“And you still draw your curses from Shakespeare.”
“I try, in speech at least, as a way to honor his memory. I cannot claim my thoughts are always so literary in their inspiration.”
Emma let the quiet abide for a moment. “You must miss him a great deal. And to lose him so young. How did it—” She broke off the question. Perhaps she was delving too deep.
“A fever took them both. I was away at school.”
“Oh, dear.” She inched a bit closer. “That must have been terrible.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t there to see them ill. They’ll always be strong in my memory that way. Likewise, I’m grateful they never had to see me after I was . . . you know. Like this.”
She gathered his meaning, but she didn’t believe he was sincere. Having a loving family around him would have made all the difference.
He downed a large swallow of wine, then glanced toward her. “What about your parents? You mentioned leaving home for London at a tender age. What was that about?”
She chewed a bite slowly. “The usual. Strict discipline. Youthful rebellion. Words exchanged that couldn’t be taken back.”
“That,” he said, “was not an answer.”
“Yes, it was. You asked a question. I replied. With words and everything.”
“I gave you details. Ages, events . . . feelings. I cracked open my soul.”
She gave him a disbelieving look.
“All right, fine. I don’t have a soul. But the point remains. You can be more specific than that.”
“It’s a boring story, truly.” Before he could object, she withdrew a clipped bit of newsprint from her pocket. “Now this is an interesting story. ‘Cloaked Monster Menaces Mayfair.’”
He paused. “Sounds ridiculous.”
“I thought it sounded exciting.” She cleared her throat and read aloud. “‘For the second time in as many weeks, a chilling specter has wrought mayhem and terror in the most unlikely of neighborhoods: Mayfair. The ghoul is described as a tall, narrow figure clad all in black, with fine boots and a beaver hat pulled down to meet the upturned collar of his cloak. This reporter interviewed a well-shaken fellow who attested to seeing the caped monster in St. James Park this Thursday past. Only yesternight, witnesses residing near Shepherd Market tell of a demon with hideous face and a twisted snarl roaming the alleyways. The apparition threatened no fewer than a dozen souls—among them, three innocent boys—before disappearing into the night. Mothers are advised to clutch their children close, lest the Monster of Mayfair strike again.’” She lowered the paper. “Well?”
“Sensationalist rubbish.”
“I thought the writing was evocative.” Emma folded the clipping leisurely and tucked it away. “Any ideas who this ‘monster’ might be?”
He was silent.
“It’s quite a coincidence. Because we were in St. James Park last week. And you do happen to have a tall hat and black cloak. But of course you wouldn’t go around terrorizing innocent boys.”
He gave in with a huff. “Innocent boys, my eye. The brats knocked over a flower seller for her pennies. They deserved whatever they got.”
She smiled. “Do you know, I suspected you were a good man, deep down. Even if very, very, very deep down. In a fathomless cavern. Underneath a volcano.”
There was more to him than she’d suspected. More than anyone suspected, perhaps. Humor, patience, passion. She found it all distressingly attractive.
Come along then, Breeches.
At last, there was a stirring in the dark corner behind the grate.
“Hush now.” He pinched the corner from a salmon sandwich and leaned forward, holding it out until it was close enough to provide an irresistible feline temptation. “Come on then, you odious, mewling bugbear,” he crooned. “I have your dinner.”
With a steady stream of low, deceptively tender insults, he drew the cat out from the fireplace. Emma remained absolutely still, so as not to startle the creature.
“That’s it,” he whispered, drawing his hand closer to his lap. Reeling the cat in like a fish on the line. At last, he allowed Breeches to catch the bait. The starving cat attacked the sandwich in ravenous bites. “There you are, then.”
He had the little beast eating out of his hand.
Monster of Mayfair, indeed.
While Breeches ate from one hand, he reached out with the other—grabbing the cat by the scruff. He scooped the creature up, placed both cat and sandwich in the trunk, and latched it tight. Breeches didn’t even make a complaint.
Then he stood and dusted his hands before offering Emma assistance in rising to her feet.
“Now,” he said. “I am going to ring for a footman to clear this tray and place the cat under lock, key, bolt, and guard. Then I’m going to go upstairs, find a fresh shirt, and rinse the soot from my hands. In all, I estimate that will occupy three minutes.” His intense eyes caught hers. “That’s how much time you have.”
“How much time to what?”
“To make ready. Before I come to your room and pin you flat against the bed.”
“Oh.”
He leisurely strolled over to ring the bell. “Make haste, Emma. You’re down to two and a half minutes now.”
Emma swallowed hard.
Then she turned and ran.
Emma didn’t bother to retrieve her slippers. She dashed on stocking feet for the staircase, gathering her skirts in both hands to lift them out of the way.
When she reached her suite, she chased away the maid and went directly to the bedchamber. As she rushed, she tugged at the buttons of her frock with one hand and went about snuffing candles with the licked fingertips of her other, leaving only the dim firelight. She still didn’t see any reason for darkness, but she didn’t wish to waste time arguing.
Not tonight.
She’d barely succeeded in loosening her bodice when he opened the door.
No knock. No greeting. He was true to his word.
He strode to her, put his hands on her waist, lifted her off her feet, and tossed her onto the bed.
Her breath left her. When the capability returned to her hands, she fumbled to find her buttons and continue disrobing.
“Don’t bother,” he said, in a gruff, commanding voice.
Very well, then.
She never would have guessed she’d find this curt, brutish treatment arousing . . . but she did. Oh, she did. He was capable of patience and tenderness. He’d demonstrated as much downstairs with the cat. The knowledge made her feel safe, even if he overwhelmed her now. Besides, she knew from experience, he’d stop the moment she expressed the slightest discomfort.
She didn’t want him to stop.
He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark silhouette, wrestling with the closures of his falls, then shucking his trousers.
She was panting with arousal by the time he joined her on the bed.
He straddled her hips and pulled at her bodice, tugging it down. She heard a seam rip. No matter; she could mend it tomorrow. Before