Page 55 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

Before he could whisk Vivian away in an attempt to enact his master plan, Jacob introduced her cousin to the rest of the Wynchester family and gave Quentin a tour of the barn.

Or tried to. Quentin wouldn’t step one foot across the threshold into an enclosed area containing wildcats and venomous serpents. His own attempts at training pets had taught him wild animals were not his forte.

“You see how I ended up with the tarantula and the badger,” Vivian murmured.

“Tarantula, I could understand,” Jacob whispered back. “But badgers aren’t venomous.”

“Rufus gets quite peevish if his meals aren’t served as quickly as he’d like.”

“Don’t we all?” Jacob answered with a grin, then turned to Quentin. “Speaking of food, I hear there are fresh pies and cakes inside. Shall we?”

All the others were gathered inside the sitting room. Quentin made Vivian point out which was “her” chair, and begged to have one assigned to him, too, if only for the night. Everyone was happy to play along.

“Oh nooo.” Quentin looked as though he was going to be sick.

Vivian hurried to her cousin. “What is it?”

“I have to go home to gather my things, but I don’t want to miss a single moment.”

Some of the tenseness left Viv’s shoulders and she rolled exasperated eyes in Jacob’s direction.

“We can send a footman,” he offered, amused.

“Or I can loan you what you need,” said Tommy, sizing Quentin up with her eyes. “Are you feeling more dashing-rake-struck-by-ennui, or adventurous-sailor-about-to-embark-on-a-dangerous-mission?”

Quentin’s eyes filled with delight.

As Tommy led him to her multiple dressing rooms filled with clothes and disguises, Quentin trailed after her like a newborn puppy.

“She’s creating a monster,” Vivian warned. “Now she’ll never be rid of him.”

“Who wants to be rid of him?” Jacob kissed her fingers again. “It’s all harmless fun.”

“Maybe now,” she allowed. “But his abduction was hardly harmless. I don’t suppose anything will happen to Uppington for all the laws he broke?”

“That depends on how successful Chloe is in convincing Uppington’s mistress to testify against him, in exchange for sparing her own neck. She was harboring a hostage. Her servants were complicit as well.”

“I can’t blame the servants entirely,” said Vivian. “Their livelihood depends on obeying a person with the power of depriving them of food and shelter.”

“Couldn’t Miss Yates make that same argument?” he pointed out.

“Not particularly. She’s rich, from all accounts. And that roof over her head is in one of the fanciest neighborhoods in London.”

He considered that. “Being in bed with a monster doesn’t mean she’s loyal to him. A lord who’d kidnap a man he believed to be a baron wouldn’t hesitate to punish a mere courtesan for disobeying orders. Even if she wanted to walk away—or simply set Quentin free—she wouldn’t have been able to.”

“Power again,” said Vivian. “Miss Yates can have anything she wants, except freedom from him.”

“What do you want?” he asked softly. “The night is ours.”

She bit her lip. “Are you certain that Quentin—”

“He’s been locked in a nightmare for four weeks. Let his dreams come true tonight.”

Vivian cocked her head to the side, then nodded.

Jacob cupped her cheek and rubbed the pad of his thumb against its soft warmth. With luck, a dream would come true for him, too. One in which he and Vivian spent far more than one night together.

“I have something I’d like to show you,” he began haltingly. It was so important to get the next few minutes right. “But first, I have something I’d like to give you.”

She folded her arms, eyes narrowing. “I’ll bet you do.”

“That, too,” he admitted. “If and when you want it. But more important is a different sort of compatibility. Vivian, I want you to know how fervently I esteem and respect you. I can think of no greater honor than to be worthy of your time. Please indulge me by accepting a humble token that cannot begin to convey the depths of my admiration for who you are.”

He held out a small rectangular package not larger than his hand, wrapped in a square of soft white silk and tied with a Balcovian pink ribbon.

Vivan’s arms uncrossed to accept the parcel. Her palm bounced lightly as she felt its heft.

“If these are ‘Miss Vivian Henry, playwright’ calling cards,” she warned, “I must warn you that I already own enough of those to paper every wall in this house.”

He simply gestured for her to unwrap her gift.

She began to pluck at the pink bow, then froze with suspicion. “If these are ‘acceptance’ letters from disgruntled theater managers you’ve browbeaten into performing my plays—”

Jacob arched his brows as if to say, We’d know by now if you’d get on with it .

Internally, however, every bone and vein trembled with fear that he still hadn’t managed to get things right.

She unraveled the bow and tucked the ribbon into her bodice. The white silk fell away from its hidden treasure, revealing—

“Playing cards?” she exclaimed in surprise and confusion. “I do like a good game of patience, but I don’t understand…”

“Look at them,” he coaxed.

She handed him the scrap of silk, then held the deck to the light to view its intricate decorative pattern of limes and letters and badgers and spiders and quills and ink and theater curtains and breakfast feasts.

“You didn’t purchase these,” she said softly. “You commissioned them.”

He held his breath.

She turned the deck over, face up in her palm. Instead of an ace, as was customary, decorative calligraphy filled the interior of the card:

Redeemable for the writing materials of the bearer’s choice.

If she so chooses.

She snorted softly, then flipped to the next card:

Redeemable for the services of any member of staff to ease the bearer’s burden or free the bearer’s time.

If she so chooses.

Then the next:

Redeemable for the writing retreat of the bearer’s choice: the temporary or dedicated use of a room or lodging, equipped to her specifications.

If she so chooses.

Then the next:

Instructions to Jacob Wynchester: Don’t act. Just listen.

She glanced up at him, her face full of questions.

He smiled hesitantly. “I didn’t want to gift you something that would wear and fade with time. I want you to have whatever you need, whatever would most help. Even if—or especially if—that thing is me sitting still and shutting up.”

She turned to the next card:

Redeemable for the services of the complete Wynchester siblings in conjunction with Philippa’s extended book club, whose excellent penmanship and joint effort can produce a dozen copies of the bearer’s play in two hours. If she so wishes.

She touched her throat as a startled laugh burst free. “This would save me weeks of effort. I wouldn’t even know how to choose which script to contribute.”

“As fortune would have it,” he said softly, “none of these cards are single-use. The ones involving me in particular can be redeemed as many times as you wish to do so.”

She scanned the cards faster and faster, alternately gasping or snickering or shooting him an expression so tender, it warmed him to his toes.

He waited until she was finished before speaking again. “As with many things, you were right about me. The fatal flaw in my family is us assuming our first impulse is the right one. That because we’ve devised a solution, we must immediately execute it without further consideration.”

“My assessment wasn’t wrong,” she said softly, “but I see now it was incomplete.”

“There will always be room for improvement,” he replied. “And I want you to know that I will be doing that work.”

She glanced down at the cards in her hands, and fanned them across her lap, offer-side-up.

He pushed on. “I never want you to doubt again that I hear you. That I’m listening.” He touched her cheek. “I long to make every moment of your life as bright and joyful as possible. But I will never again presume to know your needs or desires better than you.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes unreadable.

He’d thought his lowest moment was when she’d witnessed him being rejected at the door by his own publisher.

Instead, her ability to shrug off a constant barrage of no and keep on going had helped him realize that rejection wasn’t a cause for shame.

It was a badge of pride. Rejections meant you were trying .

Not sitting at home whingeing about how lovely it would be if some miraculous fantasy were to come true, but out there in the world actively doing something about it.

“You are so talented, so tenacious, so deserving,” he continued. “You are also brilliant and sweet and beautiful and loving and witty and optimistic and honorable. You’re the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever been blessed enough to meet. You deserve the best in life. All I can offer you is me.”

She’d stolen his heart and, in return, given back pieces of himself he hadn’t realized had gone missing. Confidence. Pride. Hope.

“Love, you are undeniably a whole, capable, self-sufficient person. Yet I will always be here for you, in whatever capacity you may need or wish. Just in case you’d like to face any portion of life together.”

Her brown eyes shimmered.

“Keep the cards,” he finished, his voice low. “Use them or don’t. You’ll know where to find me. In fact… might I convince you to spend the evening with me?”

She scooped up the cards and pressed them to her heart, then rewrapped them with care and placed them in her satchel.

“Spend the evening doing what?” she asked.

“Nothing at all,” he replied simply, and offered his elbow.

She searched his eyes for a long moment, then took his arm. “All right, show me.”

His heart gave a leap of victory. Time for the next phase to unfold.

Step one, according to Ask Vivian: Wait until the woman you wish to woo is ready to be courted. He’d shown his cards—literally—and she’d chosen to remain at his side.

Jacob’s pulse beat faster as he took her not upstairs to his own private quarters, but to the opposite, partly used wing of the house, where he had spent days converting an empty room in the hopes of having this very chance. When they arrived, he opened the door and led her inside.

Soft light entered from a north-facing window, covered in gauzy marigold curtains. There was a small fireplace, in the event it proved necessary. A long sofa, deep enough for two to recline comfortably. A pair of cushioned armchairs, each with a cozy lap blanket curved over the back.

On either side of the window were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, filled with plays and novels and biographies and instruction manuals. The other three walls were covered in thick green foliage up to his hip, broken only by a smattering of little white blossoms.

He turned to see what she thought.

Vivian breathed in deeply. Her forehead lined in confusion. “Does this room smell like… Are those potted plants basil ?”

He grinned.

“Here you are, sir,” said a voice from the doorway.

Jacob pulled Vivian aside to let the maids fill the tea table with lime biscuits, a picnic basket, and a large pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade—garnished with a sprig of mint.

“You absolute scoundrel,” she breathed, leaning against him and tilting her face up toward his. “ You’re ‘Loveless in London’?”

“No handmade crown of flowers,” he admitted, his insides warm with pleasure. “I wasn’t sure if daisies made your nose itch.”

The maids curtseyed and left the room, closing the door behind them.

“Do you remember what I said was most important of all?” Vivian asked.

He turned her so that he could gaze into her eyes while he held her close. “Time and attention. To really see you. To truly listen. To be understood and respected. To be admired, just as you are. To be loved.”

Her lips parted.

He lowered his head to hers and kissed her. Telling her with every brush of his mouth, every lick of his tongue, that these were not idle words. He saw her. He heard her. He respected her. He loved her.

Her arms twined about his neck. She kissed him back just as fiercely. Only when they were both feverish and breathless did she lift her lips from his long enough to say, “Is this where you lead me to the sofa and ravish me just as I’ve dreamed?”

His heart leapt at the revelation that she, too, had longed for a physical connection. It took all his willpower to disentangle himself from her arms, stroll over to the bookshelf, and pluck a volume at random.

“You may claim the sofa if you like,” he said guilelessly. “I’ll take the armchair.”