The Veiled Heart (The Velvet Basement Book 1) (16 page)

Worthington looked up at the back of Lily’s townhouse as he silently swung the garden gate open. He had seen her last four days ago, an eternity. His minion reported that she had not left the house for the past two days. And prior to that, only during the day. That, at least, gave him some pleasure. She had listened to him and not gone out alone at night.

His mother informed him that Lily was out and about, taking social invitations. And the rumor mill had it she was even more beautiful than when she came-out.

It was true that young ethereal being had evolved into a deeper, sensual woman despite her experiences with Freddy. Part of it was physical, her beauty could not be doubted, but something more was there. Her spirit of strength and determination, a driving will to do good, to see past her own suffering and think of others not so lucky to have escaped.

She was determined and brave. Foolishly brave. Of all the men she could have asked to show her how to use a sheath, she chose him. His stomach turned to think she might have asked another man to do that service.

It wasn’t too difficult to find his way back into the house. He had waited in the community garden on the bench he had sat on last week and watched the lights go out in the house.

The back door creaked as he opened it.

It had been far too easy to bribe one of the housemaids to leave it open if he sent a messenger to her. The servants’ stairs were softly lit and easy to find. Most of the terrace houses followed a similar floor plan so the layout of the house was very predictable. Last time he entered, he knew only two rooms were likely to be hers; the first one had been correct.

Worthington moved quietly but quickly up the stairs and down the hall. A large vase held an arrangement that filled the whole corridor with a soft scent. Lilies. He smiled.

He heard a cough further down the hall and could see a shaft of light that shone from underneath. She was awake. Something in his chest shifted and an appreciable tension sank lower in his abdomen.

The handle was cool against his palm as he turned it; he pushed the door open and stepped in.

Lily was all twisted up in the covers; her white cotton nightdress was twisted with the comforter, which was half kicked off. Handkerchiefs were on the dresser and a few on the floor. A pot of tea still sat on a heater with a candle. Her hair was a mass of inky silk as she turned around to face him. Her body tensed for just a moment before her hands covered her face.

“Oh, God, I look awful. I don’t want you to see me this way.”

A blast of warmth at the sight of her spread a smile across his face and right into his chest. She was a delight. Her fingers spread open over her face as she peered at him.

Max walked over and picked up the few handkerchiefs on the floor.

“Oh, God.” She flopped her face into her pillow as he opened her dresser drawer, dropped them in, and slid it closed.

“Ahhhh.” The sound was muffled in the pillow. She lifted her head. “Please, tell me that you didn’t just do that.”

He sat down on the bed and looked down at her as she moved the hair out of her face. He leaned over, pulled another cushion from the other side of the bed, and propped them up behind her.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was sulky, yet he heard the pleasure in it.

She looked wonderful, no grooming, no social pretense, only her. A rather vulnerable her with puffy eyes and red chaffing around her nose.

“You’re sick.”

“I have a cold.”

“I wondered where you were. No secret excursions at night, no calls to action. My life has been unbearably dull.”

Her face beamed at him.

Being ill had totally disarmed her. In some way, it had eroded the usual bluster she kept about her. In fact, she looked just like she did the first time he had seen her as a young girl. Relaxed, full of hope, her face open to smile without the fear that something would happen, or that life would be anything but hopeful and kind.

“I have been waylaid; but rest assured, it is just a temporary setback.”

“Are we talking about sheaths or are we talking about the refuge.” He so hoped that she would mean the latter; his nerves would stay in much better shape.

She sneezed. He took a fresh handkerchief from the pile next to the bed and handed it to her.

“Is the maid likely to come to clear your tea?”

She blew her nose and shook her head. “I said to leave it for the night and to collect it in the morning.”

“Hmm.”

He picked up a book from the coverlet, scooted back, and leaned up against the poster at the bottom of the bed. He toed off his shoes, put his feet up on the bed, and flipped to the cover of the book.

“
Pride and Prejudice
. I didn’t know you liked romance, sweetheart.”

