He shrugged. “It’s part of our bargain.”
“Nevertheless, I am grateful for your kindness.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said curtly. “The very last thing I am is kind.”
She stiffened and turned her face away from him.
Damn it, he’d spoken too rashly. He wanted to see her eyes, hear her telling him her worries again.
Lazarus cleared his throat, his voice gruff. “I did not mean to speak so harshly.”
A corner of her mouth curved a little, though she did not deign to show him her full face. “Are you apologizing to me, Lord Caire?”
“And if I were?” he asked softly. “Would you accept my obeisance?”
She lowered her eyelashes. “I have no need to have you at my feet.”
“Don’t you?” he asked lightly. “Then perhaps it is my needs that would find me there.”
He watched as a blush slowly stole up her neck.
“Or perhaps,” he whispered, “you might care to kneel before me?”
She drew in a quick breath as if insulted and looked at him, her eyes wide. It was to be expected—his suggestion was crass and ungentlemanly. She should be insulted. But it wasn’t insult that quickened her breath, made her sweet breasts press against her bodice with each inhale. It was something far more primitive.
Lazarus dropped his eyes as he felt the heat rise in his own body. He’d hunted like this before, sighted and circled prey before diving and catching in his talons, but this… this was far more intense than any other hunt.
“You shouldn’t… shouldn’t talk to me that way,” she said, her voice trembling—but not with anger.
He stared at her from under his brows. “Why not? It amuses me to discuss these things with you. Does it not you?”
She swallowed. He could see the movement of her throat clearly in the lantern’s light. “Don’t.”
“I think you do like it. I think you have the same image in your mind as I do. Shall I tell you what I see?”
She had her hand at her throat, but she was mute, staring at him, her eyes glazed.
He let his gaze drop deliberately to the upper slopes of her exposed breasts. “I see you in that dress, madam, kneeling before me, your skirts spread in a shining pool of crimson. I see myself standing before you. You look up at me, your golden eyes half closed as they are now, your lips reddened and wet from your tongue—or perhaps mine.”
“No,” she moaned, her voice so low he only knew her words from the movement of her lips.
“I see myself taking your hand and placing it on the fall of my breeches.” His cock was hard, throbbing with his own words and her reaction to them. “I see your slim, cool fingers carefully undoing each button as I stroke your bound hair. I see—”
The carriage jerked to a halt.
Lazarus inhaled softly and parted the curtains to glance out. Lady Beckinhall’s town house blazed with light.
He let the curtain fall and looked across the carriage at Mrs. Dews. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed, and he’d wager his life that she was wet beneath those shimmering crimson skirts.
A corner of his mouth quirked up, but it wasn’t humor he felt. “We’re here. Shall we descend?” He watched as she became aware, as white teeth bit that plump, lower lip. His voice lowered to gravelly depths. “Or shall I tell the coachman to drive on?”
Chapter Six
King Lockedheart bellowed for his guards to bring him the miscreant who had the temerity to laugh at him. Within seconds, Meg was dragged before him, bedraggled and sooty.
“What is your name?” roared King Lockedheart.
“Meg, if it please Your Majesty.”
He glowered at her. “And what did you find so amusing in my speech?”
The guards and the courtiers, drawn by the commotion, all expected the small maid to throw herself at his feet and plead for her life.
But Meg rubbed the end of her sooty nose and decided since she was already damned, she might as well speak the truth. “Only that you think you are beloved by your people, Your Majesty.”…
—from King Lockedheart
He was temptation personified.
Temperance stared at Lord Caire, feeling the rapid beat of her heart, the ache between her thighs. She’d avoided men for the last nine years precisely because of her sinful desires. Yet here, now, she found herself seated across from a man far more seductive than any other she’d ever met. He knew exactly how to rouse her demons, how to taunt and thrill until she was at feverish pitch, and the awful, terrible thing was that a part of her wanted—needed—to give in. To submit to the allure of his blue eyes. To kneel before him and touch that most earthly part of a man. To do the forbidden and open her mouth around him in an act that in no way could be about reproduction.
