“Soon, the two of you will have to take my place,” Clara said with that airy, sugary-sweet accent, the one that never failed to wrap their brother Julian around her little finger.
In all the best ways, of course.
Julian had been an out-and-out rogue. Clara was just what he needed, rather in the way Lord Harry had been just what Alexandra needed.
Also in the way Decker is just what I need.
No. She must not think such perilous, foolish thoughts. Decker did not want to marry. And neither did she wish to wed him. She was too busy attempting to experience her life. To break free from the ties which had always bound her.
“I am afraid we shall have to leave her here and decamp to the music room after the miniature menaces arrive,” Alexandra added with a frown.
“You shall have a miniature menace of your own soon,” Jo could not resist reminding her sister, grinning.
Alexandra’s smile was satisfied and warm. Her hand settled over the subtle rounding of her belly. “Such a peculiar notion, tiny version of ourselves, is it not? The children are all quite dear, however. The lads are the most exuberant of the lot. I say menaces affectionately, of course. But I do hope I have a daughter.”
Jo chuckled as the children arrived, Mrs. Chisholm not far behind them. Jo noted that each one appeared to be wearing dresses and short pants and shirts which were not ragged or ill-fitting or stained.
“Our benefactor also has provided each of the children with new clothing,” the proprietress said proudly, “as you will no doubt have taken note.”
Generous benefactor indeed, Jo thought, her suspicions mounting. What manner of man would have the coin to so thoroughly aid an orphanage thus? As she and her sister, along with their small cadre of children, reached the room housing the rosewood piano, Jo had her answer.
The piano was identical to the new model standing in Decker’s club’s wicked room.
She trailed her finger over the lone, gilt letter D emblazoned upon the polished case. His words returned to her.
“This piano is our newest, one of only a few of its kind—Lord and Lady Sinclair are in possession of one, and there is another as well, aside from this,” he had said.
Just when she had been convinced it was impossible for him to burrow into her heart any deeper, he did.
Oh, Decker. What other secrets do you keep?
Three interminable, painful, endless days.
That was how much time had passed since Decker had last felt Lady Jo Danvers’ lips beneath his. Since he had last held her in his arms. Since she had uttered those terrifying, ruinous words in that darkened chamber. Words which had been echoing in his mind ever since she had first spoken them.
I like you, too, Decker. Quite a bit more than I ought.
She bloody liked him. And not just physically. That was what her quiet little confession had meant. She did not just feel desire for him, that aching want he perpetually felt in his cock and ballocks whenever he thought of her or spent a damned second in her intoxicating presence.
He took a sip of his coffee, attempting to concentrate on the papers before him, and grimaced. “Macfie!”
His bellow was loud enough to hurt his own ears, it was true.
The door to his office opened. His stalwart aide-de-camp poked his head into the chamber. “Ye hollered, sir?”
“I did not holler, Macfie,” he corrected icily, though it was a wretched lie. “I called for you.”
“Aye, Mr. Decker.” Macfie raised a bushy orange brow. “And if that is what ye’re tellin’ yerself, go on. What is it that ye need, sir?”
“My coffee is cold,” he said, unable to suppress his disgust.
“And well I’m sure ‘tis,” Macfie dared to tell him. “I brought it tae ye an hour ago or more. Ye dawdle, and yer coffee goes cold, just like my sainted Ma always told all her bairns.”
Decker raised a brow. “I thought you had no siblings, Macfie.”
Macfie locked him in a death stare. “Aye, and just as I said. ‘Tis what she told all her bairns.”
Decker huffed out an exasperated sigh whilst extracting his pocket watch to check the time. Surely he had not spent the last hour lost in thoughts of Lady Jo Danvers, ignoring all the papers awaiting him on his desk, consumed by his need for her…
Fucking hell.
He had. Worse, his ears were hot. He refused to believe the warmth on his cheekbones meant he was flushing. He had not blushed since he had been a lad touching his first cunny.
“Did your mother also tell her bairns they ought to be polite to their employers?” he demanded of Macfie.
