Authors: Maggie Robinson
Lord Gray's List (11 page)
“I have yet to see it.”
“You’ll see it. Tomorrow. This afternoon—tonight—will be my last exercise of wickedness.”
“I told you—I must get home.”
“Yes. But you will be thoroughly kissed before you get there.”
He waited a beat, anticipating her scramble away from him. But if anything, she had stopped moving. Even her breathing seemed to have ceased.
“What are you waiting for?” she whispered.
“Permission.” He was a fool to ask for it, especially from Evie. But no matter what she thought, he
was
a gentleman. She had told him last week that their
mesalliance
was at an end. For eternity. She’d been very specific and he’d agreed that nothing about their relationship had ever worked.
was
a gentleman. She had told him last week that their
mesalliance
was at an end. For eternity. She’d been very specific and he’d agreed that nothing about their relationship had ever worked.
Except the bedding part. The fucking. The glorious melding of flesh and heat that had only gotten better between them with age.
“I thought we said—”
“I’m a man of my word. I promise I won’t tear your clothes off like last time. It’s only a kiss. A celebratory kiss on the good work we’ve done today.”
He could feel her hesitation, as well as his own mutinous cock stirring beneath her bottom. She must feel it through the fabric and fur of her cloak, must know that no matter what pact they made between them, there was a stubborn thread of attraction that didn’t seem to recognize good sense or propriety.
Her eyes glittered in the dim light, and then she shut them, as if she didn’t want to face what was to come. He took that as assent, brushing his mouth against hers. She opened to him artlessly, and he tasted champagne and the undercurrent of her own sweet self. Sweet—what an odd word to impose upon her. Evangeline Ramsey was the least sweet woman he knew. But as his tongue swept in to conquer, her flavor drew him as no other ever had.
Her arms had gone around his neck while he parried and licked, and Ben didn’t think she pressed herself against him simply for warmth. She was responsive, returning each lazy twist of his tongue with one of her own, her teeth grazing and nipping in gentle assault. He opened his eyes to see hers still firmly closed, a fan of dark lashes shadowing her pink cheeks. If she saw him now, truly
saw
him, she would know how much he desired her for all her difficult, wiry ways. There had never been anyone who had touched him as she had, despite their bitter parting.
saw
him, she would know how much he desired her for all her difficult, wiry ways. There had never been anyone who had touched him as she had, despite their bitter parting.
But the past was just that—so long ago and not worth considering. The present was everything, and short it would be as his well-groomed animals drew them ever closer to her house through the storm. For now, he had a beautiful woman in his lap, her breast thrusting against the palm that had slipped beneath her cloak, her legs parting in open invitation for him to move it lower.
But he had promised. Just because she was losing her head in the heat of this magical snow-kissed moment did not mean that he had to. So he concluded their encounter with grave intent, willing each silken nibble to be stored in his Evie dream-file to be examined later. Likely his hand would be on his iron-hard cock, which even now begged for the release that was impossible.
But not before he rained kisses on her throat and eyelids, her lashes tickling his skin. What harm could it do to ease her bodice down and cover her nipple with a searing kiss? She flinched in his arms as he suckled, drawing the raspberry areola deep between his teeth, careful not to bite her—
consume
her—as every instinct raged. Ben wished he had more mouths, one to remain trapped above by her satiny lips, one to taste her honeyed womanhood below simultaneously. The thought of her bursting on his tongue everywhere made him flinch himself.
consume
her—as every instinct raged. Ben wished he had more mouths, one to remain trapped above by her satiny lips, one to taste her honeyed womanhood below simultaneously. The thought of her bursting on his tongue everywhere made him flinch himself.
He set her back on the squabs as though she were a gangly rag doll, straightening the fur-lined hood back over her cropped hair. She looked up at him with dazed incomprehension. He hoped she wondered why he’d stopped, wondered how he
could
stop. Wanting him not to.
could
stop. Wanting him not to.
“There,” he said, his voice rough. “That should put a period to the itch between us. No more kisses.”
“Indeed not,” she said, breathless. “I was simply overcome by all your French champagne.”
