One broad finger slid through her slick folds, touching, claiming.
He bit her bottom lip. “You’re not leaving London.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and slipped a hand between their bodies, fumbling at his falls.
The tip of his finger nudged into her. “Eve.”
Two buttons. Three.
“Eve.”
She almost had it open.
“Look at me.”
She opened her eyes, glaring, and saw his green eyes gaze triumphantly at her as he pushed his thumb against her clitoris.
She moaned, arching up under him, his falls forgotten, her fingers crushed between them.
“Eve, stay with me.”
She remembered her hand and how to work it, tearing open his falls and the smallclothes beneath. Her breaths were coming in hot little pants now and she stared up at him as she took him into her fist. She would remember this. She’d remember this until her dying day, she promised herself.
“Ah, Eve,” he groaned, his head falling back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He thrust once, convulsively, into her hand, and then he was lifting and spreading her legs, taking his cock out of her hand, thrusting into her.
She gasped, it was so fast. A complete possession.
He rose up over her, his arms straight on either side of her shoulders, and slowly withdrew, his flesh dragging against hers.
He was hot and hard.
She spread her thighs, reveling in this lush feeling, his thrusts blunt and hard now, pounding into her body.
And still he watched her, the green of his eyes slivers of want, demanding something of her. Something she was no longer willing to give, it was just too much.
When at last she came, her breaths hitching and halting, her legs trembling, her sex pulsing with every push of his cock, she watched him. She saw when he gritted his teeth, his lips drawn back in need and pleasure.
He shouted her name, loud in her quiet bedroom, as his big body jerked and plunged and emptied itself in her.
She hadn’t answered his demand and she wasn’t sure if that meant she’d emerged the victor or he.
Or perhaps, in the end, they’d both lost.
Chapter Nineteen
Eric knelt before the sorceress. “Mistress, she is but a girl I found wandering the forest.”
“In my domain?” asked the sorceress ominously. “Why did you not slay her at once?”
She placed her bare foot on Eric’s neck, bearing him to the ground with unnatural strength.
But Dove jumped up. “No, do not hurt him!”
And with her shout still ringing in the glittering hall, she slapped the sorceress full across the face.…
—From The Lion and the Dove
The next night Harte’s Folly reopened, and even if Asa was biased—which he was—it was a fucking grand success.
He stood in one of the boxes—at the back, not the front, for all the boxes on the stage were sold out, thank God. Violetta was on the stage, bedecked in purple and gold and singing like an angel.
“She’s wonderful,” Eve murmured beside him, her eyes on the stage.
“That she is,” Asa replied, though his eyes were on her, not Violetta.
Eve was wearing a new gown tonight, a bright saffron yellow that made her shoulders gleam like pearls in the candlelight. He’d never seen her in anything but gray or brown, and the color—the intense brilliant color—was like the setting for a jewel. She was beautiful tonight, his sweet harpy, a golden goddess bent on leaving him.
He refused to think about that now.
Violetta ended on a shatteringly high note and the entire audience surged to its feet to clap.
Everyone in the box as well, for of course he and Eve weren’t alone. First of all there was his family: Silence and her awful pirate husband, Temperance and her murderous-looking aristocrat of a husband, Verity and gentle John Brown, and Winter and elegant Isabel. They were all squeezed into the biggest box he had. Con of course hadn’t bothered to sit with him—he’d said it was too crowded—and instead had settled on the pit with Rose and the eldest of their children. They seemed to be enjoying the opera well enough, though, even from their inferior seats. John—or possibly George—was cracking walnuts and when his mother wasn’t looking, throwing the shells at his twin. A corner of Asa’s mouth cocked up. That was a boy to keep an eye on.
Eve’s Ladies’ Syndicate was here as well, in the next box over, the members crowding into the hallway as the audience got up to leave the theater.