An act that was purely carnal.
No.
Temperance broke contact with his mesmerizing stare, drawing a shaky breath. “Let me out.”
For a moment he didn’t move, didn’t blink, simply stared at her with sapphire eyes that seemed to burn her exposed skin. Her breath caught at the look and the possibility that he wouldn’t let her go, that he’d take her and make her do those wicked things he’d spoken of in that deep voice.
Then he sighed. “Very well, Mrs. Dews.”
He stood and opened the door to the carriage, descending first and holding out a hand to help her alight. Temperance placed her trembling fingers in his grasp, and for a long second, his hand closed over hers, hot and possessive, even through his glove. Then her feet touched the ground and he let go, offering his arm again instead. She took it, inhaling to steady herself, aware that he’d shuddered at her touch. Around them, fashionable ladies stepped from carriages emblazoned with gilded coats of arms. The cherry-red dress that Nell had worked so hard on all afternoon suddenly seemed old and too obvious, the ribbon in her hair simply gauche. She swallowed in sudden trepidation. She didn’t belong here. She was a house sparrow among peacocks.
Lord Caire leaned over her. “Are you ready?”
She tilted her chin. “Yes, of course.”
“Brave even when entering a den of lions,” he murmured.
Inside, Lady Beckinhall’s town house fairly sparkled with white marble, gilt, and crystal. Overhead, a chandelier shone with hundreds of candles. Temperance absently surrendered her old gray wool wrap to a footman, not even caring when he grimaced and took it with thumb and forefinger. The town house was like a fairy-tale castle. She trailed her fingers on the marble banister as Lord Caire led her upward. How many servants spent their days on hands and knees to keep the white marble clean?
At the top of the staircase, they followed the stream of brightly plumed people into a long room, mirrored along one entire wall so that there seemed to be thousands of gorgeously gowned ladies escorted by innumerable dauntingly elegant gentlemen. Had she been by herself, Temperance might’ve fled, but Lord Caire’s arm was solid and warm beneath her fingers.
“Courage,” he murmured.
“My dress,” she said under her breath.
“Your dress is fine,” he whispered back. “I would not have let you enter otherwise. More importantly, you have nothing to be ashamed of in this crowd. You are just as well spoken as these ladies, just as quick-witted. And you have something they don’t: you know how to make your way in the world.”
“That’s not usually something to be proud of,” Temperance said.
He glanced at her. “Perhaps it should be. Hold your head high.”
One of the sophisticated ladies turned at their entrance and slowly strolled their way. Her dress was a deep blue, and as she drew nearer, Temperance could see that what she’d at first taken for embroidered flowers on her skirts were, in fact, rubies and emeralds sewn into the fabric.
Dear God.
“Lazarus,” the otherworldly creature drawled, “how unexpected to find you here.”
She was exquisitely beautiful, like some goddess come to earth to amuse herself at the
expense of mortals. This close, Temperance could see that she wore two lovely pins in her hair, diamonds, emeralds, and rubies fashioned into birds. Small diamonds on the end of delicate wires trembled whenever the lady moved her head.
It was all Temperance could do to keep from gaping, but evidently Lord Caire had no such awe for the lady. He inclined his head in a bow so brief it was insulting.
The lady’s lovely lips thinned, and her gaze turned to Temperance. “And who is this… person?”
“May I introduce Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire said shortly.
Temperance noticed that he didn’t introduce the other woman to her.
Apparently the lady noticed it as well. She stiffened. “If you’ve brought one of your bawds to Lady Beckinhall’s home…”
Lord Caire arched an eyebrow. “Your imagination does you no credit, my lady. I assure you that Mrs. Dews is likely the most respectable person here.”
The lady’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Lazarus. You tread a fine line.”
“Do I?”
“What is this woman to you?”
Temperance felt her cheeks heat at the lady’s obvious dismissal of her. She talked as if Temperance was a dog or a cat, a dumb beast unable to communicate.
