Page 15 of Lady Be Good

Lilah paused in the shadows of the upper landing, listening intently. The intruder had moved off the stone stairway into the upper hall, his weight raising a creak from the floorboards. Now silence. Now several creaks, then silence again.

He was varying the pace of his steps, the better to avoid the telltale rhythm of footfall. That was a common trick among burglars. He knew what he was about.

Lilah crept to the top of the stairs. To the left lay her rooms and Miss Everleigh’s. The man hesitated, then turned right, toward Lord Palmer’s apartment and the passage to the west wing.

Lilah inched around the corner into the shelter of a tall suit of armor. She was lighter than the burglar, and by dint of old habit, had taken note of which sections of the floor were noisiest. These advantages allowed her to dart across the hall soundlessly. She ducked into the servant’s passage and groped forward.

The lamps were out. If the design mirrored the passage adjoining her apartments, there would be a door soon enough to the right. It would open into Palmer’s washroom, allowing staff to fetch up warm water for his baths.

A doorknob came into her grip. She opened it, surprising Palmer at the washbasin. He lunged immediately out of sight—then pivoted, a pistol in his hand. Good. She lifted her knife to point beyond him to the door to his bedroom.

He did not follow her gesture. His face showed plain astonishment. “What in God’s name—”

“Someone’s coming,” she said softly.

He pivoted just as the door swung open. The stranger swore—genuine surprise, distress—and yanked the door closed. “Stay where you are,” Palmer bit out, and shouldered through the door, disappearing from sight.

She leaned out of the servants’ passage, listening hard. She heard a scuffle in the hallway. Perhaps a muffled groan. But no gunshot.

Silence settled. Heart pounding, she stepped fully into the washroom—then jumped as Palmer reappeared in the doorway, breathing hard. “Go to Miss Everleigh,” he said. “Lock her doors and barricade them.” He did not wait for agreement before turning on his heel.

A fine idea. She slipped back into the servants’ passage and groped her way through the darkness. The next door to the left opened into the hall; she did not want that.

The door after it belonged to Miss Everleigh. But it was locked.

Cursing, she retraced her steps and cracked open the door to the hall. Dead silence. Squinting left and right, she edged out along the wall. The knife felt like a friend in her sweaty grip. If somebody grabbed her, she’d stick him.

Bloody hell. Miss Everleigh had locked the outer door as well. Holding her breath, Lilah dared a light knock.

No reply.

She knocked harder, then rattled the doorknob.

Nothing.

She remembered the sound of Miss Everleigh’s slurred laugh. What a night to fall into a liquor-logged sleep!

She reached into her coiffure for a pin with which to pick the lock, and only then realized that in her own drunken stupor, she had managed one thing—she had taken down her hair and plaited it for bed.

Swallowing a curse, she started for her own room. But suddenly a commotion rose from below—a hoarse shout, a thud, and the sound of something shattering. Why did Palmer not use his pistol? She thought with wild black humor of what her uncle would say. A gun was only useful when one was willing to fire it.

The disturbance ceased. She caught the faint rhythm of Palmer’s voice. Relieved, she flew down the stairs.

Palmer was standing in the entry hall. A body lay across the threshold, booted feet just visible. As she stepped off the staircase, Palmer crouched down by the body.

A figure emerged from the cloakroom. A man with a knife.

“Palmer!” she cried. The figure turned and sprinted toward her. She wheeled for the stairs and a hand closed around her throat. She stabbed her knife into it. Her blade rebounded off bone.

She pulled free but he caught her and dragged her against him; snatched her wrist and twisted it behind her back. Writhing, intending to bite, she saw a stranger’s face, snarling, murderous. He squeezed her wrist, forcing the knife from her nerveless grip.

A great weight knocked into them. She dragged herself free, then scrambled to hands and knees. Palmer was on top of the man. Grappling with him. They rolled, a brawling vicious tangle; the man rose over Palmer, his knife glinting—

Palmer seized his wrist. They struggled now in silence for control of the blade, their breathing harsh, the silence otherwise profound, terrible—

Palmer broke the man’s grip, the knife clattering to the floor. The man howled and grabbed at Palmer’s throat—but Palmer moved faster, hooking his arm around the other man’s neck, dragging him to his feet as he thrashed, seizing his head and jerking sharply—

The crack was sickening. Palmer opened his arms, and the man’s body dropped lifeless to the floor.

She had never seen a man killed like that.

