earlier, and held them out to him.

  “Now?” he asked.

  “If you’ve the time.”

  For her, he always had the time, but thought if he spoke the words out loud, she’d dismiss them and merely accuse him of being flirtatious. Taking the sheaves of paper, he walked over to his desk and sat. After turning up the flame in the lamp, he began reading.

  “I want an honest opinion on whether what I’ve written is ridiculous.”

  “I would give you nothing less.”

  “I won’t take offense if you don’t like it.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “Vivi, let me read it.”

  “Yes, all right. Carry on.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lean forward and clasp her hands in her lap, her gaze on him similar to that of a cat waiting to pounce. The tension in her was palpable, radiating out, causing the hairs on the nape of his neck to rise.

  He concentrated on what she’d written—

  And then suddenly he was no longer aware of her, the room, the flickering flame. He was walking through alleyways, he was comforting frightened children, he was holding a babe too weak to survive no matter how much milk or encouragement he offered. He felt the pain of women being forced to give their babes into another’s keeping because society’s censure would prevent them from being able to provide for the children. He read of heartbreak, grief, pain, ugliness. When he was finished, he could do little more than strive to regain a sense of himself.

  “It’s very raw,” he finally said.

  “I know.” She hopped out of the chair and began to pace. “I haven’t a way with words. I feared I’d embarrass myself if I sent this to a newspaper.” She came to a halt. “I should no doubt just tear it up.”

  “No, Vivi. The words are perfect. The writing itself is raw in a way that is completely honest. You’ve held nothing back here. You’ve put me in the alleyways and mews. You’ve given me a window
into baby farming that even I had never peered through. Only the most callous will be able to read this and not be moved. It needs to be published.”

  “Do you think so? Truly?”

  “Truly. It needs to be read.”

  With a tender smile, she took it from him. “I’ll send it out tomorrow.”

  “Meanwhile, come with me to Gillie’s.”

  As the hansom cab came to a stop in front of the Mermaid and Unicorn, Lavinia refused to let the sight of the building throw her back eight years—when she’d thought she was being so brave and bold to sneak out of the residence to come here with him. How she hadn’t known she’d be called upon to be even braver and bolder or how she would eventually fail in that endeavor.

  He climbed out of the cab, then helped her down. His hand landed on the small of her back, guiding her forward, and she rather regretted she’d donned her cloak to ward off the chill of the night. A few people were hurrying along the street, some going into the tavern, others departing it. So much activity, so much life.

  He opened the door, propelling her over the threshold as though aware she was having second thoughts, and followed her in. The smoky haze brought on by patrons puffing on their pipes or cigars burned her eyes. The mixture of fragrances assaulted her memories. Her father had smoked a pipe, and she’d loved the aroma. Her brother enjoyed an occasional cheroot. She fought so hard not to think of her family, not to recall more pleasant times when she’d thought herself happy.

  But she didn’t know if she’d ever been as happy as the people here, talking and laughing, their din a cacophony of various tones to the ears. It was difficult to distinguish them all, not that it mattered. The only voice she truly wanted to hear belonged to the man standing next to her.