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.
For a moment he stared, incredulous and stunned, at the closed door. What had happened? What had he done?
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.
Mustn’t show fear before the wolf.
She half laughed, but the sound was more a sob. Mickey wasn’t anything like a wild, savage wolf—at least on the surface. The one time she’d seen him, he’d been dressed in velvet and lace, every finger of his hands adorned with jeweled rings. He’d been elegant and suave. But underneath, dear God, underneath he’d been exactly like a ravenous wolf.
Silence was panting by the time they made the home. Her fingers were clumsy with the key, and she nearly dropped it twice before getting it in the door. With a last nervous look over her shoulder, she pushed the girls inside the home and slammed the door shut behind her. Quickly she flung down the bar.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Mary Evening asked anxiously.
“Yes.” Silence placed a hand over her breast, trying to calm her breathing. Mary Darling munched messily on her apple, unconcerned. At least she hadn’t alarmed the baby. She smiled. “Yes, quite, but I’m dying for a cup of tea, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am!” was the general consensus.
So she marched back to the kitchen with her charges, feeling marginally better.
That feeling stopped, though, when she saw Winter standing in the kitchen, his face grave. Winter never came home before his luncheon at one of the clock.
She frowned. “What are you doing home at this hour?”
Winter looked at the eldest girl. “Mary Evening, please set the marketing on the table and take the other girls with you upstairs. I believe Nell has just made some tea for the children there.”
The girls obediently trailed from the kitchen.
Silence looked at Winter, her chest squeezing, “Winter?”
He glanced distractedly at Mary Darling, still in her arms. “Perhaps we should send the baby upstairs as well.”
“No.” Silence swallowed, laying a cheek against Mary Darling’s soft, black curls. “Let her stay with me.”
Winter nodded. “Will you sit?”
She lowered herself to one of the kitchen benches. “What is it? Tell me.”
“We’ve received word from the owners of William’s ship,” he said gently.
Her head started to spin, Winter’s words becoming indistinct.
Still, when he continued, she heard him. “William’s ship has been lost at sea. There were no survivors. I’m afraid William is dead.”
“YOU SEEM TIRED, my dear,” Cousin Bathilda observed that night as she and Hero rocked in the carriage. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have sat with Phoebe all afternoon.”
They were on their way to a ball. Hero frowned for a moment, thinking. Oh, yes, the Widdecombe’s ball. She might find a lady tonight interested in helping the home if only she put her mind to it. Funny how she’d had trouble concentrating all day.
“My dear?” Cousin Bathilda prompted.
“Phoebe didn’t tire me.” Hero smoothed her brow. “I have a slight headache.”
“Shall I tell the driver to turn around?”
“No,” Hero said too sharply, then inhaled. “No, it’s quite all right, cousin.”
“Well, I can’t think it’s all right when you use that tone,” Cousin Bathilda said, her feathers all ruffled.
Hero stifled a sigh and made herself smile calmly. “Truly, I’m sorry to have snapped at you.”
“
Very well, then,” the other lady replied. “It’s rather late to turn about now anyway; we’re nearly there. Although I do feel bad about leaving poor Phoebe abed at home. Has Maximus talked to you about her yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“He must make a decision soon, I think.” Cousin Bathilda had lines of worry about her eyes. “Thank the Lord the physician said her arm will heal. It would be terrible if she were crippled as well as…” Bathilda’s voice died away as if she couldn’t quite make herself say the word.
Hero sighed and turned to gaze out the window, though there was nothing to see in the dark. How strange she felt! As if she’d become disconnected from her body and the events around her. She should be thinking deeply at this moment, coming to decisions and making things right somehow. Instead, she found it hard to concentrate on anything at all. Anything but thoughts of Griffin and how it had felt to accept him into her body this morning. She could almost smell his skin, hot and salty, feel the hair on his chest rasping against her bare nipples, see his eyes watching her always….