“A friend,” Temperance said.
“What did you say?” The lady blinked as if honestly startled at her ability to speak.
“I said I am a friend of Lord Caire’s,” Temperance said firmly. “And you are…?”
“Lazarus, tell me this is a prank.” She’d turned back to Lord Caire, dismissing Temperance as thoroughly as she no doubt did a downstairs maid.
“No prank.” Lord Caire smiled thinly. “I would’ve thought you of all people would be happy I chose a respectable lady to escort to this assemblage.”
“Respectable!” The lady closed her eyes as if disgusted by the word. Then her sapphire eyes snapped open. “Send her away and let me introduce you to one of your own rank. There are several unmarried—”
But Lord Caire had already started to guide Temperance away.
“Lazarus!” the lady hissed behind them. “I am your mother.”
Lord Caire stiffened and turned, a cruel smile on his lips. “So I’ve been told. Madam.”
He sketched a bow. A fleeting expression crossed the lady’s face as they turned away. Something vulnerable and unpracticed. Hurt, perhaps? And then her expression was controlled and cold again, and they were past her.
Temperance glanced at Lord Caire, aware that her cheeks had flamed. “That was your mother?”
“Alas, yes,” he replied, and yawned behind an elegant fist.
“Goodness.” She would never have guessed their relationship from the open hostility that Lord Caire had shown the lady. Did he hate his own mother? She frowned as she remembered something else. “Did she really think I was your—”
“Yes,” he clipped. He glanced at her and his voice gentled. “Don’t let it worry you. Anyone else has merely to look at you to know you would never let yourself be corrupted by me.”
Temperance glanced away, unsure if he teased or not, and that was when it happened. As she placed her foot down, she felt a catch and heard a rip. “Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
Temperance glanced down at her frock, hoping she wasn’t too obvious. “I’ve torn my hem.” She looked up at him. “Is there somewhere I might repair it?”
He nodded and in a moment had procured the direction to the ladies’ retiring room from a footman. The room was down a short hall, and Temperance carefully lifted her skirts as she made her way there. She looked around when she entered—the room was well lit and nicely appointed with low chairs for a lady to rest on—but no one was about. She stood, nonplussed for a moment. Weren’t there supposed to be maids to assist the ladies?
She shrugged and sat to inspect her hem.
“Can I help?”
Temperance lifted her head, expecting to see a maid, but a lady had entered the room. She was tall and pale, her posture as correct as a queen’s, and her hair was a lovely shade of light red. She wore a splendid gown—a muted gray-green, overembroidered in silver thread.
Temperance blinked.
The woman’s face became bland. “I don’t mean to intrude….”
“Oh, no,” Temperance said hastily. “It’s just that I was expecting a maid or… or… well, not a lady in any case. My hem is torn.”
The woman wrinkled her straight nose. “I hate when that happens.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Lady Kitchen is having an attack of hysterics or nerves I believe. No doubt that’s where all the maids have gone to.”
“Oh.” Temperance glanced again at the black ruffle on her hem. It sagged quite sadly.
But the lady was kneeling before her now, her green and silver skirts spread about her like a shining cloud.
“Oh, please don’t,” Temperance said instinctively. This woman was obviously aristocracy. What would she do if she knew Temperance was the daughter of a beer brewer?
“It’s all right,” the lady said quietly. She hadn’t taken offense at Temperance’s outburst. “I’ve got a few pins….”
Deftly she flipped the hem up, pinned the ruffle in place, and flipped it back again. The pins didn’t even show.
“Goodness! You do that so well,” Temperance exclaimed.
The lady rose and smiled shyly. “I’ve had practice. Ladies should stick together at these social events, don’t you think?”
Temperance smiled in return, feeling confident for the first time since receiving Lord Caire’s invitation. “You’re so kind. Thank you. I wonder—”
The door burst open and several ladies entered, maids fluttering about them. Apparently it was Lady Kitchen and her hysterics. In the confusion, Temperance was separated from her new friend, and by the time she made the hall outside the ladies’ retiring room, the other woman was nowhere to be seen.