Asa held his arm out to Eve as he escorted her from the box. They were all swept along on a river of the richest and most beautiful people in London—Asa’s customers. He looked on in satisfaction as he spotted Violetta’s royal duke and several grande dames of society. Tomorrow anyone who had missed tonight would be bitterly regretting it—and clamoring for tickets for the next night.
Asa grinned to himself. A success indeed.
Outside, the moon had risen and the cooler night air was refreshing. Stringed instruments played in the shadows of the pillars surrounding the musicians’ gallery. Those who wished to dine claimed tables and curtained alcoves where much more than food would be enjoyed tonight. Others drifted into the gardens along paths lit with strung fairy lights.
Asa pulled Eve aside, into the dimness of the musicians’ gallery, and stood with her, watching his family, watching his guests. Overhead a firecracker boomed and then sparkling lights rained down on the crowd as ladies squealed.
“It’s beautiful,” Eve said, her face tilted toward the stars.
Something grabbed at Asa’s gut, low and hard, as he watched her. The fireworks were reflected in her eyes, sparkling and enticing.
Over her shoulder a movement caught his eye as a couple slipped behind a pillar. They bowed together in embrace.
Asa’s eyes widened. “Damn me, what the—”
Eve turned to see what he stared at. Malcolm MacLeish and Hans Vogel were wrapped together in a kiss that made Asa consider blushing for the first time in twenty years. “Oh, how nice. I was wondering if Malcolm would ever say anything.”
He turned to stare at her in astonishment. “You knew that—?”
“Didn’t you?” She arched her eyebrows pointedly. “I think it’s wonderful that they aren’t afraid to show their love—despite the far greater consequences for them should it be known.”
No one had ever accused him of being a coward. He frowned. “Eve…”
He didn’t have time to reply, though, for Apollo and a pretty dark-haired lady approached.
“Miss Dinwoody, I’d like you to meet my wife, Lily Greaves, Viscountess Kilbourne,” Apollo said. “Lily, this is Miss Dinwoody, who has been making sure Asa’s books are all in order these last weeks.”
Lily Greaves, the former Robin Goodfellow, flashed a vivacious grin as Eve curtsied to her. “And I hear you’ve set up a child minder for the dancers and singers as well, Miss Dinwoody. How very thoughtful of you.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Eve replied, her cheeks turning pink. “But it was a practical decision as well—the ladies of the theater can’t work if they have no one to mind their children.”
“That only makes you all the smarter in my opinion,” Lily replied, linking arms with Eve and drawing her aside. “Now tell me what else you plan to change at Harte’s Folly.”
“Hampston’s dead.” The rasping voice of Apollo sounded beside him. “Have you heard?”
Asa stared at him. “What?”
Apollo shrugged. “Stabbed in his prison cell, or so it’s said.”
“Thank God.” Asa felt nothing but relief that the man was dead.
The viscount had been in Newgate in the first place only through Wakefield’s influence. Hampston had had influential friends, it seemed, and even with the charges against him, it had looked likely that it would be just a matter of time before he was free again.
Asa had resigned himself to having to enact justice by his own hand.
That
at least he would no longer have to do.
“I doubt many will mourn him,” Apollo agreed. He lifted his head as his wife waved at him. Rose and Temperance had joined her and Eve. “Looks like Lily wants me.” He glanced at Asa and suddenly grinned. “Wanted to say congratulations, though. You did it.”
“We did it.” Asa returned the grin, though his felt pallid. “Go to your wife, man.”
Apollo nodded and strode away.
“You’re a fool,” a male voice rumbled in his ear, and Asa turned to see Concord.
Of course.
“So glad you’re enjoying your free tickets,” he bit out.
Concord shook his graying head. “Not that. That.” And he tilted his head to where Eve was smiling sweetly at Rose.
Asa scowled and turned away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Fool.”
“Look,” Asa said, “no one made you come to my garden, eat my food, and enjoy my theater.”
“It’s a good theater.” Concord looked thoughtful. “And the gardens are nice.”
