The Suffragette Scandal (The Brothers Sinister) (24 page)

He was stock-still, completely unmoving.

“And then he turned, and I realized who it was.” She gave a little laugh. “Once, many years ago, I had this dream. It was rather racy, if you must know. There was a young man I fancied, and in my dream…” She cleared her throat delicately. “In any event, I shut my eyes in my dream, focusing on the sensation. And then I opened them, and as things are in dreams, that handsome, charming young man had turned into the aging vicar. All my want washed away in a cold flush of revulsion. That’s what it felt like tonight. He came and spoke to me, and all I could think was,
Free, you idiot, this is what it’s like not to trust a man.
I don’t care what you say. You would never, ever hurt me.”

“I would,” he growled.

“You’re so arrogant that it never occurred to me that you doubted yourself so. But you do, don’t you?”

He made a surprised noise. And then he turned back to her. “I doubt every inch of happiness that comes my way.”

She set her hand on his wrist. “Don’t.”

“I can’t ask you to trust me,” he said. But he didn’t draw away. Instead, he turned his hand in hers, so that his gloved fingers faced hers, interlacing.

“You don’t have to ask.” She ran her thumb along his palm. “That’s the beauty of it. You don’t have to ask me to trust you. I already do.”

“You shouldn’t.” He wrapped his other arm about her waist, pulling her to him abruptly. “A trustworthy man would never do this.” And before she had a chance to say anything—before she could even contemplate the heat of his body pressed against hers or the hard muscle of his chest—his lips found hers. No preamble; no light brushes. There was no need for it; the memory of their last kiss was on both their lips already. His mouth was hard and desperate, lips opening to hers. The unshaven stubble on his cheeks brushed her. It made the kiss all that more complex—so sweet, so lovely. She’d wanted this—wanted him—and now she didn’t need to hold back.

Still, she set one hand on his chest and gave him a light push. “Wait.”

He stopped instantly, pulling away. “What is it?”

She laughed and dropped her voice to mimic his. “‘A trustworthy man would never do this.’ Oh, yes, Mr. Clark. Look how untrustworthy you are. You stopped kissing me the instant I asked you to do it.”

“Damn you, Free.” But there was a note of dark amusement in his voice.

She twined her arms about his neck. She had to stretch up to do it, her body lengthening along his. She leaned forward and set her lips against his neck. “Damn us both.”

He tasted of salt, and he let out a breath as she touched her tongue to the hollow of his neck, following it up his jawbone.

“You’ll pay for that.” His voice was a low rumble in his chest. His fingers slid up her ribs; his left hand cupped her breast. And then he kissed her again. This time, his kiss was slow and gentle. His fingers against her breast warmed her, making slow circles that matched the stroke of his tongue. She’d been right: He was the absolute best scoundrel she’d ever known.

She’d heard another girl talking about how a man’s kisses had made her insensible, unable to think. It seemed so odd now. Why would anyone want to
stop
sensing at a time like this, stop thinking about how lovely it all felt? The entire world felt
more
—sweeter, more solid, more real, as if his mouth on hers grounded her to earth. As if that careful caress, the fingers of his left hand sliding under the neckline of her gown, were sketching the details of the night sky for her, putting in moon and stars over the dark cloud of London’s soot.

He’d backed her against the wall of the mews. She felt the rough planks against her spine. But she simply leaned back and took the opportunity to explore him—to run her hands down his chest, feeling every curve of muscle go taut beneath the linen of his shirt. He stepped into her, leaning against her until they were hip to hip, until she could feel the hardness of his erection pressing into her. Her whole body sang in response.

He pulled back just long enough to lean his forehead against hers. “Lovely Free,” he whispered. “God, I should not be doing this.”

“Too true. You should be doing more. Much more.”

He shook his head, but leaned in to kiss her again. And this time, it was a whole different world of a kiss—a kiss that said it was coming before, a kiss that promised a night after this one, and a night after that. It was a kiss that said that all those weeks they’d known one another had been only a prelude to this moment. This was only the second act of the play, but the climax was not out of sight. It was a kiss of bodies, of hips and hands, of breasts and tongues. His hands tangled briefly in her laces, loosening her bodice; she helped him undo it, just enough so that he could lean down and set his mouth there, right on her nipple.

“Stop,” Free said. And he did, pulling away when she least wanted him to, even though his body vibrated with want and his hands clenched on her hips.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “Sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

She laughed. “You stopped again. Edward, if you don’t want me to trust you, you shouldn’t be so trustworthy.”

He let out a breath. “Ah, you’re teasing me.”

“I’m proving something to you,” she said. “Because you seem to think that you don’t deserve to be trusted.”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth. She could feel his tongue, swirling in a long, lazy circle. He set her aflame, caressing her. It wasn’t an answer, and yet it was.

Please,
he said.

Yes,
she said.

Trust me. Trust this.

She’d talked to enough ladies of the night that she knew the lack of a bed was no impediment. But he made no effort to take it further than the press of their bodies, the touch of fingers against willing flesh. He did nothing more than stoke their heady, insistent desire. He kissed her, touched her, brought her to small, silent gasps as her body came to life. Another five minutes, and a little less clothing, and he could have brought her all the way to ecstasy. He didn’t though. He held her until the last dim light in the garret across the way winked out, until the streetlamp twenty yards down began to flicker. Until her head spun with lack of sleep and kissing, and her body ached for what was to come.