Palmer turned on her, his face a mask of rage. “You were meant to go to London!”

She crawled backward, finding her feet and lurching up. “Who—what—”

He shoved his hand through his hair. “Jesus God.” He looked down at the body, then knelt, hunting roughly for a pulse.

“He’s dead,” she said. No doubt.

He looked up, his eyes blazing. “What were you thinking?”

“I—I wasn’t.” She’d seen the knife. Instinct had taken over.

Men appeared in the doorway. She jumped back—then recognized them. The assayers. Two men half carried, half dragged a third inside. The one who had collapsed in the doorway. He looked dazed, but she saw no blood.

Something flashed by her, causing her to flinch. It clattered onto the ground in a distant corner: the stranger’s knife. Palmer had tossed it away. He had also taken note of her jumpiness. He was staring at her, a black, flat stare. “Take this one,” he said.

For a moment, she thought he was speaking to her. Then the assayers leaned their wounded friend against the wall and came over to pick up the corpse, slinging it between them.

“All men to the house.” Palmer spoke in sharp syllables, chips of ice. “Forget the property lines. Every side, defended.”

“Yes, sir.”

Defended against what? “Is there more than one of them?” Lilah looked wildly around. This house made an awful defense. Too many doorways. Too many windows. She spotted her knife, and bent to pick it up.

Quick as a striking snake, Palmer caught her arm. “You’re hit.”

“What?” A bolt of fear coursed through her. She looked down. One of her sleeves was ripped. Flimsy fabric. Blood on her forearm.

She scrubbed it off with the intact sleeve. “A nick.” A strange laugh escaped her. “I’m all right.”

“Lilah.” His expression was unrecognizable. Chillingly cold. “Did you alert Miss Everleigh?”

“No, she didn’t answer me—”

“Good.” Without warning, he swept her into his arms and started up the stairs.

Sometimes the better part of wisdom lay in silence. Lilah held her tongue as Palmer shouldered through the door into his apartments. He walked straight into his bedchamber and dumped her on the bed. “Stay there.” He turned on his heel, leaving her in silence.

The night’s chill gradually registered. Why, that was right; she was wearing her robe. Barely dressed. She yanked the hem over her ankles and drew a shaking breath. The room was handsome, full of dark, heavy furniture. None of it for sale. She’d never been into his suite before.

She ran a hand over the coverlet. Soft, expensive fabric. Silk, dyed the shade of dried blood.

She recoiled. Pulled her hand back into her lap. Looked at her wrist, which had stopped bleeding.

Somebody had sneaked into the house. Palmer had broken his neck. Strong enough to lift a ram; strong enough to snap a spine. Why be surprised?

Her thoughts felt disjointed. Unnerving. She locked her hands tightly together, and counted the roses in the border of the carpet.

The door opened, giving her a bad start. “Make a noise!”

Palmer exhaled, a rough sharp sound. “Forgive me,” he said curtly.

He laid a small bottle onto the nightstand, a water pitcher beside it. From his pocket he took a roll of gauze, unwinding it in short, violent jerks. “I booked you passage. I gave you the letters.” The words drilled like bullets. “What else do you require to be gone?”

She’d fluttered and sighed, anticipating their reunion. But he looked at her now with fury. Nothing made sense. She groped for words, and found instead the first prickle of anger, sharpening on her tongue like needles. “I answer to Miss Everleigh now. Not you.”

A humorless smile curved his mouth. “Of course.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and sat down on the edge of the bed. Wetted the cloth in the pitcher. “Give me your arm.”

In his cold voice, that sounded like a threat. “No.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I am trying,” he said, “not to throttle you.”

“Why? What did I do?”

His hand closed into a fist. Veins springing up, knuckles whitening. “What in God’s name were you thinking? Running downstairs?”

She scowled. “You should be grateful. He was coming for you.”

“What of it?” he snapped. “Do I strike you as weak?”

She bit her lip. That was the very last word she would have chosen. The crack of her assailant’s neck would haunt her. “You were distracted,” she said very softly.

“Yes.” His mouth twisted. “It’s a problem, isn’t it?” He did not wait for her to puzzle that out before seizing her wrist. His fingers felt very warm. He laid the cloth to her arm.

His hand was trembling.

“Palmer?” His blond head bowed, concealing her view of his face. “Are you—”

“I should have driven you to the station myself.” He spoke very low. “Tied you onto that train. You were not meant to be here.”

