Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(28)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“I haven’t had marzipan sweetmeats in ages,” she murmured.

He had a sudden urge to buy her a boxful just to watch her eat them. Her red lips would become sprinkled with the sugar and she’d have to lick them clean. His groin tightened at just the thought.

“Tell me something else about yourself. Something true.” She watched him, those pale brown eyes mysterious. “Where were you born?”

“Shropshire.” He looked away, watching as his mother made some comment to another lady. The jewels in her white hair sparkled as she tilted her head. “My family’s seat is near Shrewsbury. I was born at Caire House, our ancestral home. I’m told that I was a puling, weakly babe, and my father sent me away to the wet nurse with little hope that I would live out the sennight.”

“It sounds as if your parents were worried for you.”

“No,” he said flatly, the knowledge as old as his bones. “I stayed with my nurse for five years, and in that time, my parents saw me only once a year, on Easter day. I remember because my father used to scare me witless.”

He had no idea why he told her this; it hardly showed him in a heroic light.

“And your mother?” she asked softly.

He glanced at her curiously. “She accompanied my father, of course.”

“But”—her brows knit together again as if she were trying to puzzle something out—“was she affectionate?”

He stared. Affection? He looked again at his mother, now making her way to a seat. She moved gracefully, the embodiment of cold elegance. The thought of her showing affection for anyone, let alone him, was ludicrous.

“No,” he said patiently, as if explaining the intricacies of the English monetary system to a Chinaman. “They didn’t come to express affection. They came to see if their heir was being adequately fed and housed.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice small. “And your nurse? Was she affectionate toward you?”

The question sent a nasty wave of pain through him, the sensation exquisitely awful, and his shoulder throbbed in the aftermath.

“I don’t remember,” he lied.

She opened her mouth as if to question him further, but he’d had enough. “And you, Mrs. Dews? What was your upbringing like?”

She pursed her lips for a moment as if she wouldn’t let him lead her into a different conversational avenue. Then she sighed. “I was born here in London, not far from the foundling home, actually. Father was a brewer. There are six children in my family: Verity; Concord, who runs the brewery now; Asa; myself; Winter; and my youngest sister, Silence. Father met the acquaintance of Sir Stanley Gilpin when I was quite young, and with his patronage, Father established the foundling home.”

“A pretty tale,” Lazarus drawled, watching her face. She’d recited the story almost by rote. “Yet, it tells me very little about you.”

She looked startled. “But there isn’t much to tell beyond that.”

“Oh, I think there is,” he murmured softly. The chairs about them were beginning to fill, but he was loath to give up this discussion so soon. “Did you work in the home as a child? Were you schooled at all? And where and when did you meet your husband?”

“I spent my childhood at home mostly,” she said slowly. “Mother schooled me until she died when I was thirteen years of age. Thereafter, my elder sister, Verity, took over the chore of raising us younger children. The boys were sent to school, of course, but there wasn’t enough money to send the girls. I fancy, though, that our education was quite adequate.”

“No doubt,” he said. “But you haven’t mentioned the late Mr. Dews. In fact, I’ve never heard you speak of your husband.”

She looked away, her face paling, a reaction he found infinitely fascinating.

“Mr. Dews—Benjamin—was a protégé of my father’s,” she said quietly. “Benjamin had studied for the church but decided to join Father in his work to help the orphans of St. Giles instead. I met him when I was seventeen, and we married shortly thereafter.”

“He sounds like quite the saint,” Lazarus said, irony dripping from his words.

Mrs. Dews was somber, though. “Yes, he was. He worked incredibly long hours at the foundling home. He was always gentle and patient with the children; he was kind to everyone he knew. I once saw him take off his own coat and give it to a beggar who had none.”

Lazarus gritted his teeth, leaning close to hiss, “Tell me, Mrs. Dews, do you have a shrine in your rooms to commemorate your dead saint?”

“What?” She turned a shocked face to him.

It only inflamed his urge to hurt her more. To make her feel so that he could revel in her reflected emotions. “Do you kneel before his shrine and genuflect? Does his memory keep you warm in your lonely bed at night? Or do you have to resort to other, less spiritual means of satisfaction?”

“How dare you?” Her eyes sparked at his crude insinuation.

His corrupted heart crowed at the sight of the rage his words had provoked. She made to stand, but he caught her arm in a hard grip, forcing her to remain seated.

“Hush, now,” he crooned. “The music is about to begin. You wouldn’t want to storm out now and destroy all the progress you made earlier with Captain Lambert and Sir Henry, would you? They might think you a fickle creature.”

“I loathe you.” She pressed her lips together, turning her face away as if the very sight of him revolted her.

But despite her words, she remained by his side, and that was all that mattered in the end. He cared not a whit if she loathed him, even wanted him dead, as long as she felt something for him. As long as he could keep her close.

HOW DARE HE?

Temperance stared at her balled hands in her lap as she struggled not to show her rage. What had provoked Lord Caire’s disgusting attack on her and the memory of Benjamin? They’d been having a simple conversation about everyday things and suddenly he’d erupted. Was he insane? Or was he so jealous of a normal man—a man who could feel kindness and sympathy—that he must lash out at merely the thought?

Lord Caire’s hand still gripped her elbow, hot and hard, and he tightened it at her shiver. “Don’t even think of it.”

She didn’t bother replying to him. The truth was that a part of her anger had dissipated when she thought of his loveless childhood.

Not, of course, that she meant to tell him that.

Temperance looked away from him, watching as the guests found seats. Lady Caire let herself be seated by a handsome gentleman in a bag wig. The man was obviously younger than she, but he attended her quite tenderly. Temperance wondered suddenly if they were lovers. What odd morals the aristocracy had. Her gaze wandered to where Sir Henry sat beside a stout matronly lady, obviously his wife. She looked like a pleasant lady.