“Nay, sir.” Macfie had the daring to wink. “She told us we should make ourselves indispensable tae the cantankerous sons of bitches. Ma’s words, sir. Not mine, ye ken.”
Decker’s nostrils flared. Macfie was lucky he was so damned valuable. And that Decker liked him and his excessively bushy eyebrows. “Have you considered trimming those monstrosities, Macfie? They bloody well look like a pair of ravenous caterpillars about to make your eyes into their meal. A proper razor ought to settle it, I should think.”
“Not with the eyebrows again.” Macfie’s eyes narrowed to a blue-eyed glare. “I’ll be fetching the fresh coffee for ye then, Mr. Decker. I hope ye shan’t burn yer lordly tongue upon it.”
He was sure Macfie would make certain the coffee was roughly the temperature of lava. The man was deuced protective of his eyebrows.
“We both know there is nothing lordly about me,” Decker told him, frowning. Once born on the wrong side of the blanket, forever tarnished. “Go, then. You are aware how much I dislike cold coffee, Macfie.”
“About as much as I like threats tae my puir eyebrows.” Waggling the facial feature in question, Macfie took his leave.
“And do not slam the damned—”
The calamitously loud closing of the door drowned out the rest of Decker’s words.
“—door,” he finished, glaring at the offensive portal.
One would think that by the ripe age of thirty, Macfie would have grown accustomed to his own strength. Decker sighed and rose from his desk, needing to pace. He felt restless and nettled and confused.
He also felt as if he needed to bed a woman.
Nights—and mornings and days, too—spent frigging his hand were not enough. Surely that was the problem. Surely his unquenched lust—that natural urge which had raged and plagued him since he was a lad—was the reason his chest was tight, the reason he was on edge, the reason everything irritated, the reason he had snapped at Macfie, the reason he could not concentrate on his business matters.
Any woman would do, would she not?
He paced to the end of his office again, then back up and down thrice more. There were ladies in his acquaintance who would be happy to be called upon for such a favor. Susannah, the blonde actress who had last acted as the serving vessel at one of his dinner parties, for instance. Her bubbies were the size of melons, and she knew how to suck his cock straight down her throat.
Strangely, the thought of her deflated his cockstand.
What in the hell was this?
He stopped in his tracks, staring down at his trousers, bemused. Perhaps he had merely needed to work off some of his steam by striding up and down the length of the chamber several dozen times, barreling locomotive style. Yes, that had clearly been the solution.
Decker sighed with relief. And as soon as he had his warm coffee in hand, he could proceed with his day. The ledgers would not balance themselves, and neither would the stack of expenditures which needed to be reviewed and settled. He stalked back toward his desk.
Lady Jo Danvers had nothing to do with the incessantly rigid state of his prick. He was not wallowing in lust that was for her and her alone. It was merely natural. Scientific. His body needed to empty itself of the poison, and now that he had expended some of his energy in pacing, he could happily think about Jo without…
He stilled. His cock had twitched back to life. Merel
y at the thought of the woman. And he had not allowed himself to think about her kisses or the silken heat of her mouth, the way her tongue had writhed against his, and those delicious sounds she made.
Shite.
He was completely erect again, pulsing with the need for release.
“No, no, no,” he snapped down at his offending cock, which had never been this difficult to control. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Sir?”
Decker jumped and bit out another curse as his gaze landed on Macfie. The hulking Scotsman stood on the threshold, bearing a cup of coffee, looking as if he had just realized he had swallowed arsenic and the knowledge of his certain death had walloped him.
Bloody, bloody, fucking, damned, soul-rotting damnation.
His man of affairs had just caught him yelling at his own prick.
Beelzebub on a biscuit.
Decker cleared his throat and straightened. At least the sight of Macfie’s effusive eyebrows was enough to wilt his cock once more. “For once, you have opened the door soundlessly, Macfie. I applaud you. Now, then. Is my coffee warm?”