She understood nothing. Or . . . perhaps she did. “You expected him? You knew he was coming?”

He looked up, his mouth twisting. “Of course not.”

Bewilderment swam through her. A thousand baffled questions, none of which seemed to fit neatly into words. Something horrible in his face, as he stared at her—something she had never wanted to see. Fear. For her?

She tried to pull back. He did not let her. Scowling, she focused on his grip. She preferred him colder. Furious. What made him so afraid? She wanted to take a knife to it—a large one. A machete.

“You are leaving on the first train.” He reached over and took up the vial. Splashed its contents onto the handkerchief, which he laid back against her arm.

She sucked in a breath. “That stings.”

“Yes.” He watched his own work, the gentle pressure he exerted against the cut. “The bleeding has stopped.”

“I can’t go. Miss Everleigh won’t let me.”

“She goes with you. Her brother has called her back to town.”

“But . . .” She shook her head. “The estate?”

“Peter will manage it.”

“How convenient,” she whispered.

“No.” He looked sharply into her eyes. “It was my doing. I met him in town, on my way back from Sussex.” His mouth flattened. “I did wonder why he hadn’t mentioned your return.”

A chill wracked her. Understanding, at last. This wasn’t over. “You expect more trouble.”

“I expect nothing else.”

She hesitated. “Not a burglar, then?”

He shook his head.

“But he . . .” For an assassin, the man had been clumsy. “He didn’t even attack you. Here, when he found you.”

“He went to the wrong room. He was looking for someone else.”

“Who?” Not her. Why would anyone come after her? “Catherine?”

“Anyone,” he said. “Anyone close to me.”

She felt cold again, a violent shivering wave. With her free hand, she tried to draw the robe tighter, but it was a flimsy affair, not meant to provide warmth.

His gaze sharpened. “What is it? Something else? Did your head—”

“No, I’m fine.” She took a steadying breath. She was no sheltered lady, to be overcome by vapors. But . . . “I’m out of practice with . . . that.”

He whispered something too low for her to make out. Then he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to her forehead, breathing deeply. It was not a kiss. It was more basic. Skin to skin. “May you always be out of practice,” he said. “Always.”

Her eyes closed. Now, she was warm. With his lips pressed against her, his strong hand bracing her shoulder, she would not shake.

She felt him sigh. He eased away and retrieved the gauze. Thrice he wrapped her wrist, then knotted it soundly. “Too tight?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

He laid her hand back in her lap, the movement oddly formal. “It is not nothing.” He nudged her chin up, so their eyes met. “You will not mention my name in London. Do you understand?”

His knuckles felt rough. His cheek was bruising. These small observations seemed important: the lock of blond hair curling over his ear. The length of his lashes, the way they curled. She wanted to touch him; to stroke the grimness from his face. He was about to explain things. She could feel the truth gathering between them like darkness. In another moment, she would make herself ask for it. But not yet.

“Why did you leave for so long?” she asked.

A brief, fraught pause. She realized that question wasn’t safe, either. “I was at Susseby.” He sat back, letting go of a long breath. “It . . . The house is gone.”

“Gone?” She shook her head once. “What do you mean?”

“Burned to the foundations. There’s nothing . . .” His gaze wandered the room before returning to her. He, too, seemed to be struggling with his focus. “There’s nothing left but ashes.”

God above! What a run of ill luck! She reached for his hand where it lay on the counterpane. His skin felt cold to the touch now. She gripped his fingers, rubbed them to bring back the warmth. “Is your family all right?”

“Yes. I’ve sent them . . . elsewhere.”

“But what happened?”

His gaze locked on hers, square and unblinking, and she knew the answer before he spoke. “It’s all of one piece,” he said. “Tonight, and Susseby.”

She went still. Arson, then? “The man you killed?”

“Some hireling.” He looked down at their joined hands. Turned his palm into hers, threading their fingers together. “He was sent by a man named Bolkhov. The man who gave me this.” With his free hand, he touched the scar that ran so closely to his eye. “A general in the Russian army. Deposed, absconded from his post. His troops ransacked the Afghan countryside after the war. I was tasked to hunt him down. He held me responsible for those we killed. Among them, he claimed, were his wives and children. And so he vowed to take revenge. Susseby,” he said. “And tonight. And . . . all the rest.”

The gunshot. The assayers with their weapons. The wrong room, he’d said. “He wants to hurt Miss Everleigh?”