“Come to me,” she whispered to him. “Come to me tomorrow night.”

His hands tightened on her body and he shuddered. He didn’t let go of her, but he drew his head back.

“Frederica,” he said in a low voice. His hand slid up her nightrail, sliding the sleeve back onto her shoulder, covering her up. “If I take one night from you, I’ll want all the rest of your nights. And even I’m not so selfish as to demand them from you.”

She put her hand over his. “What happened to the man who told me he was maddeningly brilliant? To the scoundrel who asked me to think about how attractive I found his muscles?”

“Bluster will last me a night. Swagger, a week.” His hand brushed her face. “Beyond that? I can’t promise you anything more.”

The night seemed absolutely still around them—soundless and empty, without even the rustle of wind to disturb them.

He took her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. “Pain is a black ink,” he told her. “Once it’s spilled on a man’s soul, it’ll never scrub out. Deep down, Miss Marshall, there’s nothing to me but blackness.” He leaned in. “And Free, darling—I think you know that.”

“You’re an idiot.” Her voice trembled.

“That’s what I just said. I never did have any sense.” But he didn’t leave. Instead, his arm crept around her. His body warmed hers. He wouldn’t leave; she was sure of it. Sure of him, when he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers again.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured.

“My darling scoundrel.”

He let out a little laugh. “Precisely. I’d rather leave you wanting than stay and earn your hatred.”

And then he did pull away. The air was cold in his sudden absence; the night was dark. He gave her one last smile—as cocksure and arrogant as any he’d ever given her—and then he began to walk away. Really walk away, as if this were all over.

“Edward,” Free called before he’d made it six paces.

He paused, straightening, and then half-turned, looking back at her.

“We both know you’ll return,” she told him.

For a long while he stood, not saying anything. Then he shook his head.

“I know,” he said. “I never did have any sense.”

“A
LL
I
WANT,”
E
DWARD SAID,
“is to know if he dictates a letter with her name in it.”

His brother’s secretary sat across the table from him, a glass of ale in front of him. Peter Alvahurst frowned primly, as if he were pretending to have morals.

“I don’t know,” he demurred.

Alvahurst had been the one to bribe Mr. Marshall’s undersecretary in the first place. Edward knew precisely what sort of man he was, even if Alvahurst would not admit it.

Edward took a second banknote out and set it on the table between them. The surface was sticky with layers of spilled ale.

“I understand your concern,” Edward said smoothly. “I don’t want you to reveal the contents—that would be wrong, of course, and you aren’t the sort of man who would betray his employer for money.”

“Too right.” This was said with a self-righteous nod.

Mr. Alvahurst was precisely the kind of man who’d meet a shady character in a darkened pub and let that man dangle money in front of him. But Edward had always found that preserving a man’s illusion of himself was more important than simply offering money. Let someone think himself upright and honorable, and he’d slit a man’s throat for a halfpenny.

“You know how much difficulty your employer’s last encounter with Frederica Marshall caused him,” Edward said. “And I know how loyal you are to him. We’re much alike, you and I. We’re looking out for his interests.”

“That’s true.” Mr. Alvahurst licked his lips and glanced at the ten pounds on the table. There was no evidence at all that Edward was looking out for Delacey’s interest—no evidence but Edward’s word and ten pounds. Edward took out a third note, but he didn’t slide this one any closer. He held it lightly, letting Alvahurst know of its existence.

It had been three days since he’d left Free in the mews. Three days, in which he’d tried to convince himself to walk away as he should. Three days, during which he’d heard her words ringing in his ears.
Y’ll return.

No.

He knew what he did, and what he did well. If he came back to her—really came back—he’d start telling himself lies, just like Alvahurst here. He’d tell himself he was noble, that he was doing things for her.

He could feel the tug of all his old dreams.

Free wasn’t naïve and she wasn’t stupid. But she believed in a future—believed in it so hard that she made him want to believe, too. He could almost see that garden she’d talked about, blossoming with every step she took.

And he’d told her the truth of himself: There was nothing left to him but a scoundrel.

And so the scoundrel in him smiled at Mr. Alvahurst. “So just send a message, a short one, if he mentions Miss Marshall. We both know he’ll do it, so you won’t be telling me anything I don’t already know.”

Only now, when Alvahurst was most vulnerable, did Edward add that third banknote. That made the stack on the table worth half a year’s wages to the man. Alvahurst shut his eyes. And then slowly, as if savoring the moment, he reached out and pulled the notes to him.

Edward simply smiled. He might not be able to keep Frederica Marshall, but at least he could keep her safe.

And maybe, just maybe, he could give her one last thing before he walked away from her for good.

F
REE HAD NEVER QUITE
believed that Edward would disappear entirely, but days passed with no word from him.

So when he appeared late one afternoon, she felt a frothy, bubbly joy, one that could scarcely be contained.

He stood in the doorway of her office. He was, as always, the consummate scoundrel. He leaned against the doorframe, smiling—almost smirking—at her, as if he knew how rapidly her heart had started beating.