Wayward One (15 page)

“Wonderful. I can apprise you of the progress we’ve made today. I’ve been here more than two weeks, Fletcher. I couldn’t afford to delay any longer.”

He bobbled the small statue from hand to hand, the cool surface soothing his palms, which itched with the urge to take. Take
her
. “There’s no rush.”

“I cannot stay here forever,” she said with a rueful shake of her head. “Please do put that down. You’re going to drop it.”

He’d found a measure of peace knowing Seraphina lived in his house under his protection.

He was surprised at how deeply he felt the threat of her departure. He’d spent the last week avoiding her, true, but he’d still been able to enjoy seeing her in passing. He’d known she was safe and well taken care of in his house, in his territory. No one would dare harm her while under his protection. At least now his money could buy the sort of safety he’d been unable to provide when they were young.

“What, this?” He held up the figurine. It turned out to be a milkmaid, but her pale pink skirts were intriguingly short. Combined with her saucy pose—both feet together as she leaned over—it revealed a surprising display. Her thumb-sized bottom gleamed an even paler pink than her skirts. “She’s a naughty little minx, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” A fine blush spread over Sera’s cheeks. Even her full lips turned a duskier rose. “And she’s inappropriate in the public rooms of your house.”

“But I can keep her in a private room, can I?”

“That’s one of the matters I intended to speak to you about at dinner.” She seemed to be having a hard time maintaining her decorum. Her color heightened and her breathing pushed roughly against her clothes. Even through the swaddling of that ridiculous apron he could see her bosom rise and fall.

Fletcher set the figure back down on the table and inspected the goods more closely. An element of bawdiness tinged everything. At least he now understood Seraphina’s criteria for culling his artwork. He particularly admired a set of six-inch brass figures of three couples.

He picked up the sitting pair, only to find they separated and revealed quite a secret. “Well I’ll be damned.”

When Seraphina failed to correct his language, he looked over his shoulder. The blacks of her eyes blew wide, leaving the chocolate brown a slender ring. Slackened lips had been slicked with moisture.

He wanted to sample her. See if she tasted like the sweet hallmark of refined English women, tea and crumpets—or something more. A tartness to match her surprising wells of fire. He curled his fingers around the female of the set and clenched hard enough that her small brass elbow bit into his tendons.

“I have quite the collection and didn’t even know.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement.” She sucked in a deep breath and slowly blew it out through pursed lips, obviously trying to regain control of herself. “Some of the things I’ve found… Suffice it to say members of the Hellfire Club would think themselves lucky to own them.”

“Is that so, Seraphina?”

Fire crackled in her, but it was like the carefully banked embers of a chimney. Controlled. Contained. He wanted her to blaze out of control and reckless. Like him.

“I’ve asked you previously to call me Sera.”

He stepped near to her. Too close. He was a child playing at dipping his fingers in a candle’s flame. She burned with heat far beyond any simple candle, even if she tried to deny it. “But I like your name. An angelic name for an angelic woman.”

Her throat worked over a swallow. “I’m no angel.”

“No?”

Loose from her snood, a sleek lock of hair fell over her shoulder. He took it between his fingers. Raw silk, warm with the heat of her body. Her hair wasn’t as dark as he’d first remembered. All brown and richness, but with elements of honey woven through. He wondered what he’d find if he ever saw it down, with the right to bury his hands in the length.

“Then tell me. Which is your favorite?”

She shook her head at near-frantic speed, pulling the lock of hair out of his grasp. “None. It’s not… I couldn’t… They are scurrilous.”

“You’ve uncovered such a large selection. Only an angel would be pure enough to deny a favorite. Tell me, or I’ll keep calling you Seraphina.”

Her eyes turned up to him, wide and a little glassy, befuddled in a manner he’d love to see again and again. “The one in your hand.”

“This one?” He held up the brass couple. When fit together, the woman sat in the man’s lap facing outward, her head bent back to rest on her lover’s shoulder. “Is it the novelty of the mechanism? I assure you in real life it’s quite easy to maintain.”

Her blush upgraded to an inferno. As she reached up to run a fingertip over it, she trembled. “No. It’s her face. The artist must have been a master to craft her so carefully. She looks so…happy. Free.”

Fletcher snapped. Lost control. She looked wistful and curious, and if he could do anything at all to fix that, he would.

He kissed her.

A soft sliding of his lips over hers. A taste of her sweetness. Beneath that was sun-kissed warmth. She pulled in a quiet gasp. Something within him thrilled that she took his air. Only right. He wanted her to take more from him, everything she wanted or needed. Sustenance and survival.

He lifted one hand to frame her face but shook with the growl he held back. Tenderness poured through his mouth, slicking over her bottom lip. She would draw away if he hinted at more.

Even with the gentle samples Fletcher snatched, she’d turned as frozen as the statue still weighting his hand. He drew back with one last stroke, trying to see her, trying to understand. Her eyes were dazed, her mouth slack.

She grabbed hold of his coat hem. She didn’t tug him closer, not like his previous women. They’d all been bold and assured, confident in what they wanted. A rough fuck to a fare-thee-well, please don’t come again. The passion streaming between them seemed to leave Seraphina bewildered.

He could sympathize. In all his careful planning, he hadn’t expected anything like this. Not when he wanted to delve under her skirts and show her the end of this journey. Expose her to the possibilities of the body between man and woman.

Encouraged by Sera’s unflagging grip on his coat, he lowered his head slowly, giving her more than enough time to run away. She didn’t move a fraction. Even her eyes remained wide and locked on his until the last moment, when her thick fringe of lashes fell shut.

He kissed slow and easy, sipping over and over. Placed kisses at the corners of her lips. Worshipped at the altar of her mouth. Stole her innocence like the thief he’d always been.

