Notorious Pleasures
She felt the splash of warm liquid on her belly and opened her eyes. He was above her, his cock in his hand, his face relaxing from the sexual tension of before.
It was over. She was no longer a virgin.
CHARLIE WATCHED AS the dice fell from his fingers. A deuce and a trey. Five could be lucky or not; it just depended on the play.
“The attack failed, then.” He knew without looking up that Freddy shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Aye. Three men killed outright and another two injured and lyin’ in bed.”
Charlie grunted, scooping up the dice. He rolled them between his fingers, the familiar clink of the bones soothing to his ears. “And we’re still dealing with the duke’s damned informers.”
Freddy didn’t answer that, probably because there was no need.
“But you say Reading was seen with the duke’s sister?” Charlie asked thoughtfully.
“Twice in St. Giles,” Freddy replied.
Charlie nodded, feeling the skin on his cheeks pull as he smiled. “The duke, the duke. It always comes back to the duke, doesn’t it? The duke and Reading, our dear friend.”
Freddy licked his lips nervously.
A thump and a feverish murmur came from overhead.
Charlie glanced up as if he could see the woman lying above. “How is she today?”
Freddy shrugged. “The nurse says she took some broth this morn.”
Charlie looked down without comment and threw the dice. They tumbled to the edge of the table, a trey again and a cater—four. Lucky seven. “Perhaps it’s time we use the duke’s informers to our own end. Perhaps it’s time His Grace learns what Reading really does in St. Giles.”
Chapter Eleven
That night, Queen Ravenhair again called her suitors to her throne room and asked them what their answers were.
Prince Westmoon snapped his fingers. Instantly a groom led a prancing black stallion into the throne room. Westmoon bowed low. “This horse is the strongest thing in your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
Prince Eastsun waved a hand, and a huge warrior marched into the throne room, his chest armored in silver, his sword sheathed in a golden scabbard. “This man is the strongest thing in your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
Finally, Prince Northwind presented a snowy bullock with gilded horns. “This bullock is the strongest thing in your kingdom, Your Majesty.”
—from Queen Ravenhair
Griffin slumped to the bedsheets, his body slaked. He lay there on his back, an arm over his eyes, his mind entirely blank, and all his muscles in a state of total relaxation. He might as well have been poleaxed.
When the bed shook, he realized that his lover might not be in a similar state of enervated shock.
Griffin cracked one eyelid and watched, bemused, as Lady Hero jumped from the bed and ducked below the side. She straightened a minute later, trying to struggle into the remains of her chemise.
He yawned. “I know you’re new to this, sweeting, but the usual thing is to lie about for a bit, perhaps do the thing over again, God and my cock willing. No need to go haring off.”
As soon as the words left his lips, his brain finally—belatedly—roused itself, and he knew, absolutely and fatally, that it was the exact wrong thing to say.
She gave up on the chemise and bent to pick up her stays. Her face was half averted, but he could see even in profile when her lips thinned. “I must go.”
He couldn’t think very well—something more than the ordinary had happened here—but he knew he didn’t want her to go. Griffin scrubbed his hand over his head, trying to find some measure of wakefulness. “Hero—”
She ducked down again.
He propped himself up and peered over the side of the bed. She knelt, rummaging through her pile of clothes. Her head, even down-bent, did not look welcoming.
He sighed. “Stay a little while and I’ll call for some tea.”
She stood again, pulling on her petticoats. “I can’t be seen here.”
He was tempted to ask why she’d bothered to come in the first place, then, but prudence—not usually a virtue of his—stilled his lips. He knew he should talk to her, but he couldn’t think of the words that would persuade her to stay. His head felt thick, filled with dirty lint and smoke left over from the night awake in the warehouse.
He wasn’t prepared for this, damn it.
She had on her stays now and was clumsily lacing them. No doubt she usually had the aid of a maid. He felt a strange kind of tender pang at the sight.
He rolled to sit on the edge of the bed, his legs spread, and pulled a corner of the sheets over his lap. “Let me help you.”
She stumbled back—and half turned away. “I… I can manage.”
“Are you weeping?” he asked in horror.
“No!”
But she was. Dear God. She was crying.
He didn’t know what to do, how to make this right. “Marry me.”
Had he just said that? But he looked her in the eye and repeated the words. “Marry me.”
Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to feel the same way.
She shook her head, stifling a sob, and bent to pick up her dress.
His pride was pricked. He stood, the sheet falling away. “What say you?”
“Don’t be silly,” she muttered as she fought her way into the dress.
His head reared back as if she’d struck him. “You find an offer of marriage from me silly?”
“Yes.” She had the dress over her head and started lacing up the front. “You only ask because you’ve bedded me.”
He set his hands on his hips as anger rose in his chest. His head throbbed—he hadn’t enough sleep in days—and he tried to keep his voice even. “I’ve taken your virginity, my lady. Pardon me if I think that a good reason to take you to wife as well.”