“He knows her.” He pulled his hand free, laid it on the coverlet, stretched his fingers. His knuckles were swollen from the brawl. “Under a different name, he contributed several pieces to the auction she’s curating. He enjoys his taunts,” he said quietly. “One of the pieces, he knew I would recognize. Until I saw it, I had no notion of how to find him.”

Comprehension swept through her. “You’re using her to hunt him.”

“That was the idea.” His smile looked black. “Instead, I gave him new prey.”

“She has no idea of the danger,” Lilah whispered.

“She does now. We spoke earlier. But other dangers concern her more greatly.” He shrugged. “Her brother is looting the auction house—fixing the books, embezzling from the accounts. By the terms of her father’s will, she has no authority to interfere until she is married. She proposed a trade: my help in containing Peter, for hers with luring out Bolkhov. It’s hardly fair, to my mind. But she was insistent.”

Lilah’s thoughts had turned to more selfish concerns. “You’re not really courting her, then?” God forgive her for her relief.

But he saw it, his face darkening. “Lilah. This is no game. If it took a marriage to trap him, I would do it. Bolkhov means to kill everyone close to me. He has already managed it once.”

God above. “Your . . . surely not your brother?”

He looked away. “A telegram arrived last week. Geoff’s grave had been disturbed. That was what drew me to Susseby. By the time I arrived . . .” He knocked a piece of lint from the bed, then stared at his hand, the fist it made. “It’s a wonder no one was killed. The fire spread quickly. Strong wind, that night. The ashes carried all the way to the village.”

She did not know what to say. It was an unspeakably maniacal thing, to persecute a man by targeting his loved ones. Even her uncle would have recoiled at such evil.

“It was only a house, of course.” He spoke flatly. “But that is the last loss I will incur.” He glanced back at her, his face remote. “You are leaving Buckley Hall. And in London, you will not know me. We are strangers, from here forward. For your sake.”

“Strangers.” The idea seemed impossible. Foul and offensive. But for weeks, she had felt out of her depths here. Only now did she realize that there might be a greater price to pay than the loss of her position, her dignity . . . and her heart.

Agonized, she studied him. Strangers. Her father and uncle had never agreed on anything but a single principle: no matter the cost, survival came first. Becoming a stranger would be wise, sensible, safe. His face was impenetrable to her now, beautiful and severe, as though she were indeed a stranger, her feelings immaterial.

But his eyes spoke differently. He watched her as closely as she watched him. She saw the mirror of her own feelings in his eyes.

He was trying to protect her. How dare he imagine that she would not do the same for him?

“Once, in your study, I saw a map.” She spoke softly, choosing her words with care. “My uncle, whom I told you about—he knows those areas you circled. He knows them very well. Do you think this Bolkhov might be hiding in one of them? If so, my uncle could help you.”

“Lilah. My God.” He rose to his feet. “Have you heard a single word I’ve said? I want you out of this.”

She scrambled to her feet. “But I am in it! There is no getting out. I work for Miss Everleigh, don’t you see? And my uncle is no ordinary—”

“Forget your uncle,” he snarled. “Forget Catherine. She knows a bargain when she sees one: she means to use me as I use her. She is useful. But you, Lilah . . . you’re a goddamned weakness. And if you care so little for your own life that you would risk it on me, you’re a fool.”

She caught her breath. Those fierce words burned away the last vestige of her numbness. He cared for her. He could not hide it. She would not let him. “Then I’m a fool.” But not a coward. “I can help you, though. I can.” Nick could. She would find a way to make him do it.

He dug his hands through his hair, then spun and stalked to the door. “We will not have this conversation.” Yanking the door open, he said, “Get out.”

“Don’t you want to know my name, before I go?”

That caught him. He turned on her, furious. “No. I wish to know nothing about you. Are you deaf? Listen once more: I have put everyone I love in danger. Everyone.” He stepped toward her, a violent movement, arrested abruptly. “I have buried my brother’s body. His death—my doing. Susseby—my doing. I have robbed my sister and mother of their home. I have exiled them. And tonight, I killed a man, and then I wiped away your blood. You have no care for yourself. Fine. But I care. I care and I will not risk you. I will be dead before I take your help. Is that clear to you?”

Everything was clear. This snarling speech, his terror—for her—was the most dreadful, beautiful ode she’d ever heard.

“My name is Lily Monroe,” she said. “Niece to Nicholas O’Shea. That is the man you need now.”