At least the French were good for something, Ben thought darkly, planning already to drown the rest of the evening in some of their brandy.
December 17, 1820
B
en had rolled up his shirtsleeves and Evangeline resolved not to look at the dusting of golden hair on his corded forearms. The baron was, as ever, a very distracting man. At this rate, the paper wouldn’t come out until next year.
en had rolled up his shirtsleeves and Evangeline resolved not to look at the dusting of golden hair on his corded forearms. The baron was, as ever, a very distracting man. At this rate, the paper wouldn’t come out until next year.
Her dummy on sheets of foolscap was lined neatly with a ruler, grids with every advertisement carefully printed, each page headed by its category. The front page detailed the charming private wedding of the elusive Lord M and his Cinderella bride, Miss S. For once every word was positive, dripping in romantic matrimonial honey that would set the ton’s teeth on edge and make them long for the usual juicy scandal. But Ben had been firm that he did not want to subject his peers to her treatment, and Evangeline had reluctantly agreed. She had spent her Saturday night—still a little tipsy from the spontaneous reception at Ben’s—mythologizing Lizzie’s plain dress and her groom’s strangled vows. The article was not her best, but it would have to do.
It took many hours just to set the type each week, so the Sunday church bells chimed outside as she and Ben huddled over the worktable, the job case between them. It had been some years since Evangeline had gone to church. Working on the Sabbath was just another sin to add to her portfolio.
“These are all jumbled,” Ben complained over the compartmentalized wooden tray that held the metal sorts. “Why aren’t the letters in alphabetical order?”
“They’re arranged by frequency of use, the ‘h’ next to the ‘t,’ for example. You’ll get used to it.” This was something she’d been very happy to let Frank do for her, though she could do it—had done it last week—all by herself. It was exacting, blinding work, each tiny rectangle set into its row, coppers and brasses tightening so they wouldn’t migrate as they pressed into the paper.
“And they’re not called letters, but sorts. You know the expression ‘Out of sorts?’ When one runs out of sorts, it’s impossible to finish the print job and one becomes quite grumpy.”
“Ha. You are a font of knowledge today, Evie.”
“I’m trying to ‘make a good first impression,’ ” she grinned. “Which is what we’ll do once we finish setting up and print the first sheet, which hopefully will be free of error. We’ll both go over it with a magnifying glass before we do the full print run.
The London List
is printed on one large piece of paper on both sides, then folded. As you’ve discovered, we could easily double the size of it with all our requests, but until we get a steam-driven press, we’ll have to keep to our modest scale. I must tell you, one’s arms get tired making almost five hundred copies an hour. A Koenig press would be a dream.”
The London List
is printed on one large piece of paper on both sides, then folded. As you’ve discovered, we could easily double the size of it with all our requests, but until we get a steam-driven press, we’ll have to keep to our modest scale. I must tell you, one’s arms get tired making almost five hundred copies an hour. A Koenig press would be a dream.”
“You want me to spend more money. As if you haven’t squeezed enough out of me.”
Evangeline knew Ben could afford a dozen new presses. “You may decide it’s well worth it when you cannot lift your arms Tuesday morning to comb your hair,” she said pertly.
“Look, I know I said I wanted to see how things worked, but surely we can hire a pressman now and save ourselves all this trouble.”
“Bored already?” She should have counted on him bailing out on her and the tedious work.
Ben frowned. “No, it’s all quite fascinating, actually. But wouldn’t you rather devote your time to settling your needy clientele? Concentrate on the people rather than the printing?”
That had never been a choice before—she’d had to do everything and like it. “Do you mean it? I’ve hired back the boys, but you’d employ another man?”
“I would. It’s only been a few days, but I want my life back.”
To continue his profligate ways, no doubt. “I’ll ask around.”
“And you can always advertise the position,” he winked. He scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it to her. It was a succinct employment ad for one skilled pressman. He was getting very good at this business already.
“Speaking of which.” She picked up the blackened tiles and began to pack the form for the first ad. She remembered the original letter, written in a halting, spidery hand. A country gentleman was in need of a housekeeper/nurse. He offered very little in the way of pay, and Evangeline was not optimistic that his wish could be granted. She pictured the man, wizened and infirm, toasting his piece of stale bread over a sputtering fire, his clothes in need of laundering. Really, if she had money she’d be the softest touch imaginable, supporting as many indigent, lonely old people as she could.
