Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(59)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

And Temperance had to turn away to hide the shine of tears in her eyes.

The rest of the day was spent in the usual labors of the home—cooking, cleaning, ordering the children and gently chiding. By evening, Temperance was at once exhausted and on edge, anticipating seeing Caire again. Yet, when his knock came at the kitchen door, she was still not prepared to see him.

Temperance opened the door and looked at him, standing there in the waning dusk. His silver hair was pulled back into a sleek tail, but her fingers remembered the silkiness of the locks. His sapphire eyes watched her from beneath the brim of his tricorne, and he wore his usual black cloak, but now she knew what it felt like to have him lie between her thighs. Knew how the lines about his mouth deepened when he was at his point. Knew how his penis jumped and jerked within her as his semen washed into her.

She inhaled, fighting to keep the polite, everyday expression on her face.

A corner of his sensuous lips curved just slightly as if he had an idea of the battle she fought within. “Mrs. Dews. How are you this evening?”

“Quite fine, my lord,” she replied, perhaps a touch too sharply. She had an overwhelming urge to touch him, and yet she could not.

His mouth hid a definite smile now, and the sight made her want to both slam the door in his face and grab him and kiss him all at once.

It was a rather frustrating sensation.

She cleared her throat. “Would you care to come in for tea before we depart?”

“I thank you, no,” he replied, as formally as she. “The business I have tonight cannot wait.”

She nodded. “Very well.”

Her cloak was ready and she swung it around herself before nodding to Nell, who was pretending not to be eavesdropping at the kitchen table, and left. Caire immediately set off. She hurried to catch up, but they hadn’t gone half a dozen steps before he pulled her suddenly into a darkened doorway.

“What—”

His mouth cut off her startled exclamation. He kissed her thoroughly and possessively before raising his head slowly. “That’s better.”

He sounded very satisfied with himself.

“Humph.”

He set off again, more moderately this time. Unlike their other evenings in St. Giles, she did not know where they were headed. Caire was the one leading now. They followed the back alley out to the crossroads, and Temperance saw his carriage waiting.

She glanced at him, surprised. “Where are we going?”

“To visit the man we saw at Mrs. Whiteside’s house,” he said matter-of-factly.

She halted. “Oh, but surely you don’t need me for that.”

“You have no idea the ways that I need you,” he murmured, and helped her into the carriage.

Well, she really had no choice. At least that was what Temperance told herself as she sat on the carriage cushions. Perhaps the truth was that she liked being with him no matter the pretext.

He sat opposite her, and she tamped down a twinge of regret.

The carriage lurched forward, and she looked down at her hands in her lap, aware of his gaze upon her.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly after a moment.

“Fine,” she replied.

“I meant after our coupling last night.”

“Oh.” She felt heat creep up her neck. He would talk bluntly about the matter! “I’m well. Thank you.”

“And your sister?”

She frowned, the tears too close to the surface. “We haven’t heard anything else.”

“Ah.”

She peeked through her lashes, trying to read his expression in the dim light. He sounded as if he might be worried for her. Did he intend to repeat the events of the night before? Or was it a one-time thing best forgotten? But surely if he was not interested in her, he would not have dragged her along on this ride. Temperance felt heat pool low in her belly at the thought of his hands caressing her breasts again. Of his lips against her neck.

The carriage shuddered to a halt and she looked up quickly. “Where—”

She didn’t have time to finish the question, because the carriage door opened at that moment and a tall man in a gray wig and half-moon spectacles entered.

“Mrs. Dews, perhaps you remember my friend Mr. St. John?” Caire asked smoothly.

“Of course,” she replied, trying to hide her confusion.

Mr. St. John inclined his head. “Ma’am.”

“St. John has kindly consented to join us in our investigations this evening,” Caire said.

St. John snorted softly, making Temperance wonder how his kind consent had been obtained. She stared curiously between the two men. Caire and St. John didn’t seem likely friends. Caire was so carefree—but with an air of danger—while St. John looked grave and scholarly.

“May I inquire as to how you two became friends?” she asked.

It was Caire who replied. “St. John and I met at Oxford, where I was spending my time drinking bad wine, and he was attempting to translate obscure Grecian philosophers and arguing politics with other boring fellows.”

St. John interjected another snort here, but Caire continued, oblivious to the interruption. “One night I came across him in the midst of six vulgar toughs who were in the process of pounding him into a sort of puree. I’m afraid I took offense at their chosen pursuit.”

Temperance waited, but both men merely looked at her as if their story was done.

She blinked. “So you met in a tavern brawl?”

Caire looked at the ceiling consideringly. “More a street fight.”

“Or melee.” St. John shrugged.

“And you became friends,” she finished for them.

“Yes,” Caire said while St. John shrugged again, as if the outcome was self-evident.

“I don’t understand,” Temperance muttered under her breath.

Caire must’ve had acute hearing. “I think it was the blow St. John received to the crown of his head,” he said kindly. “Blood all over the place. It has a kind of bonding effect.”

She blinked again. “And you were untouched?”

That presumption was too much for St. John. “He had his nose broken and both eyes blacked,” he said with what sounded very much like satisfaction. “And his lip swelled so much he talked with a lisp for a month.”

“A sennight,” Caire interjected.

“Six weeks at the very least,” St. John shot back without heat. “You were still lisping on May Day when we, ah…”

“Rowed down the Isis dead drunk at dawn,” Caire said. “With the don’s stolen pug.”