Still Temperance returned to Lord Caire with a lighter step, having been warmed by the stranger’s kindness. She found him leaning against a wall, surveying the company with a cynical gaze.
He straighten when he saw her. “Better?”
She beamed. “Yes, quite.”
His lips curved in answer. “Then let’s find your prey.”
They strolled to the far end of the room where gilded chairs had been placed in rows facing a beautifully painted piano. No one had yet taken a seat. Lord Caire led her to a trio of gentlemen.
“Caire.” A cadaverously thin gentleman in a white, full-bottomed wig nodded as they neared. “I had not thought this your type of entertainment.”
“Ah, but my tastes are diverse.” Lord Caire’s lips curled. “May I introduce Mrs. Dews? Mrs. Dews, this is Sir Henry Easton.”
“Sir.” Temperance made her best curtsy as the older gentleman bowed.
“And these are Captain Christopher Lambert and Mr. Godric St. John. Gentlemen, Mrs. Dews, along with her brother, Mr. Winter Makepeace, runs the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children in the East End, a most Christian and charitable institution.”
“Indeed?” Sir Henry raised bushy eyebrows, looking at her in interest. Captain Lambert had also turned his gaze to her. In contrast, Mr. St. John, a tall man in a gray wig, had cocked an eyebrow over half-moon spectacles at Lord Caire.
For a moment, Temperance wondered what the connection was between Lord Caire and Mr. St. John.
Then Sir Henry asked, “How many foundlings does your institution house, Mrs. Dews?”
Temperance smiled her most charming smile, intent on catching one of these fine gentlemen for the sake of the home.
“WHAT ARE YOU about, Caire?” St. John hissed out of the corner of his mouth.
Lazarus kept his eyes on his little martyr as she used all of her Christian wiles to seduce Lambert and Easton into supporting her foundling home. “I have no idea to what you refer.”
St. John snorted softly and half turned so as to be heard only by Lazarus. “She’s obviously as respect
able as you claim, which means that you’re either using her for some ends of your own or your debauchery has descended to the rape of innocents.”
“You hurt me, sir,” Lazarus drawled, placing his fingertips over his heart. He knew he looked ironic—jaded, even—but oddly, inside his chest, he did feel a twinge of something that might’ve been hurt.
St. John had leaned close to whisper, “What do you want from her?”
Lazarus narrowed his eyes. “Why? Will you play her gallant knight and steal her away from my dastardly arms?”
St. John cocked his head, his normally mild gray eyes sharpened to granite. “If need be.”
“Think you that I’d truly allow you to take from me something I wanted?”
“You talk of Mrs. Dews as if she’s a plaything.” St. John’s expression had turned analytical. “Would you break her in a fit of spoiled temper?”
Lazarus smiled thinly. “If I wanted.”
“Come,” St. John murmured. “You are not so lost to humanity as you sometimes like to play.”
“Aren’t I?”
Lazarus no longer smiled. He glanced at Mrs. Dews, discussing her charity home with earnest enthusiasm. Had she made the slightest sign of acquiescence in the carriage, she might at this moment be accepting his cock into her sweet saintly mouth. Wasn’t the debauchery of a saint the work of a devil? He looked back at St. John, the only man in this world who he might call a friend. The room had grown damnably hot, and his shoulder sent sharp shards of pain down his arm.
“A word to the wise: make no wagers on my humanity.”
St. John arched an eyebrow. “I’ll not sit back and watch you hurt an innocent. I will take her away from you if I think she needs my help.”
The anger shot through him so quickly Lazarus had bared his teeth before he realized.
St. John must’ve seen the murder in his eyes. He actually stepped back. “Caire?”
“Don’t,” Lazarus hissed. “Not even in jest, St. John. Mind your own lady. Mrs. Dews is mine to do with as I please.”
The other man’s glance flicked between him and Mrs. Dews. “And does she have no say in this matter?”