He sneered. “Fine.” He seized the doorknob again, pulling so hard that the wood cracked as the door lurched open. “You’ve said it. Now go.”

He wasn’t hearing her. “You know my uncle. They call him Saint Nick. King of Diamonds, the Lord of the East End.” Was he listening? “He controls half the city. The darker half.” She watched his profile, the stony set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders. His silent, physical rejection. “All those areas you circled on the map—they are his. He owns the people there. With the letters, I can propose a new trade—”

He turned, his expression black. “And does he own you? He’s the one whom you fear, isn’t he? The bastard who blackmailed you.” An ugly smile twisted his mouth. “The other bastard, that is.”

What irrelevant nonsense was this? “It makes no difference.” In the face of this danger, it didn’t matter. “He could help. I could make him help.”

“It matters.” He stared at her. “I will not give him cause to blackmail you again.”

“But there would be no need! I have the—”

“You’re right. There’s no need.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “The Russian auction will be held in a fortnight. I’ve made arrangements to lure out Bolkhov. This travesty ends then . . . if not beforehand.”

“But what if it doesn’t? Why not use all the weapons at your—”

“I had hoped you esteemed me better,” he cut in. “Foolish, I know. What cause have I given you for esteem? But if you think I’ll send you back to the bastard who put you into this mess—to beg for his favors, by God—then you think me some species far lower than a coward.”

Her lips shaped the words several times before she got them out. In that brief pause, anger sparked. “I think you a bastard,” she said. “An arrogant ass! For it takes a bastard to turn up his nose at a friend! If I’m willing to do it, then why can’t—”

“We are not friends.”

He spoke so coldly that it took the breath from her lungs. “You’re a liar,” she whispered.

“And now you bore me.” He bent to strip the knife from his boot. Laid it solidly on the table before turning back to her. “Still here?” The derisive curl of his mouth smashed into her like a fist. “I used you, Lilah. You were useful, for a time. But now you’re not. I do see why you were so cool under pressure—the niece of Saint Nick; why, you’re the aristocracy of the underbelly. But I don’t mix with filth on regular occasions. I do thank you for the offer, though.”

The pain twisted, making her reckless. She knew he meant not a word of his speech. He was trying to drive her off. But he certainly knew the proper way to do it. His words laid open her chest and bowed an ugly song across her heartstrings. “You’ll take filth into your bed, but friendship is a step too far, is it? Friendship is for women like Miss Everleigh. You’ll take her help, but not mine.”

He shrugged and leaned back against the wall, the lounging posture of an idle masher, bored of low entertainments. “She sells her help for a price. You have nothing left that I wish to purchase.”

She ignored the sting. “You told her to call you Christian. Was that necessary? Was your Russian lunatic listening then?”

A strange look came over him. “God above. Is that all it requires? Go ahead, then. Call me Christian. What does it matter?”

It mattered. He tried to pretend otherwise, but she knew the truth. “Christian.” She stepped toward him. “Let me help you. Please. I—”

He caught her hand before she could touch him. Forced it back to her side. “I am done with this argument,” he said very slowly, as though she were a child in a tantrum.

“But I’m not.” She glared at him as his fingers tightened. “Hurting me won’t end it, either.”

He dropped her hand as though it burned. Setting his fist to his mouth, he stared at her, his expression bleak.

The silence felt brittle and sharp, as though the wrong word might fracture it into cutting shards. She did not know what to say next. The heaviness of defeat stole over her.

“Christian,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t be a fool.”

Something fraught tightened the skin around his eyes. When it passed, his gaze had softened. He lowered his fist and breathed out. “Do you care for me, Lily?”

Her throat felt so full. A thousand words would not encompass the proper response. All she could manage was a nod.

“Then you’ll trust me,” he said. “You’ll trust my plan. If the auction doesn’t bear out . . . then, perhaps, we will speak of your uncle.”

It was a compromise. Unsatisfactory, horribly insufficient. She wrapped her arms around herself, miserable.

“Lily,” he said softly. “What a lovely name for you. Lily, you should go.”

Was that all she would have from him? A compliment to her name. A flimsy bargain to talk again, in two weeks’ time. At which point he might be dead already, when she might have saved him.

She deserved more than that.

She dropped her arms and squared her shoulders. “I will go in the morning,” she said quietly. “But not tonight. I’ll have something else before I leave.”