Asa blinked. “What.”
His brother looked at him. “I liked it. Rose loved it. And the children are already asking to return again. You’ve done a good job here.”
Asa opened his mouth and then shut it.
“Father was sometimes…” Concord scrunched up his face, evidently trying to think of a word, and Asa wondered just how much wine his brother had had to drink. “Conservative.”
“Yes?” Asa stared at him incredulously. Calling their father conservative was like calling the ocean wet.
Concord nodded. “A good man, but he didn’t like new things.” He glanced at Asa. “He should’ve given you a chance to prove yourself with the theater.”
“I…” Asa wasn’t sure exactly how to reply to that.
“But,” Concord went on, because he’d never learned when to stop, “you are a fool if you let Miss Dinwoody get away. Rose says that she means to travel to the Continent soon and you’re not going. What kind of man lets his woman run off alone? Have you any idea the sort of fops that inhabit France alone?”
Con had never been anywhere near France, but that wasn’t the main issue. “She’s not my woman,” Asa snarled.
Concord pointed a finger in his face. “You want her to be.”
“What if I do?” Asa hissed. “She’s leaving me and I can’t stay her.”
“Then go with her!”
“I’ll not leave my garden!”
“Then maybe you deserve to lose her to some frog-eater.” Con looked at him. “Brother, don’t be a drooling idiot. That woman is worth more than any number of gardens, no matter how magnificent. Take what you want.”
Asa sighed, suddenly tired. “What I want and what I can have are two entirely different things. Most men learn that somewhere along the way.”
He pushed past Concord and went to Eve.
She was laughing with Rose, but she sobered as he neared. “Asa.” She glanced at Rose and almost smiled, but it died on her face. “Do you mind if I have a moment with your brother-in-law so that we might say our farewells before we leave?”
Eve had brought both Rose and Concord in her carriage tonight and naturally would be taking them home as well—without Asa. He meant to spend the night at Harte’s Folly, overseeing the garden until daybreak, when the last of his guests left wearily for home.
It was his life’s work, after all.
Rose patted her hand. “Of course.” She turned a single, searing look on Asa and then turned to walk to her husband.
Eve looked at him gravely. “I’m so happy for you. For your garden. You’ve done a wonderful thing here, Asa.”
“Thanks.” The word came out gruffly. He looked away from her. She hadn’t said when she’d leave and it might be days yet, but this felt like a farewell. “Have you bought that ticket yet?”
He didn’t have to explain what ticket he was talking about.
“Not yet,” she said. “Tomorrow, I think.”
He stared at her, scowling. “So soon?”
“Yes,” she said simply. She looked down. “I’ll take Henry, of course, but Jean-Marie and Tess are returning to the small village where she grew up. Jean-Marie says they’ll have a tavern there along with Tess’s brother.”
“You’ll have no footman at all on your travels?”
She shrugged. “I’m bringing Ruth—she’s quite excited—and I’m thinking of bringing Bob the footman from my brother’s house.”
“You should,” he said, frowning. “You need a bodyguard.”
“Do I?” She tilted her head. “I’m not sure that I do anymore.”
“Just…” He squinted; the fireworks were shining in his eyes. “Just keep yourself safe when you go.”
“I will.” Lightly she touched her fingers to his cheek. “Good night, Asa Makepeace.”
He bent and brushed his lips over her cheek.
Then he turned away.
Asa took one last look at success, at his guests laughing and merry, at Eve with fireworks in her eyes, at his garden packed with revelers, and turned and walked inside the theater.
A few dancers and actresses were still in the back, dressing and shouting happily at each other. Success meant money for everyone.
His theater and his garden—hell, he—was a grand fucking success.
Asa pushed open the door to his office, settled himself at the table, and then heard an odd sound. He got up again and peered over the table. There in the nest of old costumes that Henry had made was Dove, sitting and blinking beadily at him.