Her fingers flew with practiced speed, her eye used to viewing everything backward. Ben stood next to her, too close, following her every movement. Today it was he who was wearing sandalwood cologne—her favorite scent. She felt like she was under a magnifying glass herself.
She had his complete attention.
And wasn’t sure she wanted it.
“You’re a marvel, Evie.”
The breath of his words at her ear made her shiver.
“Not really. I’m just accustomed to it. Here. You try.”
Ben squinted at the mockup. “Are you sure you want to run this advertisement? It seems—indecent.”
“There is nothing exceptional about a woman seeking employment as a wet-nurse. She needs to feed herself to feed her child and, according to her letter, has plenty of milk for another.” She stared at Ben. “Don’t tell me you’re a prude, Lord Gray. That’s what women’s breasts are for, you know—they’re not merely playthings for men of your ilk.” Like yesterday, when he’d nearly undone her with his tender dedication to her left breast. Her right one was still pouting at being neglected.
“My ilk? You make me sound unnatural for admiring the female form.” His eyes drifted down to her indifferently endowed chest, covered by stock and linen and waistcoat. She felt the peculiar tug to her nipples but tried to ignore her shamelessness.
“We haven’t got time for you to ogle me, Ben.” She slid the leading in after the last advertisement. “Your turn. Start on the right.”
Ben’s large fingers were clumsy picking up and packing in the type, and Evangeline bit back her impatience. If Ben was true to his word, they would be hiring an experienced pressman for next week’s edition and he would not have to labor over this chore again. His hands were altogether too big for the delicate job, although his brawn would come in handy as he operated the machinery tomorrow.
The room was snug with heat. Now that Lord Gray was the publisher of
The London List,
he’d had plenty of coal delivered to the office, but standing so close to supervise the vexing man made her even warmer. Evangeline brushed the moisture off her upper lip and forced herself to not imagine removing her neckcloth to bare her neck and what Ben might do if she did.
The London List,
he’d had plenty of coal delivered to the office, but standing so close to supervise the vexing man made her even warmer. Evangeline brushed the moisture off her upper lip and forced herself to not imagine removing her neckcloth to bare her neck and what Ben might do if she did.
He had kissed her neck—and other places—yesterday in the carriage, whether from too much celebratory champagne or simply because he could. But they had both agreed that such a thing must not happen again.
Particularly not before the newspaper was put to bed. They didn’t have time to dally.
But Tuesday? Evangeline could kiss Ben on Tuesday. Evangeline wanted to kiss Ben on Tuesday.
Evangeline wanted to kiss him
now
.
now
.
He looked so earnest as he slipped the type in, his brow furrowed. But as adorable as he was, if she permitted him to continue at this pace they would never finish in time. She decided to give him—and herself—a reprieve. If she had to spend all day with him, she might not be able to keep her inconvenient emotions in check.
She was not going to find herself on the floor of the storeroom, legs wrapped around Ben as he effortlessly brought her to orgasm. And truly, it wouldn’t take much. Evangeline felt fairly starved for affection. Beneath her gentleman’s clothing, she was a woman awakened to the undeniable, unwelcome attractiveness of Lord Benton Gray.
She should know better. She
did
know better.
did
know better.
She was a hopeless case.
Ten years of tying up her heart against him, and he’d unraveled it all in less than two weeks.
She reminded herself that they fought as hard as they fucked. One didn’t want constant upheaval in one’s life. One wanted peace and quiet. Comfort. Security.
Which would never happen with Ben unless he was struck by lightning and forgot he was the ton’s favorite rakehell.
He was not one of those dark, mysterious brooding types, which made him all the more welcome in ballrooms and bedrooms. His sunny disposition worked its magic even with her most of the time.
“That’s enough. I’ll take over now.”
“Damn it. I’m just getting the hang of it, Evie.”