Lily. The name fit her perfectly. She should not have told it to him. In this darkness his life had become, she remained the sole piece of light. But each secret she shared pulled her closer to him, to this stain he had become on the lives of those he loved.

Her bastard uncle could not have helped. Not when the full force of British intelligence had failed to locate Bolkhov. But she would have gambled herself on the chance. Endangering herself for his sake.

Surviving a war had taught him to recognize true mettle. An ally whom he could trust with his life. She was that, and far more. He would not risk her. This war was different from the other. His survival now was not worth the cost, if it meant losing her.

He touched her face. Standing before him, an exquisite vulnerability in the defiant tilt of her chin, she was his punishment. What he most wanted: what he could not have.

“You will not interfere,” he said quietly, stroking her satin-smooth cheek. “I’ll have your word before you go.” Otherwise he would make the decision for her. There was room for another woman in that remote cottage where his sister and mother now waited.

But he would not take her there unless necessary, for placing her with his family would compound the danger to her. Bolkhov had no way, yet, to know what she had become to him. Once he put her with his mother and sister, there could be no doubt. She would be just as vulnerable as they were.

She still had not replied. He grasped her by the shoulders, not caring if he frightened her now. “Give me your goddamned word.”

“You have it,” she said, almost soundless. “But first . . .”

A strange laugh escaped him. Did she imagine she would have to force him to it? “Lily,” he said. A flower whose bulb nestled deep in the ground, where one never thought to look for it. Of course that was her name. She had taken him by surprise. He had never expected this.

He hooked his hand in her hair, pulled up her face, and looked into her pale, fearless beauty before he kissed her.

In the morning, she would be gone from his life. But in the meantime, God help him, he would pretend that she was his. That he had seen her waiting at a window in some tower, and slayed dragons to win her, and claimed her by right, and made that tower his home.

He picked her up and carried her to the bed. The light from the hearth painted her in rippling tones of fire. The smooth slope of her shoulder. The wide blue pools of her eyes. The fullness of her lips, which she pressed together to hide how they trembled.

There was no cause to hide that from him. He leaned down to kiss her lips apart, to lick and suck them. “Tremble,” he murmured. “As much as you like.”

Her small sigh seemed flavored by relief. Her arms came eagerly around his shoulders as she drew him atop her. He felt the fleeting urge to smile. Did she imagine he would retreat now? He kissed her deeply, hard, to show her his intentions.

She took his tongue, drew it deeper into her mouth. Her hands slipped to his waist, her grip tightening.

The thin robe translated every swell and curve of her. Her slim waist, the delicate point of her elbow. The bloody bastard had grabbed her there—

He gritted his teeth and sat back, away from that thought, as he ripped off his clothing. He caught her hands when she tried to pull him toward her, holding them firmly. “Shh,” he said. Then he picked her up by the waist. Her weight—the lightness of it—briefly disconcerted him. Her rich low voice, the ferocity of her spirit—it should have made her as solid and heavy as an anchor.

He laid her down again, on a cushion of pillows, bracing himself on an elbow above her. The picture of her, passive and tousled beneath him, a slight amazed smile flirting bashfully with her lips, deserved trumpets—the adulation of crowds.

But she was his. Only for his eyes. His, alone.

For now.

“Touch me,” she whispered. Innocent. Mistaking his pause for uncertainty, rather than an inward battle against this savage possessiveness.

“I will,” he said very quietly. But he would portion that pleasure out in small bits. Otherwise he would devour her without care or regard.

He started with her hair, running his fingertips lightly down the braid that spilled over her shoulder and swung off the bed. A single ribbon secured it. He pulled one end, and watched her hair slowly untwist.

He ran his fingers through it, drawing the thick locks over her breast. Her eyes fluttered shut. She liked this.

He threaded his fingers through her hair at her scalp, massing, tugging, and then spreading the strands out in all directions. She groaned beneath his strokes. Arched upward, like a cat being petted. His eyes fixed on the point where her robe caught on the twin peaks of her stiffened nipples.

He slipped one hand beneath her back, feeling his way down to the sash, slipping it free. She made a delighted noise and rolled toward him. The robe slipped off her, revealing small but perfectly shaped breasts, nipples pink and proudly pebbled. Her beauty pierced him like strong sunlight, burning him clean.

He cupped her breast in his hand. Tested its weight. She shivered. “Clever hands,” she whispered. “You would have made a fine thief.”