“Tell me ye werenae having a talk with yer wee—”
“There is nothing wee about it, Macfie,” he interrupted grimly. “And if you wish to remain employed—hell, if you wish to live to see another day—you will not complete that query.”
Macfie issued a harrumph. “Is it safe for me tae enter, sir? Ye werenae thinking upon my eyebrows, were ye?”
Decker bit out a laugh in spite of himself. “You are indeed fortunate you are invaluable around here, Macfie, or you would find yourself getting the sack for that.”
“Eh, ye like my hungry caterpillars far too much.” Macfie was halfway across Decker’s office with the coffee when he paused, frowning. “Ahem, sir. I didnae mean that in the manner in which it sounded. Ye know I’m not a sod.”
Lord help him.
How could this day get any worse?
“That was never in question, Macfie,” he said on a sigh. “Although, if you were, it would not be any of my concern.”
“Ye’re a fair man, ye are, Mr. Decker,” Macfie praised, settling the fresh coffee upon Decker’s desk at last. “I suppose now would be as good a time as any tae tell ye Lady Josephine Danvers is here, wanting an audience with ye again.”
She was here.
Decker wished he could say that knowledge did not echo inside him with all the distinction of a chorus of angels singing, but that would be a miserable lie. She was beneath the same roof, after three days. Close enough to touch, if he wished.
He very much wished.
Just like that, his cock had twitched back to life. Smothering a curse, he stalked the rest of the way to his desk, hiding himself behind the carved, polished monstrosity topped with all its awaiting work it seemed he would never complete. How to attend to tasks when there was so much delicious distraction determined to ruin all his good intentions?
He sat.
“Send her in, Macfie,” he said, congratulating himself on the remarkable calm in his voice.
“She’s the one, then?” Macfie asked knowingly. “The set of skirts who has ye all sorts of bothered, like a stag in rut?”
Fucking hell.
“Macfie,” he ground out. “You are treading dangerously close to peril at the moment.”
“I am not judging ye, sir.” Macfie’s bushy red brows moved up and down. “She is verra lovely. Excellent set of—”
“Macfie!” he repeated. “Enough. Bring her to me, if you please.”
“I was going tae say matched horses on her carriage, sir.” Macfie’s brows raised. “Where is yer mind, Mr. Decker?”
Decker clenched his jaw. “Macfie, if you value your position at all…”
“Fetching her ladyship,” the devil said, an impish light in his blue eyes. “But if ye dinnae mind me saying so, Lady Josephine would make a lovely Mrs.—”
“I. Will. Sack. You.” He glared at his rogue employee. “And then I will throttle you. And then I will shave off your eyebrows myself.”
“Anything but the eyebrows, sir,” Macfie said, giving him a wink that said he did not fear his position at all.
He was right, of course. Decker would sooner saw off his own arm than sack Macfie. The man was too capable. Too comfortable as well, and aware of his own value. But vital, nonetheless. Loyal, intelligent men were not easily acquired in Decker’s experience. Or loyal women, for that matter.
He had certainly never known one.
Quite a thought to have as Macfie took his leave of the office. Loyalty had never mattered before when it came to the woman—or women—sharing Decker’s bed. Did it matter now? Not that Jo was sharing his bed. Not yet, anyway.
Soon.
Hell, not soon enough.
Before he could further contemplate the possibility, Macfie returned with Jo, who was wearing a pensive expression Decker was not certain he ought to like. Either way, it was damned charming. She was beautiful, even if her countenance boded trouble.
“Lady Josephine Danvers for Mr. Decker,” Macfie bellowed, his eyebrows performing gymnastic feats.
Jo winced.
So did Decker as he rose to stand out of deference to Jo.
“Thank you, Macfie,” he said pointedly. “That will be all.”
Macfie grinned and offered an exaggerated bow before backing over the threshold. Decker knew what was coming next, curse the blighter.
“Do not slam,” he began, only to be cut off by the deafening thud of the door slamming closed.
He winced again.