“You’ve misspelled ‘butler.’ One wouldn’t want ‘an experienced butter.’ It would be rancid.” She took the frame away from him and filled in the rest of the sorts.
“What else can I do to help?”
There were hours of work ahead, fewer if she just worked alone. “You can fetch me some lunch. Something simple.”
“Done! You’ll be all right if I leave you?”
“Perfectly. It’s Sunday, and I don’t expect any interruptions. Come back in a couple of hours.”
Ben looked vastly relieved as he shrugged himself into his coat, but nowhere as relieved as she was. His physical presence was both delicious and disconcerting. Best to have him go off for ale and meat pies before she forgot herself and fell into his arms once again.
Mrs. Hargreaves, the cook, had grumbled. Two days running and he’d surprised her with unexpected guests and requests for picnic baskets. But she knew which side her bread was buttered on—or butlered on, as he might have substituted. Perhaps his vision really was going—setting type was a painstaking task. Poor Evie would be blind before today was out.
He’d chosen to walk back with the basket bouncing against his hip. He needed the exercise after spending the past few days cooped up in the office and in church. But as he rounded the corner, he wondered if he should not have come by carriage so he could make a speedy escape. There were several people standing in front of
The London List
’s plate glass window, or what was left of it. Ben spotted Evie’s dark head in the middle of the little mob and stepped livelier. The fool woman didn’t have the sense not to confront the disenfranchised readers and advertisers who had obviously taken matters into their own rough hands.
The London List
’s plate glass window, or what was left of it. Ben spotted Evie’s dark head in the middle of the little mob and stepped livelier. The fool woman didn’t have the sense not to confront the disenfranchised readers and advertisers who had obviously taken matters into their own rough hands.
“What’s all this?” he shouted. “Back away from Mr. Ramsey if you know what’s good for you.”
Faces turned to him in confusion. They didn’t look like the sort of ragtag people who had visited his house earlier in the week. In fact, he recognized the tobacconist he’d bought cheroots from.
“We’ve alerted the watch. Someone should be here soon,” Evie said, her voice not pitched quite as low as it needed to be to maintain the fiction of masculine gender.
“My brother and nephews and I were just passing by this afternoon to pick up a few extra Spanish cigarillos, my lord. We heard the crash, but didn’t see the blackguard who did this. Such a shame. This is a respectable district. All this fuss about closing the paper has been bad for business.”
“We aren’t closing,” Ben said tersely. “What happened, Ev—Mr. Ramsey? Are you all right?”
She nodded, looking far too pale. And cold. She had come out into the street without her jacket. Instinctively Ben set the basket down among the shattered glass, tore his own coat off, and covered her shoulders.
“I was behind the press when it happened. I didn’t see anything either.”
“Why would someone do this?” the tobacconist asked. “Apart from Lord Gray before he bought the paper, that is.” The man had the grace to color at his heedless words.
“I don’t know. The people who were here before were upset that the paper was not going to remain in business. There’s no reason to be angry now. Most everyone knows that Lord Gray has changed his mind,” Evie said.
“It was even in the other newspapers,” Ben added. Evie had granted the bloody interviews without him. At least the articles had not dredged up his sordid history with
The List,
just announced him as the new owner of record who intended a new direction for the paper.
The List,
just announced him as the new owner of record who intended a new direction for the paper.
“Well, gentlemen, you must have an unknown enemy. Unless it was simply a Sunday prank. Ah, here’s my nephew Clarence with a member of the watch. Well done, lad.”
The young man’s cheeks were red from the blistering cold. Ben was freezing himself. “Let’s step inside where it’s warmer.” Even with the broken window, the stove would be going at a merry coal-fueled clip.
The tobacconist and his family excused themselves as they were witnesses only to the aftermath. The officer of the watch did not appear overly concerned or meticulous in his taking down information for his report, and did not stay long. Ben resolved at once to hire a guard for the building and keep Evie away as much as possible. It would take some persuading, but surely she could go over all her correspondence at home and delegate the actual operation of the printing press to the employee he would also hire. Today, if he could, but it was Sunday. He explained his plans in a few soothing sentences, careful not to mention it was unseemly that she still be here in trousers pretending to be a man.
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