Did she not know he was thieving right now? Taking what did not belong to him. He wanted . . . not only her body but the future she would forge for herself, with the same wit and fearless initiative she had shown him so many times. He wanted her at his side. At his back. To love a woman and to depend on her courage were two different things. But she would offer them both, to the man she married.

To hell with the goddamned butcher.

It was a dark thought, ugly as bloodlust. He did not want to dwell on it when he might dwell on her. He leaned down and sucked her nipple into his mouth.

She gasped, wrapping his head in her arms, pulling him against her. Her shudders strengthened as he suckled her, ebbed as he drew away to blow lightly on her skin.

He pinned her arms over her head as he kissed her deeply. She had thrown herself in danger’s path for him. That was his sin to bear. She should never have needed to carry a knife, at his side. Harm would never come to her again on his count. Everything he did henceforth would ensure it.

He kissed her wrists, then reached down to knock free the last clasp of the robe at her hips. She could guard herself from the world, but she never need do so with him. He pushed apart her legs, so she lay splayed and bare before him.

She made an awkward noise—a protest, swallowed. He wrenched his gaze to her face, and found her blushing and unable to meet his eyes.

“You are beautiful,” he said. He bent to kiss her plump inner thigh. He licked the salt from the crease of her leg.

She squeaked. “This is . . . French.”

“Not yet.” He breathed deeply of her, musk and ambrosia and every secret note that no aphrodisiac had yet managed to capture. With his tongue he trailed a path down to her knee. It was dimpled, a realization that unseated something inside him. So much left to discover, and no time. Ambition and panic twisted inside him. No time to waste. He could revisit her knees later.

He licked back up her thighs and then, giving her no warning, parted her quim with his thumbs.

Her hips jerked. Shy, she tried to close her legs. He moved his knee, holding her thighs apart. She would not hide from him.

Her eyes found his, wide and dazed. He offered her a fierce smile, then lowered his head and licked her.

Her stifled cry felt like a hand tightening on his cock. Yes. He tasted her, licked into her, penetrated her with his tongue. Prepared her for his fingers, which he slid into her with great care as he kissed upward to her clitoris, that small throbbing knot that he teased and sucked as he felt her channel grow wet.

He had dreamed of this. Had dreamed of the noises she would make when he made love to her with his mouth. But the reality—her twitching, thrashing, murmuring pleasure, her scent, the softness of her restless thighs as they closed around his head—was beyond . . . anything.

Lust, rage, hunger, all the primitive desires were not so different from each other. Conquer. He sucked harder. Caught hold of her hips and pinned her down when she tried to resist her own pleasure. “Too much,” she gasped. Which was exactly right. He laved her again and again. Accept this.

He felt the spasms take her. She tightened around his fingers, a fierce clutching rhythm that made him swallow in triumph. Her hips jerked in his grip. He reached down to grasp himself. Paused over her, wrestling with his restraint.

Her hand closed on his cock. “Now,” she whispered.

His need was red and dark and merciless. He fitted his cock to her opening, tight, moist, hot, soft—ah, God; he caught her stifled gasp in his mouth as he slowly pushed into her.

The shock went bone deep as he looked into her eyes.

Mine.

No. He closed his eyes, his mind, to the word, and began to rock into her; God in heaven he would not rush this, he would bring her to her peak again, he would—

Her hips moved against his tentatively; then with some moaning murmur she caught the way of it, her hands digging into his sides, scraping down to his buttocks. She pulled him into the hilt, and he gasped.

“Yes,” she said into his ear. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Lily.” That was all he could manage. And then, on a groan, on a wave of pleasure so intense that sparks formed in the darkness behind his eyes, he was lost. He ripped himself away from her, spilling his seed safely.

Lost.

Her arms came around him, drawing him back.

He was not lost yet. Not until she let him go.

The next morning at half ten, the stable hands loaded the last of the luggage atop the hired carriage. Inside, as Lilah took her seat across from Miss Everleigh, she allowed herself a final look at the house. Once she had thought it monstrous. Now it seemed mythical, the scene of a fairy tale.

She had learned a great deal in that house. And she had lost something there that could never be recovered. She was glad of it, fiercely. Regretless.

Only . . . what if she could not help him? What if Nick refused her offer? What if this madman murdered him? What if—

She could not bear to look at the house a moment longer. She would start searching the windows for a glimpse of him. “We should go,” she said to Miss Everleigh. Overhead, the clouds were gathering into a great bruised knot. A robin winged by, breast as red as a warning as he fled from the storm.