“The damned door,” he added lamely, sharing a look of exasperation with Jo.
“He does not know his own strength,” Jo said calmly, echoing Decker’s words from their last meeting at his offices.
“Amongst other faults,” Decker quipped. “Have a seat, my dear.”
She neared him with a hesitation that also belonged to that day, which seemed at once a lifetime ago, although it had just been a sennight. “This is a brief visit. Forgive me for the unexpected interruption. I have merely come to deliver a new pamphlet for the Lady’s Suffrage Society. We would like to run five hundred copies of this, to begin.”
Disappointment blossomed in his chest. She was here on official purposes. Not to see him.
What did you expect, you clod? That an inexperienced young virgin would have come to you because she needs to sate the devils of desire keeping her awake at night?
Right. He was an utter fool, wasn’t he?
Belatedly, he realized she carried a sheaf of papers as she held them out to him, across his desk. Across the sea of papers which mocked him now, all the symbols of the manner in which she had set him so thoroughly at sixes and sevens. For the entirety of his adult life, two distractions had carried him through: business and pleasure. And yet, since he had last seen her, he had scarcely been able to focus upon his business concerns at all.
He accepted the papers from her, nettled by the tranquility in her countenance. She seemed so unaffected, and he longed to ruffle her feathers. To bring her down to the mud where he dwelled.
“Are there any lists contained within this draft?” he asked, raising a brow as he met her honey-brown gaze.
It was low of him to tease her in such ruthless fashion, and he knew it. But he was feeling rather low at the moment. Desperate, if he were honest. Despicable, pathetic, and randy as Priapus. He had been ruined by a slip of a girl, and he did not like it.
Her generous lips tightened. Her adorably stubborn chin tilted. “Forgive me, Mr. Decker, but I thought you had forgotten all about such matters.”
Ah. The corners of his lips mutinied, wanting to lift into a satisfied smile. He suppressed it.
“What is it you thought I had forgotten?” he asked with a calm he did not feel.
In truth, his heart was racing. Pounding. His restraint had been reduced to gossamer thread at the moment. He wanted to pounce upon her and kiss the pout from her delicious lips, and
then strip her out of her smart navy promenade gown and…
Hell.
He viciously cut off any more thoughts in that vein.
Her lips had parted in invitation, and her dark eyes glittered, as if she knew exactly the nature of the filth that was happening in his mind.
“I thought you had forgotten my list,” she said, her voice cool. “It is just as well if your enthusiasm has waned, however. I have been thinking a great deal since the dinner at Lord and Lady Sinclair’s the other night. Surely completing each item with the same man will hinder my—”
“No,” he bit out, dropping the manuscript to the sea of other papers and stalking around his desk without thought. “I will be damned if I allow you to conduct any of the items on your list with Huntingdon or Quenington, or anyone else for that matter.”
His feisty Jo returned.
Her eyes glinted. “If you allow me?”
Wrong choice of words, old boy.
He grimaced. “You know what I mean to say, Josie.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do not attempt to distract me by using yet another sobriquet for me, Mr. Decker.”
He reached her and then clamped his hands on her waist. “And do not call me mister, damn it. Call me Decker or call me nothing at all.”
Her gaze had dipped to his lips. Something in the air changed around them, becoming heady, thick, poignant. His cock swelled to rigorous attention, lust roaring through him. But it was more than desire. It was…
“You do not have any sovereignty over me,” Jo said then, breaking into his musings.
His grip on her tightened. How he envied the layers between them—he was jealous of her corset for the way it wrapped around her, envious of her chemise, nestled next to her skin. He wanted that same connection with her, that intimacy, to absorb her, bask in her heat, in her proximity.
Fuck. What was wrong with him?
“Do you want other men to complete your list with you?” he demanded.
Her long, dark lashes swept over her eyes, stealing from him those twin windows into her thoughts for a breath. When her lashes lifted, her countenance was grim. “No, I do not, and that is the trouble.”
Lady Wallflower (Notorious Ladies of London Book 2) Page 11