“I do hope Lord Griffin isn’t at the ball tonight,” Cousin Bathilda said, making her start.
Fortunately, her cousin didn’t seem to notice Hero’s wild glance.
“Bad enough that Phoebe seems entirely charmed by him,” Cousin Bathilda huffed. “I cannot believe you invited that man to luncheon!”
“Phoebe doesn’t know the particulars of his reputation,” Hero replied, attempting to move the conversation away from herself.
“Naturally not!” Bathilda was shocked at the mere notion. “A precious, innocent girl like her having knowledge of the extent of Lord Griffin’s scandalous ways—the very thought.”
“He has his good points as well,” Hero said before she could stop herself. “He’s funny, and an interesting conversationalist, and he can be very kind.”
“Funny and kind do not excuse a man’s rakishness.”
“He will soon be part of the family,” Hero replied, and felt like weeping.
“Humph!” was all Cousin Bathilda had to say to that.
Her obvious indignation made Hero smile faintly. “Mignon likes him, remember.”
The little dog raised her head at her name. She was curled up beside Bathilda on the carriage seat.
Cousin Bathilda stared severely at her pet. “She usually has better taste, I must say.”
Mignon decided their conversation was uninteresting, since the topic didn’t involve doggy tidbits. She yawned and laid her head back down again.
“Ah, here we are,” Cousin Bathilda said as the carriage rolled to a stop. She gathered Mignon in her arms and preceded Hero down the steps.
Outside, the Widdecombe town house was ablaze with torches. Liveried footmen bowed and ushered them up the steps and inside.
“I see Helena has made an extra effort this year,” Cousin Bathilda whispered loudly in Hero’s ear. “And well she should after last season’s debacle.”
Hero was still trying to remember the debacle in question when they came upon the receiving line.
“Bathilda.” A very thin lady with silvery gray hair leaned forward and almost touched her cheek to Cousin Bathilda’s. “How wonderful to see you again. And you brought your darling dog,” she observed with pursed lips as Mignon rumbled at her.
“Helena.” Cousin Bathilda put a soothing hand on Mignon’s head. “You remember my dear relative, Lady Hero Batten.”
“My lady.” Hero dipped into a curtsy.
“Engaged to the Marquess of Mandeville, yes?” Lady Widdecombe peered at her with faint approval. “A very good match, my dear. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Hero murmured. She felt a suffocating weight, as if a large boulder sat upon her chest. How scandalized everyone here would be if they knew what she truly was beneath her facade. She’d lost her perfection. She’d lost her place. For a wild moment she had the urge to simply turn and flee from the ballroom.
“There’s Mandeville now,” Cousin Bathilda exclaimed.
Hero glanced up and saw her fiancé, looking the same as ever. He was quite elegant tonight in deep brown velvet overembroidered in gold and red.
He made a leg at the sight of her. “Miss Picklewood, Lady Hero. You are the fairest damsel here tonight, I vow.”
“My lord.” She wondered what he would say if she asked him what feature he found so especially beautiful about her? Was it her eyes? Her neck? Her breasts? But then he’d never seen her bare breasts. Only one man had and it wasn’t her fiancé.
She looked away, biting her lip as guilt battered against her.
“I hope your dear sister is better?” Mandeville asked gravely.
“As well as can be expected, my lord,” Cousin Bathilda answered. “The doctor has prescribed bed rest, but he thinks the arm will knit.”
“I am so glad.”
“I see my good friend Mrs. Hughes over there,” Cousin Bathilda said. “If you young people will excuse me?”
“Of course,” Mandeville murmured. He held out his arm to Hero without really looking at her. “Shall we stroll?”
“Please,” she answered sedately, calming the hysterical voices in her head.
She laid her hand on his sleeve as he led her into the crowd. The room was too hot, it seemed. Lady Helena had chosen to decorate the ballroom with hundreds of roses, and the scent of the wilting flowers was almost overwhelming. She nodded her head and murmured inanities to passing people until she thought she might scream. Her world had tumbled off balance, and she didn’t know how to right it again.
