Alex's Angel (18 page)

She swallowed. What was going through his mind? Had she insulted him so deeply with her actions and her rejection of his protection that he would refuse to help her now?

“I want a contract written up between Miss Eliot and myself.” Alex—no he was no longer her ‘Alex’—Mr Dalton’s words startled her back into the moment.

Contract.
Contract?! Contracts were about cold, hard decisions. Legal facts and rights. How could anyone contract art? Her forehead ached and she tried to relax her frown.

“A contract?” Jefferson said, glancing at Emily. She could see the surprise in his eyes. Her shock had not been misplaced. “All right, I can see to that.”

“No.” Alex’s tone was quiet yet held a hard, commanding forcefulness that few men would question. Clearly, despite his relative youth, he was used to welding his power. Like a defendant awaiting sentencing, Emily’s heart pounded jaggedly against her rib cage as he continued. “I want to send for my cousin Peter Van Moerdijk to come here straight away.”

“He’s a New York man, isn’t he?” Did Jefferson’s voice carry a hint of suspicion? Perhaps she’d only imagined it.

“He’s my cousin and my brother’s personal attorney. I won’t expend a penny on this project until I have an agreement on paper.”

Just what did they think they were talking about here? This was her art. Her personal vision. She stood up straighter and lifted her chin. “Well, I say I do not agree to any contracts involving my work and this gentleman.”

Jefferson’s hands tightened on her shoulders, as if she might be considering flight. “Now, my dear, don’t go getting yourself in a state before you know his terms. They may be very reasonable.”

“I don’t believe they will be. He doesn’t have a reasonable demeanour.”

“Miss Eliot, what matters the most to you?” Jefferson asked.

“Getting my book printed—”

“And that is what matters to me as well.” Jefferson let go of her shoulders and led her to a blue brocade wingchair. “Please, just sit and let’s work all of these details out.”

Legs weak from all the emotional shocks, she gladly sat. But she kept her spine rigid and refused to settle against the chair back. She wouldn’t show weakness in front of Dalton. Not now.

“What matters most to me is getting my book printed as it is intended to be.” She turned in Alex’s direction and lifted her chin ever so slightly. “Without any alterations from people who couldn’t possibly understand my artistic vision.”

Alex smiled pleasantly but when his eyes met hers they were steely hard. “You’re young and inexperienced. However, getting what we want in this life often requires compromise and sacrifice, Miss Eliot.”

Uneasiness took root in her belly. “What possible sacrifice can you mean? It’s just a book of interviews with illustrations.”

“You’ll sign over complete control of this project to me—”

“I shall do no such thing!”

He held up a forestalling hand. “I am not done. In addition, for the next couple of months you will agree to make your home with my aunt and myself and submit to any duties necessary for the completion and promotion of the project.”

She gaped at him. “Well, I don’t agree, sir—with any of it.”

He gazed back at her, unconcerned. “Then I won’t finance the printing of this book.”

She whirled to face Jefferson. “He can’t demand this, can he?”

Jefferson gave an eloquent shrug. “He can demand whatever he wishes—he’s the one who is paying.”

“Why should I need to live with you?”

“I’ll want to promote your book by introducing you to the right people. Besides, you have no kin and you are unmarried. I cannot associate closely with an unattached, unmarried girl who is all but living on the streets. My aunt is well respected and she will make a good chaperone.”

“I have no need of a chaperone.”

“And I say you do.”

His gaze was steady and cool, his demeanour polite yet distant. She saw him now as others did. He was a wealthy, powerful and above all respectable gentleman. It was hard to see the man who had fought a brawl in a public house and with whom she’d shared the most shocking intimacies. If she was to be in his more public life he’d naturally want her to be respectable as well. That she could understand. But apparently he thought it was his place to demand that she behave in a certain manner. That was what had her bristling with defiance.

“Well, maybe I can accept your offer to live in your house, with your aunt acting as chaperone. But I will never let anyone dictate the terms of my artistic work.”

His jaw tensed. The movement was so slight that she almost believed she’d imagined it. But she hadn’t. He tapped his fingers on her work. “I’ll never put my name behind something that isn’t as good as it should be. Those shall be our terms. You shall live in my house and attend any functions I deem important to the promotion of this work. In addition, you will make any changes I see fit that you should make, or else I won’t publish your work.”

She opened her mouth to protest and he held up a forestalling hand.

“That’s my offer—take it or leave it.”

Chapter Eight

The carriage door closed with finality. Emily fairly thrummed with awareness of the tall, powerful, yet elegant body on the seat facing hers. Unwittingly, an image of that body covering hers came to her. More than an image. She could smell his scent, could feel the soft rasp of hair on his chest, torso and thighs as he moved on her. The piercing pain of his initial penetration.

She shifted on the seat and crossed her legs.

The vehicle lurched forward and, caught unawares, she also pitched forward.

Strong hands caught her. Alex’s spicy, masculine scent wafted over her. The strength of his grip on her upper arms made her mouth go dry, from a thrilling mixture of excitement and apprehension. God, she’d placed herself totally into his keeping. All for the sake of getting her book printed.