“It’s a light read.”

He flipped through to where she had placed a bookmark. In fact, he noticed there were a few bookmarks.

She lunged forward and reached for the book. Pleasure pulsed through him as she flipped herself around and started to crawl down the bed with one arm wildly reaching as he held the book out of reach. She crawled up him, all over him as he laughed.

His back slid off the bed’s upright and he had to use the strength of his stomach muscles to maintain his position and still hold the book out of reach.

“Give me the book.”

“Not on your life.”

She lurched again and his arm came around her, trying to hold her down and to stop her crawling up over him to get to the book.

He dropped the damn book off the end of the bed, and caught her wrists in his hands rolling her over so she was under him.

“You’re rather strong for an infirmed woman. I expected an easy defeat.”

She huffed up at him. He loved her huffs. Loved how it said so much about what was on the inside.

“I’m not infirmed. I have a cold.”

“I hear colds can lead to being mentally deranged.”

She tugged unsuccessfully to free her hands. If one had been free, she would have tried to slap him.

“Yes, you have the look of a deranged woman.” The struggle came in full then, warm soft and vulnerable. She was wildly exciting. He shifted so that he could hold both her hands in one of his as she arched and twisted under him to push him off.

She was breathing through her mouth. It was very unfair; his body weight had her pushed into the bed.

“Give me a kiss, Lily.”

“You’ll catch my cold.”

“Kiss my cheek.”

He turned his head to the side.

She lifted the small space between them, her breath puffed out, and then her soft lips touched his cheek.

“Again.”

“Let me up.”

He let go of her hands and rolled them both on their sides.

That wonderful small hand of hers ran up his arm. And she leaned forward and kissed his chin. Kissed his jaw. His breaths began to deepen. These rudimentary, small kisses were burning him up.

She pushed him down and he rolled onto his back, enjoying the feel of how she handled him. Enjoying everything about the weight of her. Her warm, wonderful mouth kissed his neck. Her hands started at his tie, pulled it loose as her little teeth bit at him. His hands came up and started to pull off his waistcoat. She slapped his hand away. Then sneezed. Then laughed.

“I want to undo the buttons.”

It was agonizingly slow, but she got a few open and pulled his shirt wide. Her hands running over his chest.

“I love the feel of your skin. The firm muscles underneath.” She leaned in and kissed him. Small little touches with her mouth that had darker needs come to the fore.

Then her tongue moved over his nipple. Circled it in warm wet strokes. Heat shot down and his toes curled up. The muscles in his thighs tightened and she moved to the other one.

The warmth, the heat was delicious. Lily suckled and nipped at each in turn until his mind was hot with need for her to go lower. For her to run her hand down to him. She leaned up, looked down at him, and smiled.

“Your face is flushed.”

She sneezed and he reached out to pull her down, but she slipped away. In seconds she was off the bed and had her book in hand. In the next second, she had the bookmark ends in her hands and tugged them out of their place.

“I don’t need to read them to know what they are, Lily.” The growl in his voice was all the warning he was going to give.

In an instant, he was off the bed.

She dropped the book, screeched in excitement, and ran to the other side of the bed.

“Do you want the servants to come down, Lily? You have to stay quiet. Do I need to catch you and place a handkerchief over that delectable mouth?”

She shook her head.

“Or perhaps I can encourage you to do something else with that mouth of yours.”

Her head tilted to the side, then pinkened. So, not a new idea.

Worthington leaned down and picked up the book. The cover had fallen off and underneath, the real title was
The Lustful Turk
.

Fire exploded through him knowing what the book contained, knowing that she had bookmarked passages.

“I am going to explode in my trousers, Lily!”

The book dropped to the floor and he launched himself at her, anticipating which direction she would go. He had her on the bed in under a minute, struggling under him in fits of suppressed giggles as he tickled her. She turned her face into the covers and laughed aloud into the matting, wriggled like a girl as her full breasts pushed against the translucent linen of her nightgown.

The mirth bubbled up from him as well. Blistered through him in intense pleasure and wanton heat.

She turned around, lifted her hand.

Alas, he wasn’t ticklish and, right now, he wished he were. She was most indignant at his lack of response and his ability to stay focused on her.

And he was ruthless with her, ruthless as he watched the soft movements breasts, her lips and mouth wide open.

Then she started to beg, “Please, please, please. Stoooop. Stooop, I can’t take any more. Please.”

“What will you give me?”

“Anything, please.”

“Anything is rather a lot.”

“Stop! Anything, anything, please.” Her voice was desperate and starting to get loud. As much as he wanted to lift up her nightgown and slip right into her, he needed to be gentle.

He stopped and collapsed beside her, both of them heaving for the effort. He was aching with need.
The Lustful Turk
was one of the most notorious books of their decade.

It took a while for her to get her breath.

“I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.”

Then she cried.

Big, heaving sobs that crushed his heart. Inside his chest, it was cracking at each gut-wrenching sound.

Worthington put his arms around her and pulled her close. Maneuvered himself so he was against the headboard and she was curled up against his chest sobbing. He stroked that wondrous hair that was now a Medusa tangle of sensual satin. His hand slid over her head as she made his chest damp.

She was burning up against him. Definitely had a fever, not just a cold. He had pushed her too hard and now she was overtired and upset.

He continued to hold her. Let her cry it out. There was no saying if she had cried a lot over her life. His instincts said she didn’t; that the fever was letting all of this come to the surface.

After a while, she stopped crying and a little while after that her breathing slowed down to a deep, regular rhythm and he thought she had fallen asleep when she said, “Why didn’t he love me?”

The question stabbed in his chest. Had she loved Freddy at the beginning? Of course, she had. Freddy was charming when he wanted to be. You didn’t hide what he had to hide without a great deal of charm and bravado to carry off the deceit.

The cat found at his feet had apparently fallen out of nowhere
,
most likely from the second floor. It was the darnedest thing
.
If
he had taken
one-step
further
,
it would have landed on him.

Or so Freddy had said. His charm, his open English baby face meant that despite the ridiculous idea that a cat on the second floor would fall, or would be there in the first place was overridden to accept the improbable, that lovely accident-prone Freddy had had another misadventure of the inconceivable. The tales were told and laughed at, marveled at, all the while Freddy basked in the attention.

However, Worthington had known. He had been on the second floor looking out. Freddy had stood on the patio, the cat curling against Freddy’s legs in greeting. Freddy had picked it up, petted it, and then slowly wrung its neck. Dropped it and just stood looking at it. Moved it with his foot. After a while, Freddy had called out in feigned distress.

Freddy had looked up to the second floor and caught his eye. The knowledge was immediate and horrifying: Freddy had known he was watching all along.

A few days later, he took Freddy for a walk to see some pike down in the creek. He’d punched Freddy in the nose.
You hurt anything of mine again and I will kill you.
Then he’d held Freddy under the water until he almost stopped moving. They’d told his parents that Freddy fell.

After that day, he’d earned a sick kind of respect from Freddy. Given how their families threw them together through the years, that encounter served both of them well.

Freddy left him well alone despite their close quarters. Sharing a room with him had been beyond hell. Although they kept their distance, it was hard not to see the blood on Freddy’s shirts after a night of whoring, the cruel toys hidden in a bag behind the books in their small student bookcase. Or the drawings. The depraved, sadistic drawings of women.

That balance changed when Freddy’s betrothal was announced. When he found out whom Freddy was going to marry, he had taken sides for the first time and stood against him. The trouble was it was too late.

“Is there something wrong with me that he needed to be so cruel?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Lily.”

That he had so misjudged her marriage, that he had actually believed Freddy had made her happy and taken his perversions elsewhere, made his gut twist tight, like he didn’t actually deserve her. That he had failed at something so fundamental as to protect the one he loved.