And then, suddenly, Griffin stood in front of them, dressed elegantly in blue and gold, his wig snowy white. His arm was crooked, as he idly fondled something in his hand. His green eyes flicked from her face to her hand, laid on Mandeville’s sleeve, then rose slowly to his brother’s face.
Hero tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. Surely he wouldn’t say anything, do anything, here?
Griffin bowed stiffly. “Good evening, Thomas, Lady Hero.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Griffin,” she heard Mandeville say beside her. “I didn’t know you were invited tonight.”
“It’s amazing the places where I’m welcome.”
She lifted her eyes at his cynical tone. His green eyes clashed with hers, his expression grim.
She caught her breath.
“What have you got there?” Mandeville asked.
Griffin raised his eyebrows and opened his hand. Hero inhaled silently. Her diamond earbob lay on his palm—the one she’d thrown at him in the sitting room at her engagement ball.
He smiled thinly. “A trinket I found upon the floor. Do you think it becomes me?”
He held the earring to his ear as Hero widened her eyes in warning. Surely Mandeville would recognize it as hers!
“Or perhaps it’s better suited to a lady,” Griffin drawled. He reached out, and Hero felt the heat of his fingers as he dangled the earring near her ear.
Mandeville frowned, looking confused. “Don’t be an ass.”
“No?” Griffin’s smile had disappeared as he looked at her. “Well, maybe I’ll make it a keepsake.”
He pushed the earring into his waistcoat pocket.
Hero stared at him, her chest aching as if she’d been weeping. She’d lost him, she suddenly realized. They could never again be friends now.
Griffin looked at Mandeville. “With your permission, I’d like to offer your fiancée a dance.”
“Certainly,” Mandeville replied.
And just like that, she was handed from one man to the other, rather like a prize pony at a country fair.
Hero waited until they’d strolled some distance from Mandeville. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I know,” Griffin replied low. “You seem to only want to do, er, other things with me.”
“Hush!” she hissed desperately.
In any other man, the look he gave her might be mistaken for hurt. “I’m not going
to disgrace you here in front of everyone, never fear.”
She didn’t know how to reply to that, and while she was contemplating it, he led her swiftly through a pair of French doors and outside.
She looked around the lovely paved balcony with wide steps that led into a shadowed garden and turned to him accusingly. “You told Mandeville we were to dance.”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “We’ll tell him you felt overwarm. You certainly appear overwarm.”
She lifted a hand to her flushed cheek. “That’s not a very gentlemanly thing to say.”
He laughed shortly and without humor. “Nothing I say ever pleases you, my Lady Perfect. Have you noticed? Only the things I do please you.”
She looked away, but he placed a thumb under her jaw and turned her head back so that she had no choice but to look him in the face. “You were pleased this morning, were you not?”
Hero wanted to lie, but in the end she could not, so she simply stayed mute.
He grimaced and let his hand drop with a gesture of disgust. “You won’t admit it, but I know you were. I felt you as you came apart in my arms, as your sweet cunny clenched about my cock.”
She shivered, remembering the feel of him, too. “Please.”
He stared at her hard and then drew her down the steps and into the shadows of the garden. Pulling her along until they were out of earshot of the ballroom doors.
He turned and placed his hands on her upper arms. “We must discuss it, even if you want to forget it forever.”
“That’s just it,” she whispered, emboldened by the dark. “I don’t want to forget.”
“Hero,” he said low, and her name sounded like a prayer on his lips.
He bent over her, there in the dark garden, and she felt the brush of his lips over hers. They were whisper-soft, like the kiss of a knight for a maiden he held in high esteem. Did he think of her that way, even now that she’d proven herself unvirtuous? She drew back and tried to search his face, but it was in shadow. He might as well have been a stranger.
She made to step back, but he caught her hand, holding her against himself. “Will you marry me?”