Even though the carriage was steady now, he didn’t let go. She dared to glance up.

His blue-grey eyes met hers. Gone was the distant, dignified look of the wealthy benefactor. His eyes were hot. Molten. He was remembering as well—yes, he was.

“You’re angry with me,” he said—a statement, not a question.

“How you could do that to me? You gave me absolutely no choice but to sign—sign all my rights away.”

“You didn’t have to sign.”

“Getting that book printed is the sole focus of my life. I’ll do anything—”

“Aye, so I know. You would sell your innocence, lie.” He loosened his hands on her shoulders.

She moved to lean against the seat. “I promise you, I’ll allow you to do nothing to corrupt the purity of my work.”

Brave words, uttered as panic pulsated with each jarring beat of her heart. Goodness, how would she ever
manage
a gentleman like Alexander Dalton? He was so wealthy. So powerful. He was alien to everything she knew. Well, she knew little of him beyond that. Conversely, she felt he knew everything about her. All her weaknesses.

He’d seen her completely abandoned in pleasure.

He’d seen her cry.

He needed nothing from her and she was dependent upon him for everything in regards to her book.

He sat back in his own seat and folded his arms over his chest. “I want to ask you something, Emily, and I want the truth.” He compressed his lips while staring at her sternly. “Though I suppose that’s expecting a bit much, isn’t it?”

Her mouth dropped open. “That’s a horrid thing to say.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is. I do not make a practice of lying. I—”

“Did you perhaps know that I frequent the Blue Duck and decide to meet me beforehand?”

“I did not know who you were—not truly—until Mr Jefferson explained today.”

“That’s just not possible. I can’t believe that. Everyone in this town knows of my family and our connections.”

“Until a year ago, I did not live in town. I lived with my grandmother in a cottage in Easton. We moved here after my grandfather died.”

“How did you compile all the materials for your book?”

“By post. Mr Jefferson—I contacted him and he helped me to contact the family members. I had to sneak the letters out without Grandmother knowing. She kept me quite sheltered.”

Alex didn’t know whether to be horrified by Emily’s cunning or to admire her resourcefulness. No, it was more than resourcefulness and cunning—it was outright deceit.

“I was quite convinced that you were a harlot. How in hell did you manage that?”

She was plucking at one of her gloves, pulling the finger up and twisting it. “One of the other renters in the boarding house was a… She worked at the Blue Duck. She gave me the idea to—to—”

Listening to her stumble over the words reminded him—quite painfully—of her relative innocence. Christ, what had he done? He took a ragged breath, then shifted in his seat. “Yes. Of course.”

“I simply observed her actions and—well, I suppose I must have done a fair enough job of it.”

“You did.” Despite his efforts to conceal it, his unsettled state came across in his clipped tone. “You’ve other family?”

Glassy-eyed, she put the loose end of the glove into her mouth and slowly shook her head. She looked every inch the lost little kitten she had at first glance.

He’d always been so careful to stay away from innocents. What the devil was the matter with him that he’d ignored his first impressions? Had he been mad with lust? He let his gaze rake her. Mad with lust over this scrap of a girl? He released his frustration in a lengthy exhalation. “Your lies have complicated my life so much—there aren’t even the words to express how much.”

“Complicated your life? I don’t follow.”

“You’re a decent girl, of good family. Now—however unintentionally it happened—I have ruined you.”

She shrugged, instantly losing that lost look and taking on the stance of a hardened harlot. An act. She was just as soft and fragile-hearted as any society miss her age. Probably a lot more so, for, by her own account, she’d been totally sheltered. Likely cosseted. She had no inkling of the kinds of darkness he’d experienced in life. The kinds of darkness that dwelt in the emptiness of his own heart.

He could never allow himself to touch her again.

“It was my choice to share your bed.” Always gentle and feminine, her voice suddenly sounded disturbingly girlish. It seemed indecent for her to be speaking those words, for him to be sitting here with full carnal knowledge of her.

He should be shot.

No—tarred and feathered, boiled in oil and
then
shot.

He lifted a forestalling hand. “Please, Emily, we needn’t speak of it.”

“But I don’t understand… How is
your
life impacted?”

“I am responsible for you now.”

“You believe you are responsible for me. It doesn’t make it true.”

He let the subject drop. He had her under his control now. He needn’t press her.

They sat with nothing but the clatter of the carriage between them. Then he remembered something. The assumption she’d made that had eaten into him. “Zachariah is not a slave.”

She looked up, her eyes glazed as if she’d been deep in thought. “What?”

“I don’t own slaves. All of my servants work for wages.”

“I am happy to hear it.” Her expression was so sincere, so relieved, it was an insult.

A pang resonated through his heart. That she could think so vilely of him even after they had shared themselves so deeply. Yes, he was many things and most them not good. But he drew the line at owning human souls.

“I’m glad you approve, my lady.” He couldn’t keep the sardonic tone from his voice.

Her eyes flashed at him.

The rapid rise and fall of her chest drew his attention lower than her face. