Page 16 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

If it’s not too late , the message began.

If it had been sent by any other person in London, then yes, absolutely. It would be far too late. She had scarcely believed it when a footman had brought her the note, thinking it must have been from Arthur, since it had been quite a while since he’d come around. And in Cressida’s experience, it tended to be young men who ran about town in the evenings, getting themselves into messes that might require one’s mother to help sort out.

But it wasn’t from Arthur. Her heart skipped when she read the first line. Dr. Collier’s handwriting was unfamiliar to her, but his tone was unmistakable. Her eyes immediately went to the note’s close.

He had signed only his last name, the letters slanted and small. It felt strangely intimate, and Cressida smiled despite herself. Then she read the message again.

My lady—

If it’s not too late, I wonder if you would be amenable to that which you suggested before. Of course, I am painfully aware of the hour and the fact that perhaps you did not intend to be called on so late. However, I am desperate to continue our conversation. Perhaps I shall see you? On my knees, pleading, begging, waiting.

—Collier

She read his name again, and then once more. Her heart seemed to slow. Finally, she forced her eyes from the letter and rang for her maid.

After one more quick reading, she crossed the room and stood before the fire. Cressida knew the prudent thing would be to burn it, as she always did with correspondence of a sordid nature. But this time she hesitated, as she read his name over and over, written in his own hand. Finally, squeezing her eyes shut, she pitched it in. The flames made quick work of it.

It felt hateful.

But if she were to maintain this kind of freedom in her life, she could not afford to cling to needless sentimentality.

Thankfully, a short knock on the door stirred her from such maudlin thoughts.

“Evening, my lady.” Her maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried over. “Turning in early?”

“No,” Cressida drawled, turning about so the girl could begin on the long line of buttons down her back. “Going out, actually.”

With some regret, she shed her charming, fashionable costume for something dull and unremarkable. But needs must.

If her maid suspected anything, she didn’t say a word as she buttoned up the back of the plain black gown. When she produced the gold filigree earrings, the ones from Bartholomew, Cressida practically recoiled.

“No, thank you. I should prefer the emeralds tonight.”

The maid hesitated before nodding.

Cressida stared at her reflection. How strange , she wondered, that she had reacted so reflexively. But she did not wish to think of Bartholomew now, nor of his possessive touch, with his hand on the back of her neck, or punishingly gripping her wrist and dragging her to his bed when she attempted to cry him off.

She closed her eyes. No, she would not think of that, or of him in any way. That story was over, and she had survived, so she might be free to live her life as she pleased, bedding whom she pleased, when she pleased.

And right now she wished to bed the gentle Dr. Collier. To remove his glasses, kiss the harsh lines of his cheekbone and his square jaw, all the way down his neck.

Soon afterward, she was stepping down from the criminally uncomfortable hired cab just in front of the Euston Hotel. The gas streetlights hissed, the air heavy and damp from a light rain that had only just ceased. The sparse light from the lamps and the waxing moon felt timid, hesitant, unable to break through the gentle mist and loose fog still drifting about. She could hear the crunch of the cab’s wheels as it pulled away, and the gentle din of the city beyond, but her immediate surroundings, as she approached the stairs of the hotel, seemed awfully quiet.

Cressida climbed the stairs, wondering whether she ought to have further instructed Dr. Collier on how to go about arranging this sort of thing. Sighing to herself, she prayed he hadn’t gone and blundered by giving the hotel his actual name.

Suddenly she heard another pair of footsteps. They nearly matched her own rhythm, coming up from behind.

Cressida stopped and turned.

A thin young man in filthy clothing hovered behind her, his eyes wide.

“Evening, ma’am.”

Cressida turned back without a word and resumed her climb. She wasn’t used to being accosted in public, but she’d found the best course of action was to ignore any pleas and continue on, lest you find yourself tricked into relieving yourself of your valuables.

“Oh, right then, my apologies. I oughtn’t have said ma’am, I reckon,” the youth called after her, his voice loud and jubilant. “That is, my lady .”

She froze.

“Spare some charity, my lady?”

Cressida turned again, now with ice in her veins.

The young man boldly returned her stare. He sniffed, and without looking away, produced a handkerchief and held it up to his nose. It looked worse for the wear, but she could just make out the initials embroidered on it—M.C.

He couldn’t know her. She was certain of that. Slowly she turned away once more, now somewhat unsettled.

“My lady? Pray, one question, my lady, just—”

“That’s enough.”

A low voice interrupted the youth, familiar in timbre and yet unfamiliar in its aggression.

Dr. Collier rushed down the steps to meet her, murder plain on his face. She caught her breath. He looked positively dangerous, all masculine strength and scorn, his face dark and brows drawn. And then he was alongside her, taking her arm in his, placing his other hand protectively atop hers.

“Make yourself scarce,” he growled in the direction of the beggar.

For some reason, the lad laughed, without a trace of fear in his eyes.

“Oh? Shall I really, then?”

Dr. Collier’s jaw tightened, but he did not respond. Instead he ushered her up the stairs, toward the front door. Cressida could hear the lad call after them.

“The bank holiday, d’you recall? I know you do!”

Of all the strange things, she thought, worried. What in heaven’s name was that all about? The bank holiday? The youth had called her “My lady”… Cressida’s heart raced. How could anyone mark her, dressed plainly as she was while traveling as anonymously as possible? And then there was the way the doctor had stepped in, quick and forceful, a familiarity in his contempt for the beggar.

Her heart was racing, her mind a whirl. She pulled away from her companion, just before the large glass doors.

“My lady?” the doctor asked, confusion plain on his face.

He reached for her, but she placed a small hand against his chest.

“Just a tick,” she breathed. Cressida glanced back down the steps. There was no sign of the youth. She frowned. “Who was that? You spoke as if you might… know him, ridiculous as it seems.”

For a moment, everything seemed to hang in the balance. Dr. Collier’s face was so open, so pained as he studied hers. No , she silently pleaded. It had been far too long; she’d spent far too many nights dreaming of his massive form upon her. Could it all end right here, like this, when she’d not even enjoyed one night corrupting this kind, gentle man?

And then his expression hardened.

“He’s nothing but a clumsy footpad, is all.”

He took her hand. Emboldened, he pulled her to him, slowly and deliberately, his gaze steady upon her.

“Are you that unsettled?” he murmured with concern. “I wouldn’t have you upset. I shall see you home, safely, if you wish.”

How she wanted him on his knees before her, gazing up at her from between her legs with that reverent look, that pleading voice. She relaxed against him, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. They were being terribly cavalier, carrying on like this in front of the hotel. Especially considering what had just happened. And yet, as Dr. Collier held her tight, his body warm against hers, she couldn’t help but find him more attractive than ever before. She couldn’t bear losing what was now very nearly hers.

“No,” she whispered. “Shall we get on, then?”

He swallowed, then nodded.

A porter held the door for them.

“A room, please. And be quick about it. My wife has just been accosted outside your establishment.” Dr. Collier nearly growled the words.

Cressida didn’t hear the clerk’s response, nor did she bother to weigh his credulity. She didn’t notice the plain, dull furnishings of the lobby, the dancing light sputtering from the lamps. Never had she begun a tryst like this, heart pounding while her paramour cleaved her to his side, declaring them to be together for all to hear.

He’d called her his wife. In that voice, full of that protective anger.

Existing as someone’s wife, trapped in a cycle between their country seat, their London manse, their opera box, their bed… the idea was loathsome. He hadn’t meant it that way, though. She snuck a glance up at his face, still hard with consternation. Her heart tightened. And who was that ragged boy accosting them, calling her a lady while clutching that filthy handkerchief?

Cressida had lost control of the situation, her thoughts tossed about in a churning sea of ambivalence.

She didn’t mark the men in dark jackets milling about. She didn’t note the travel-worn carpets down the hall, nor the brass doorknob to the room.

All she could think of was the ache within her, the need to claw at Dr. Collier, to pull his face down to hers. To take him for herself, without promises or expectations. Just two lonely creatures finding comfort in one another’s arms, however briefly.

Finally they were within the room. She waited until he shut the door and latched it.

Then she set herself upon him.

She felt like everything he’d ever wanted, pure feminine sensuality as she twisted her hands into the lapel of his jacket, forcing him to stoop to meet her lips, pressing herself hard against him. It was everything he’d ever dreamed of, an elegant and worldly woman besotted with him. Touching him.

This time, she was real. She was warm. Matthew returned her kisses, deep, slow, and hot.

His arms were shaking, he realized, as he lifted them from his sides and slid them about her small, soft form.

This time she would not pull away.

Christ, he’d been so alone, so cold, for so long. He had been afraid, he realized, that he’d botched the whole thing by kissing her in the library. Or by running from his mistakes and vices that now haunted him in the streets in the form of Charles Sharples, or tonight, his errand-boy Fliss.

But he’d called for her, and she’d come. He’d asked her if she wished to leave, and she’d remained.

She was here, her kisses matching his, rising in speed and urgency as they both hit a shared crescendo, a shared need to join themselves without further delay.

How long had he yearned for her?

Matthew could not say. Mere months ago he was barely aware of her gorgeous, glittering existence, and could never have conceived that she’d ever be here, in his arms, up against the door of this cold and sterile hotel room.

He pushed off the door, hands upon her shoulders.

Reluctantly she broke their kiss, falling back onto her heels.

Wide, dark, intense eyes stared back at him. Her lips were slightly parted, wet and swollen. Matthew listened to the uneven breath emanating from between them, watched her lovely chest rise and fall. He reveled in the moment, the overwhelming tension tightening his core, his cock straining against the fall of his trousers.

He wanted to ask her—how? How could she want him?

But then she took a step back and removed one glove, a sly smile upon those lips. Matthew wished to kiss her again, but he waited.

She removed the other glove, and, without looking away, tossed them to the side, where they landed upon a serviceable but unremarkable chair. She then went to work at unfastening her bodice. Her slim, graceful fingers were quick and assured about her neck, but the procedure was still agonizingly slow.

Damn ladies’ fashion, and hang its obsession with long lines of buttons , Matthew thought, his heartbeat echoing in his head.

He swallowed.

Then the bodice fell away, revealing a bright white chemise underneath an impossibly smooth and tidy corset. He tightened his fists, resisting the urge to go to her once more, to feel the lace of the trim, to palm the weight of her breasts and ghost his fingers over the hardened nipples poking against the thin fabric.

She turned away, shrugging out of the bodice and depositing it upon her gloves on the chair in the corner.

At that, he could wait no longer.

Matthew crossed the room and gathered her against him, kissing her temple, her hair, deeply breathing that floral scent. He wanted it to intoxicate him, to take him away someplace where his mind was empty of words, where he thought only in pictures and felt in colors.

“Doctor,” she said, gently trying to extricate herself. “Patience, patience,” she advised, twisting about to free an arm so she might reach for her hair.

“No,” Matthew heard himself growl in a thick voice he didn’t quite mark as his own.

“No?” Lady Caplin gasped incredulously, hairpin in hand.

But whatever scold she wished to deliver was forestalled; Matthew was beyond thinking like a man of reason. His whole life he’d been patient. Well, no longer.

He hoisted her easily, one arm under her legs, the other around her back, crushing her against himself, taking her mouth once again with a slow, deliberate determination. After a moment her rigidity melted away.

Matthew heard the hairpin plink against the wooden floor.

With his lips still upon hers, he crossed the short distance to the room’s tidy bed. He lowered her atop it, then joined her, bracketing her legs with his knees. He leaned back, but only to tear off his jacket and toss it to the floor. And then, keeping himself under only the most tenuous of control, just enough so as to not tear her garments and upset her, he fiddled about the waist of her skirts, undoing each hook with relish. She lifted herself obligingly, allowing him to slide them off in a rustle of silk and crinoline.

“I’m perfectly able to remove my own gown,” she breathed, pushing herself up on her elbows to watch him.

Matthew deposited the unwieldy mass of fabric upon the chair, then ripped off his own neckcloth and added it to the growing pile, before removing his shirt.

“At least, I am with that gown. Or at least…” Her words trailed off, her eyes softening as she regarded him.

Matthew’s skin heated under her scrutiny. He straightened up, desperate to ignore the throbbing of his body, the insistence of his erection.

“Oh,” she repeated, her voice lower, huskier. Idly she traced a finger along her neck, back and forth, lower and lower. “You’re marvelous,” she sighed.

The heat spread across his shoulders, the back of his neck. Did she jest? A lazy lioness, toying with her prey?

Matthew chuckled, a low, self-deprecating sound. “Surely not I, my lady.”

Her face changed. She sat up slowly, reaching for his hand.

“You question my judgment?”

She pinned him with her toffee eyes, strong and unyielding.

Matthew’s heart seized. Embarrassed, he removed his spectacles with his free hand, rather than open his mouth and look a fool.

Her gaze fell to his hand in hers. She gently thumbed his knuckles.

“I beg your pardon, it’s only just… well.” Matthew finally found his voice—halting and uncertain, but still his. “‘Marvelous’ seems somewhat of an exaggeration.”

She stood and took his spectacles from him, crossing the room to the small dresser that sat opposite the bed.

Matthew watched her, heart in his throat. Clad only in her delicate underthings, she still moved with the graceful self-assurance of a clever and powerful woman in her prime. With his vision blurred, her chemise appeared ethereal, almost angelic. Matthew wished to slide the thin garment from her shoulders, to expose more of that neck, of her beautiful back.

The spectacles knocked softly on the wooden surface as she set them down.

“Have you never considered yourself, Doctor?”

Of course he had. Matthew was well aware of how people regarded him; some women would offer surmising smiles but nothing more, while vain men looked upon him with contempt and hostility, eager to challenge him and prove their worth to themselves. But he’d always done his best to escape notice, to avoid the easy romances and self-serving altercations. It was no way to live, defining oneself by the luck of one’s corporeal form; after all, he had never asked to grow so tall, for his shoulders to widen or his arms to thicken as they had.

“I…” he began, then swallowed thickly before changing his tack. “Humility is a scarce virtue.”

“Perhaps because most have no use for it.” Her voice betrayed a hint of that beautiful smile. “I certainly don’t.”

With her back to him, she reached up for her hair and withdrew one pin, then another, and still another. Her hair fell, lock by lock, cascading down her shoulders.

Matthew could bear it no more.

He closed the distance between them, heart pounding, and seized her, burying his face in the space where her neck met her shoulder.

Lady Caplin gasped. She pushed back into him with the same sudden urgency.

He clawed at her corset, fumbling with the laces as he kissed her neck. After a minute that felt an eternity, he tugged it off and spun her about. He was overwhelmed by the need to devour her, to feel her skin against every inch of his. Matthew gathered her into his arms and took her mouth again. And again. Had he ever before lost his head like this? His body felt both light and heavy, his mind filled with poetry as he caressed her all over.

She moaned as he palmed her chest, grinding back into him. It wasn’t enough. He needed more.

Blood coursed through him, strengthening him. He felt like an enhanced version of himself, every sense heightened. With a low growl, he lifted the chemise and slid one hand under, relishing in the soft curves of her waist, the weight of her breast. Fuck, the things he wanted to do with her.

Emboldened, he snaked his other hand around her, ghosting over her drawers.

Lady Caplin gasped.