Eventually he pressed harder. Took more. If a lad could nip a shilling, why not try for a whole pound? He stroked along the tender inside of her bottom lip and was much heartened to feel her shiver under his hand. He curled his fingers over the curve of her jaw, angling her for his possession.

He licked deeper into her mouth. She opened under him. Her sugared mouth took flight, kissing him back.

The kiss went incendiary. Taking and giving and the absorption of each other’s essence. Fletcher lost all sense of finesse.

He forgot the statue in his hand altogether, but then he tried to wrap his arm around her slender back. The figurine tumbled to the floor, splitting into two separate pieces of man and woman. The lovers looked vulgar once apart.

Seraphina ducked out of his reach and scooped them up. Her fingers clutched the couple until her skin went white.

“No more,” she said in a low, frightened voice.

“Seraphina.” There was nothing to say when she ducked away from his reach.

“It’s Sera. I told you my choice. Keep your bargain.”

He inclined his head in agreement, even as he knew it would be a difficult adjustment. She’d always been his angel, kept pure by her distance from him and his dirty world. Giving her everything she wanted meant agreeing to her choices. A name seemed a silly thing.

More important would be comforting her obvious distress. Her eyes darted frantically. She lifted a hand toward her mouth, only to seem surprised by the brass figures squeezed in her fingers. With overly careful movements, she set them on the table. She ranged near enough that he scented her, like an antelope come too close to a tiger.

As if sensing the danger, she flicked a glance over her shoulder and backed away.

Meanwhile, Fletcher had wrapped his hands around the edge of the table in lieu of the right to grab hold of her once more. His bones creaked from wrenching too tightly, but the sensation did nothing to abate such pure
want
.

Even when Sera shut the door behind her, leaving him alone in the parlor’s scrambled mess, he didn’t move for long minutes.

Discovering that she possessed a font of untapped passion changed everything. Part craving, part salvation. Two years began to seem like an eternity that he hadn’t the fortitude to wait out. Fletcher wouldn’t be able to resist kissing Sera again—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to try.

Chapter Twelve

Sera fled to her room. No other word for it existed. Fled. She swept up her skirts and took the stairs two at a time. But she couldn’t outrun the all-consuming fear.

Not fear of Fletcher. She wouldn’t be so stupid.

Fear of herself. Of what she was and wasn’t and what she could become if she released her control for just a minute.

She slammed the door to her room and fell against it. Digging her shoulders into the hard wood wasn’t enough to bring her back to earth. Oh-too-much still pounded through her chest. Hard, fast breaths and a heart that would never calm. Her lips tingled from his kiss.

The kiss she’d fully participated in. Reveled in, if she were to be honest.

She’d spent the first ten years of her life hiding, trying not to be noticed by her mother’s acquaintances. Only the months she’d spent as Fletcher’s shadow had felt safe. The next ten she’d still hidden, armored by the proper behavior Mrs. Waywroth had instilled. She’d thought herself shielded against censure.

With one endless kiss, Fletcher had stripped her bare.

A pale white note card leaned against the mirror on her dressing table. She crumpled it and threw it into the corner. Undoubtedly Fletcher wished to inform her that he’d be at dinner as requested. She couldn’t stand to read such innocuous words from him.

She threw herself face first across the bed. The soft down mattress and piles of finely woven coverlets absorbed her groan. What in the world had she done?

Lost every scrap of her armor, that’s what. The rules that protected her were no use when she discarded them at the first opportunity.

Fletcher’s mouth… The reverence with which he’d kissed her…

For that, she was devilishly tempted to throw away so much more.

She rolled to her back then scrubbed cold hands over her face.

She could leave, she supposed. Nothing but her own prickly pride kept her there. Her determination to not be the charity case meant nothing when confronted by raw lust.

Giving in to the lust, even to the point of forcing her to run, produced the same effect. Besides, she felt protected in Fletcher’s presence. Even when he crossed a line and kissed her, any irrevocable risks would be her fault. No one else’s.

In his sphere, she only had her lust to fear.

Sitting up helped center her. One always felt more focused on an upright keel. Taking deep breaths eased her further. She was not a pawn to her urges.

That easily, she dismissed the raw edge that had ripped her insides. She was better than that. Believe in the rules of society and they would see one through.

Calmly, she retrieved the folded and bent note card from the corner. Only children indulged in tantrums. She smoothed it open, expecting to read a few words accepting the dinner invitation—to dine in his own house. She did see the irony in that. As a result her gaze slid right over the meaning.

At first.

She read it again, though it was only two words. That was not Fletcher’s script. Nor would he ever write something so ominous.

Go away.

Rounded and shaky writing implied someone had intentionally tried to conceal their hand. She flipped it over, looking to see if she’d missed further details. Nothing. The message either came by hand delivery or was from someone in the household.

Under her skin, Sera’s veins shriveled into frightened worms, in direct contrast to the volatile hunger she’d felt only minutes ago. Her heart climbed into her throat for an entirely different reason. Air pressed heavy on her flesh.

She didn’t realize she was shaking until the card began to tremble. A sharp bite of pain informed her she’d been chewing her lip.

She couldn’t go to Fletcher, not now. Not while she danced on the knife’s edge of control. Throwing herself at him would leave the man within his full rights to press his advantage of her. No one would think the worse of him. It would be Sera who lost every scrap of respect for herself.

Still, stupidity had never been one of her vices. She snapped open her little gold pocket watch. Too late to go visiting at either Lottie’s or Victoria’s and make it back for dinner.

A quick snap of the key locked the door. Only an hour remained until it was time to dress for the evening meal. The note wasn’t overtly threatening. Surely she could endure until dinner. Once she went downstairs to meet Fletcher, she’d have herself in hand enough to speak calmly—about the note. No inducement would ever prompt her to mention that kiss.