Page 14

Edward’s first night at the All Souls Orphanage was long, uncomfortable, and taught him several important truths.

Truth one: a cot designed to hold young children was not a comfortable bed for a large man.

His legs hung off the end and, every time he moved, he feared the whole thing would collapse.

At some point in the evening, he’d given up, laid the blanket on the ground, and slept on the hard wooden floor. It was a vast improvement.

Truth two: sleep was impossible when his mind kept wandering back to Lady Ivy Cavendale.

She was clearly unnerved at the idea of sleeping in such close quarters – if one could call a long hallway with at least nine rooms between them full of seven and twenty young people close.

But there had been a moment. When he spoke of his sister – a shocking thing to do as he never spoke of Liza – Lady Ivy’s eyes softened from wary mistrust to painful understanding.

And then she offered him some of her hot chocolate.

A treat he would guess she rarely shared.

Everything about her was a contradiction. Vulnerability paired with thick, high walls of protection. Courage coupled with intense fear. Curiosity combined with hesitance to step into the unknown.

When the first pink light of dawn crept through his window and landed squarely on his face, Edward accepted there would be no more sleep for him.

Instead, a cup of hot coffee and whatever food he might be able to rummage in the kitchen was his best option.

He re-donned his workman’s clothes and, without the benefit of a washbasin or mirror, crept down the stairs to the kitchen.

A brass tap and Belfast sink were tucked away in the scullery.

Edward made use of the sink and a cake of soap to splash water over his head and scrub his face in abbreviated morning ablutions.

The freezing water stole air from his lungs and sleep from his mind.

An effective tool for waking oneself up quickly.

He finger-combed his hair into some semblance of order but would need to return to his home to properly dress and complete his toilet before going to work.

Will Reading be more upset by my late arrival or coming on time with the bedraggled appearance of a beggar? I shall try both methods over the next few days to see which annoys him more.

It was the small pleasures in life that made it worth living.

Edward was contemplating all those small pleasures as he put the kettle on to boil. He had brought with him a small bag of coffee beans. It was doubtful the orphanage would carry such luxuries in their pantry, and he refused to start his day without the drink.

If it’s good enough for Queen Victoria, then it’s damn well good enough for me.

Humming a bawdy tune that would cause poor Reading’s ears to burn red with embarrassment, he didn’t hear Lady Ivy until she cleared her throat primly.

Spinning, Edward was certain his own ears burned with a blush to be caught mid-melody for such a rude song. But surely a fine lady such as Ivy Cavendale wouldn’t know the words to the ‘Lass of Islington’.

‘Are you looking for a cellar to rent, Commissioner Worthington?’ Lady Ivy’s crystal eyes sparked with mirth.

Damn. She does know the words.

One more contradicting fact that piqued his curiosity and stirred something far more dangerous within him.

She seemed to realise what she was truly asking as the double entendre of ‘cellar’ from the song hung between them.

The intriguing splash of crimson spreading over her throat saved him the burden of being the only one blushing.

‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply you were, that is, I was just…

Drat.’ She gave up and spun around, presumably to leave, but Edward lunged forward and caught her arm, turning her back.

His instinctive move to keep her from escaping brought them within a few inches of each other.

Instead of stepping back, as he should, or letting her step back as he expected, they both remained frozen, nearly touching one another.

The air between them grew impossibly thick.

Edward still held her arm. The lean muscles tensing beneath his fingers confirmed his suspicions.

She might be slight, but she was strong.

Yet another fascinating contradiction to add to his list. He couldn’t stop his mind wondering what she looked like naked, all supple skin and long lines, sleek like a cat and just as likely to swipe at him with sharp claws as purr with pleasure.

He traced down her arm slowly before brushing his fingers along the heel of her hand and finally breaking contact.

She was dressed for the day in another one of her simple blue gowns.

Her fair hair, like the gossamer strands of spider silk, was tied in a neat twist at her nape.

The neckline of her dress was high, but he didn’t miss the rise and fall of her small, corseted breasts beneath the cotton.

Such a delicate shift of cloth, innocuous, innocent, and yet completely captivating.

He wondered if the firm flesh would fill the centre of his palm.