“Yes, quite right.” The lingering effects of the wine made Miss Everleigh look sallow and ill. But she, too, seemed entranced by the house, gazing out with shadowed eyes until the carriage turned into the trees and took them out of view.

When they joined the main road, the jostling made Miss Everleigh groan and clutch her head. Lilah held out a flask that Mrs. Barnes had filled with tea. “It will help.”

Miss Everleigh waved it away. “Nothing will help,” she said bitterly, “unless it’s poison for my brother. This is the last time he will interfere with me. I promise you that.”

Lilah sat back against the cushions. It felt relieving, somehow, to be presented with such clear-cut rage. She herself was an inward stew of murky, churning emotion; anger was far easier to manage. “You can’t reason with men,” she said. “The bulk of them think us puppets, who dance for their amusement. And even when they do care for us, they think of us as fragile dolls, best kept on a high shelf lest we somehow get broken.”

Miss Everleigh looked at her so queerly that for a moment she thought she’d overstepped, and braced herself for a scolding.

But it seemed that their drunken camaraderie had wrought a change. “I don’t intend to reason with him.” Miss Everleigh opened her reticule to retrieve a vial of powder. “Give me that flask. I’m fixing my head.”

“What is that?”

“Powdered willow bark. Doesn’t your head ache?” She dumped the powder into the flask, shook it vigorously, and then pinched her nose as she took a long swallow. “I will never drink again.”

Lilah allowed herself a smile. “Not until you’re offered a good bottle of Chateau Lafeet.”

“Lafite Gilet.” Miss Everleigh made a chiding tsk. “We must find you a proper French tutor. You will not advance without a grasp of the language—or at the very least, a knowledge of the pronunciation.” She offered a wry smile.

Lilah did not know whether to take her seriously. “I would adore to learn it.”

“We will call it an exchange of services, then. You will teach me to type. I will procure you a tutor.”

“Truly?”

The other woman arched a brow. “Do you not find it a fair bargain? Shall I revise it?”

“I find it quite splendid!” The only good news she’d had today. She caught herself as she glanced out the window. There was nothing to see through the oaks.

“Of course, at this late age, it will be a hard road,” said Miss Everleigh. “Languages are best learned as a child. You cannot afford distractions.”

“I mean to entertain none,” Lilah said in puzzlement. Was she being accused, in advance, of dillydallying? “If you fear that the lessons would interfere with my duties at the auction rooms—”

“No. You misunderstand.” Miss Everleigh sighed. “You see, I don’t intend to reason with my brother. It’s pointless; I see that now. Instead, I mean to give him exactly what he wants.”

Jarred by the change in topic, Lilah proceeded cautiously. “How is that, miss?”

“First tell me this. Do you love him?”

For a stupid moment, Lilah thought that she referred to Young Pete. And then her horror intensified as the truth dawned on her. “No.”

“You do not love the viscount. I wish to be very clear on the matter.”

Flustered, Lilah took the defensive stance. “I can’t imagine why you’d ask!”

To her shock, Miss Everleigh blushed. “I do not make a practice of speculation. But at times, when I caught you looking at him—and sometimes the way you spoke of him had an air of . . .” She cleared her throat. “Well. It’s a simple question, no need to make it complicated. You love him or you don’t. Which is it?”

Lilah felt her own face warming, a strange mix of panic and misery curdling her veins. Love? No. She did not even allow herself to think the word. “It would make me the greatest fool alive,” she said, “to reach so far above my station.”

“Countless women have been fools of that kind.” Miss Everleigh did her the kindness of looking away to study the view. “I cannot claim to understand it. But I do gather it is a common weakness, and not worthy of . . . condemnation.”

This was even greater generosity than the offer of a French tutor. It penetrated Lilah’s stormy mood like a struggling ray of light. Had they truly become friends? She could think of no other motive for this kindness. Miss Everleigh offered a salve for her pride, and a tacit promise not to judge her.

“I will work very hard at French,” she said quietly. “I promise you, miss.” No matter what else happened, she would cling to the prospect of a true profession. It was her raft in the storm to come.

“Good,” said Miss Everleigh. “I am glad to hear it, for your sake.” She stripped off her gloves, then held out the flask. “Straight from the bottle,” she said.

Lilah took a deep breath. “Cheers,” she replied, and took a swig.