“Oh, dear Lord.” She turned to face him. Her eyes skipped over his nude body, and then she held her gaze firmly above his waist. “Have you not listened to a word I’ve said these last days? Marriage is a contract, a bargain between families. A pact for the future, solemnly thought out and sincerely entered into. It isn’t something one just jumps into on a whim.”
He shook his head. “This isn’t a whim.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me before you bedded me?”
He stared at her, tempted to answer that he’d been thinking with the smaller of his two heads before he’d bedded her, thank you very much.
But she was already continuing, her voice horribly gentle. “You and I have no similar goals or intentions. You told me less than a fortnight ago that you never intended to marry. You’re offering out of guilt or misplaced gallantry, neither of which is a solid foundation for a marriage. I’ve made a terrible mistake”—her voice wobbled, making his heart constrict—“but calling off my marriage to Mandeville would simply compound it.”
He gaped at her. When had she thought all of this out?
He could refute all of her points, given a night’s sound sleep, but one stuck out in particular. “You’re not going to marry Thomas.”
She arched her eyebrows. “Is that why you bedded me?”
“No!” he roared.
“Good,” she said, perfectly reasonable, perfectly perfect. “My arrangement with Thomas is between him and me. It has nothing to do with you.”
“I beg to differ,” he said, the words sounding stupidly pompous even to his own ears, standing there naked, arguing with the woman he’d ignobly deflowered. “I’m Thomas’s brother and the man you just fucked.”
She flinched. “I hate that word. Please don’t use it around me anymore.”
“Damn it, Hero!”
“I need to leave now,” she said politely, and did just that.
His eyes dropped to the white sheets on the bed, and he saw a small smear of blood there. The sight tore at his heart. Griffin swore and slammed his fist into the bedpost, splitting his knuckles.
Deedle came in the room, looking around brightly. “I passed a lady in the hallway, m’lord, in quite the hurry. Right pretty, though. Didn’t think you was up for it, if’n you know what I mean, after last night.”
Griffin groaned and dropped back to the bed, his aching head in his hands. “Shut up, Deedle.”
THE DAY WAS bright and sunny, even in St. Giles, and Silence Hollingbrook smiled as she made her way through the morning market.
“Mamoo!” Mary Darling cried from her perch on Silence’s hip, and stretched out plump baby hands toward a pile of shiny red apples.
Silence laughed and stopped. “How much?” she asked the bonneted apple seller. William had once praised her apple pie—long ago when they’d first been married.
The woman winked, the wrinkles in her tanned face deepening. “For you and such a bonny lass, only threepence a half dozen.”
Normally, Silence would bargain the seller down, but the apples did look good and the price was fair. “I’ll take a dozen.”
She handed over the coins and called Mary Evening over with the marketing basket she held. She watched as the seller carefully picked out and filled the basket for her. The apples would make a nice pie or two for the children.
She continued on her way through the stalls. Besides Mary Evening, she had Mary Compassion and Mary Redribbon to carry her purchases, and the girls trailed her like obedient ducklings. They’d already purchased onions, turnips, and a nice lump of fresh butter, and Silence was making for a stall with a pretty display of beetroots when a shout made her glance to the right.
A small gang of boys was there—a common sight in St. Giles and indeed all of London. These boys were intent on some type of dicing game on the ground, and one boy had obviously won or lost. He jumped up and down and was immediately cuffed by another lad. In a moment, both boys were rolling in the dust, no one paying much attention to them other than to walk around the scuffle. Then as she was idly watching, she saw something—someone—beyond the boys. A graceful male figure, inky black curls brushing broad shoulders, the hint of wide, cynical lips.
It couldn’t be.
She dodged to the side, trying to get a better look. He’d turned away, and there were other people, other stalls, between them. She couldn’t be sure, but if she could just get a good glimpse…
“Where are we going, ma’am?” Mary Evening panted.
Silence looked around and realized that the girls were running to keep up with her swift steps. She turned back, searching the place where she’d last seen that too-familiar face.
But he was gone.
Perhaps she’d imagined him; perhaps she’d mistaken another man with long hair worn undressed about his shoulders. Mary Darling fretted and reached for an apple in Mary Evening’s basket. Silence picked one out with fingers that trembled and gave it to the baby. She’d not seen him since that one awful night; surely she must be mistaken.
But she knew she wasn’t. She’d caught a glimpse of Charming Mickey O’Connor, the most notorious river pirate in London.
“It’s time we were home,” she told the children.
She turned, hurrying away from the market. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence that Charming Mickey should be in the market at the same time as she. He did live in St. Giles, as she had good reason to know. Except she really couldn’t see Mr. O’Connor doing his own marketing. Her steps quickened until she was nearly trotting. Her heart was beating in triple time, so fast and light she thought she might faint.