If she would cry against him when he rubbed a thumb over her nipple.

Small breasts, in his experience, were just as delightful as full ones, holding equal mysteries as he learned what best pleased the woman to whom they were attached.

‘Please, don’t leave.’ His words were rough with absolutely unacceptable desire. Something he ruthlessly denied himself. Something he refused to unleash on any woman, especially one who clearly held no interest in him.

Over the course of his adult life, he’d engaged the services of several professional, discreet women to sate his physical needs when they became unmanageable.

While he respected those women, found them attractive, and in the case of the last, Delilah, developed a close friendship, he never allowed himself more than mutual sexual release.

In fact, as soon as his relationship with Delilah deepened into a connection eclipsing tupping, he ended that part of their arrangement and never sought out a replacement.

He made a vow to himself so long ago, the night his world ripped apart.

The night I destroyed her.

Others had paid most dearly for his sins, and he promised never to allow himself the kind of joy found in one’s mate. Impersonal sexual relief was one thing, but affection? Companionship? Love?

Never.

Because a man with my sins doesn’t deserve to find happiness in another. Eternal solitude is a fitting punishment.

But Ivy’s sweet, earthy scent – one more intoxicating contradiction – tempted him to forget his past and his promise. His body grew tight. Grinding his teeth together, he did the impossible. The inevitable. He stepped back.

Lifting a shaky hand to run through his mess of hair, he willed himself to regain control. ‘I mean, will you stay and speak with me? About the investigation.’

Whatever affected him seemed to have equal power over her. She looked behind her, the pulse in her neck beating madly as skin and tendon pulled tight. He wanted to lick her, just there, and feel that pulse upon his tongue.

Impossible! I have no right to indulge in such intimacies. Nor would she wish me to do so even if I could.

But still, his mind wandered down dangerous paths.

Heaving a sigh Edward couldn’t begin to decipher, Ivy turned back to him. The blush staining her neck created two rosy spots on her cheeks.

If I pressed a kiss there, would her lashes brush over my mouth like the wings of a moth?

An absurd, whimsical thought. Edward was not an absurd or whimsical man. He was logical. Feet firmly placed on the ground. Devoid of flight or fancy.

Would her pale skin glow in the moonlight?

Enough! I don’t give a flaming fig about skin glowing in the moonlight!

Except now he couldn’t help but wonder if hers would.

‘The children don’t come down to break their fast until half past eight. Cook should arrive in another half-hour, but we have a few minutes of quiet if you’d like to bring your coffee into the parlour?’

‘Would you like some?’ he offered.

She wrinkled her nose.

Like a wood sprite.

Nonsense. Like a normal woman.

‘No thank you. I can make some tea. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

‘I don’t mind talking in the kitchen.’ He pulled up a stool to the scarred wooden table and blew on his steaming coffee, hoping the rich scent would clear Ivy’s fragrance from his head.

She pressed her lips together. Perhaps she was hoping for a moment of solitude to gather her thoughts.

Terribly unfortunate. But if I’m off balance, then it’s only fair you should be as well.

‘So, tell me, Worthington, what master plan have you concocted to find this nefarious gentleman who crept through the window of my orphanage?’

Edward sipped his coffee.

Yes. Focus on the investigation.

Savouring the bitter taste of his morning brew as much as he was going to savour her reaction to his plan, Edward returned his cup to the table. ‘We are going to attend a ball together. Tomorrow night. The Widow’s Ball.’

He expected surprise. Perhaps some trepidation.

The Widow’s Ball, after all, was a notorious affair just this side of completely scandalous.

Certainly no place for innocent young misses or marriage-minded mamas of the beau monde.

This fete was reserved for rakes, widows, and married members of the peerage looking for more than just a staid evening of measured dance steps and watered-down ratafia.

It would be full to bursting with blue bloods seeking a darker kind of adventure.

The perfect place to hunt a man willing to sneak into a bedroom full of young girls and wreak unknown havoc.

And the last place Lady Ivy would wish to be.

A fact he realised far too late.

‘The Widow’s Ball?’ Her fair eyebrows flew high enough to almost disappear into her hairline. ‘Are you mad?’