Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(13)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“I don’t know, but—”

“You must tell Winter. This thing sounds like a made-up story to entice you. Lord Caire might have dreadful plans for you. What if he lures you into debauchery?”

Temperance wrinkled her nose, drawing attention to a speck of soot at the tip. “I hardly think that’s likely. Have you looked at me recently?”

She spread her arms wide as if to emphasize the ridiculousness of an aristocrat wanting to seduce her. Silence had to admit that standing in her kitchen, her hair half down, and with soot on her nose, Temperance certainly didn’t look like someone particularly tempting to a seducer.

But she replied loyally. “You’re quite pretty and well you know it.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” Temperance let her arms drop. “You’ve always been the beauty of the family. If a dastardly lord were to corrupt anyone, it would be you.”

Silence looked sternly at her sister. “You’re trying to distract me.”

Temperance sighed and sank into a kitchen chair. “Don’t tell anyone, Silence, please don’t. I’ve already accepted Lord Caire’s money to pay the rent—that is how we paid off our debt.”

“But Winter is sure to find out eventually. How did you explain paying the rent to him?”

“I told him that I sold a ring that Benjamin had given me.”

“Oh, Temperance!” Silence covered her mouth in horror. “You lied to Winter?”

But Temperance shook her head. “It was only a small lie. This is the only hope we have for the home. Think what it would do to Winter should the home close.”

Silence glanced away. Of all their brothers, Winter had been the most devoted to their father and his charitable works. It would disappoint him terribly to have the home fail under his watch.

“Please, Silence,” Temperance whispered. “For Winter.”

“Very well.” Silence nodded once. “I won’t tell our brothers—”

“Oh, thank you!”

“Unless,” Silence continued, “I feel you are in danger.”

“I won’t be. That I can promise.”

LAZARUS WOKE ON a silent scream. His eyes opened wide, and for a moment he simply lay there and looked about the room, straining to remember where he was. Then he recognized his own bedroom. The walls were a dark brown, the furniture old and impressive, and his bed hung with dark green and brown curtains. His father had slept here before him, and Lazarus hadn’t bothered changing anything when he’d inherited the title. He felt each muscle in his body slowly relax as he glanced at the window. The light there was a pale gray; dawn couldn’t be too far away—and he never went back to sleep after a nightmare. He stretched and rose, nude, then padded to the tall dresser to splash cold water on his face. He donned a yellow brocaded banyan and sat at the elegant cherrywood desk in the corner—the only piece of furniture in the room that he’d brought with him. His father would’ve disapproved heartily of writing in dishabille.

Lazarus grinned at the thought. Then he uncapped his inkwell and began work on his current translation project. Catullus was particularly scathing of Lesbia in this poem. He wanted to find the right word—the perfect word—that, when correctly set, would shine like a diamond in an exquisite ring. It was exacting, meticulous work, and it could consume him for hours at a time.

His valet, Small, entered sometime later, and Lazarus looked up to see that the room was bright with sunshine.

“Your pardon, my lord,” Small said. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“It’s of no consequence,” Lazarus replied, his gaze back on his translation. The words were calling him, but he hadn’t quite found the right arrangement yet.

“I’ll ring to have your breakfast sent up, shall I?”

“Mmm.”

“And if you’re ready for your toilet?”

Bah! The thing was lost now. Lazarus threw down his pen impatiently and leaned back in his chair. Small immediately laid a steaming cloth over the lower half of his face. The valet’s movements were quick and efficient, his hands delicate like a woman’s.

Lazarus closed his eyes, relaxing as the moist heat soaked into his skin. He remembered Mrs. Dews’s light brown eyes last night. The way they’d closed in bliss when he’d fed her the plum tart. The way they’d narrowed in anger when he questioned why she wouldn’t take it from him initially. For one such as he—a man who could not feel emotion—her moods were irresistibly alluring. The flare of her temper had created a heat he could almost feel. He’d been drawn to it as surely as a cat was to the warmth of a hearth. Her emotion was foreign, wild and exciting, and entirely fascinating—and she tried so very hard to hide it. Why? He wanted to spend time with the source of such powerful emotion. Wanted to experiment, poke and prod, see what else made her cheeks flush, her breath come fast. What would make her laugh? What frightened her? How would her eyes look at the point of orgasm? Would she try to hold back, or would the bodily sensation overwhelm her defenses?

The thought was oddly arousing this early in the morning. He’d never cared one way or the other about a woman’s response. She was but the vessel for his own lust. But with Mrs. Dews, it was the woman herself who was the interesting part.

Small removed the cloth and brushed warm lather over Lazarus’s jaw. Lazarus kept his eyes closed, refusing to flinch at the first scrape of the razor against his bare cheek. Surreptitiously he gripped the arms of the chair. To let another touch him was a ghastly physical trial, which was part of the reason he permitted this ordinary intimacy each morning. It gave him a kind of satisfaction to confront this most basic fear and overcome it daily.

The valet finished his left cheek, and Lazarus tilted his head to receive the razor on the right, repressing a shudder of revulsion. He’d had this loathing of another’s touch for as long as he could recall. No. That wasn’t correct. Lazarus couldn’t repress a wince as Small ran the razor over his upper lip. Once upon a time, when he’d been a very small child, there had been a touch that did not cause him fear and loathing and outright pain.

But that was long ago and that person long dead.

Small wiped the last of the soap foam from Lazarus’s face, and Lazarus opened his eyes. “Thank you.”

If the valet had any idea of the pain he’d caused his master, the knowledge did not show in his placid expression. “What shall you wear today, my lord?”