“How the hell did you get in?” Asa snorted, and sat back down. “Not that it matters. She’s going away, Dove, old girl, though I suppose once she finds that you’re back she’ll take you as well. She’ll leave just me behind.”
He kept several bottles of wine under his table and he took one out, drawing the cork with his teeth as he threw his legs up on the table.
He raised his bottle to bloody success and took a drink.
A door slammed in the theater and then it was oddly quiet. He could hear the revelry from without, the sounds of laughter and chatter and the BOOM of the firecrackers, but it was all a bit muffled.
He took another drink, long and sour. It wasn’t very good wine.
It occurred to him that his brother Concord, whom he usually regarded as a self-important windbag, might, in this case, actually be right.
He was indeed a fool.
“Fuck it.”
Asa tossed the bottle to a corner and was out the door before it shattered. He ran through the theater, ignoring exclamations from musicians and singers as he flew past. He’d only left her moments before. She couldn’t have gone far.
Outside the fireworks were exploding in a whistling, shrieking grand finale, all heads turned to the colorfully lit sky.
All except Asa’s. He shoved through the crowd, cursing and looking for her. She must still be here. Who would leave before the final big fireworks display?
But he’d given her no hope. He’d practically kissed her good-bye.
Something very like panic tightened Asa’s chest.
And then he saw her.
She was standing nearly in the center of the courtyard, his family and her friends surrounding her and with her sweet, solemn face tilted toward the exploding stars.
One last firework went up with a concussive BOOM!
And then there was abrupt silence as lights like fireflies drifted toward the ground.
He walked through the shower toward her and she must’ve sensed him for she turned her head to look at him. The torches around the courtyard lit her widening eyes.
He reached her side and fell to his knees.
“Marry me,” he said, looking up at her. “I fucking love you, Eve Dinwoody, more than my garden, more than my life. I want to spend the rest of my days being managed by you, bickering with you, and falling asleep holding you in my arms. Leave or stay in London, I don’t give a bloody goddamn, just
as long as you let me be by your side. So will you marry me, Eve?”
For a long moment—the longest moment of his life—she stared at him, her eyes wide.
And then her plush lips parted. “Oh, Asa. Yes.”
Around them a cheer went up from family and friends and strangers—all the gathered crowd, both theater folk and guests of Harte’s Folly.
But Asa Makepeace didn’t care. He was kissing Eve, his sweet, wonderful, beautiful harpy.
Chapter Twenty
Now here is a thing you may scarcely credit, for with that single slap Dove slew the sorceress. The sorceress, you see, had but one weakness, and that, as it turns out, was the touch of a mortal.
Dove looked at Eric and said, “Oh, I am so sorry!”
And at her words he threw back his head and laughed. “Never apologize, for you’ve freed me from slavery, gentle Dove.”…
—From The Lion and the Dove
The clock in the hall was chiming the midnight hour as Bridget Crumb made her way to the duke’s bedroom. It had occurred to her earlier that day, while instructing the maids on how to make a polishing cream of beeswax and lemon oil, that the bed in His Grace’s room was uncommonly big, with an uncommonly thick headboard. The kind that might very well conceal a secret compartment or two.
Which was why she was letting herself into his rooms so very late at night.
The nude portrait of the duke watched as Bridget set down her candlestick on the desk. The flame flickered and bent as if from a draft.
Bridget frowned, hesitated, and then turned toward the bed. First she felt over every inch of the big melon-shaped posters, finding nothing besides the fact that they needed to be dusted.
She stood back and stared at the headboard for a moment, but there really was no other choice. She kicked off her slippers and crawled onto the monstrosity of a bed. Once at the headboard, she began a careful, tedious probe of the ornate carvings, running her fingers over curlicues and hollows. Her fingers slid into a small hole and suddenly a panel the size of her palm popped open.
Bridget stilled, almost unable to believe her luck. She stuck her fingers into the little opening and retrieved a miniature painting: a man, his wife, and a baby.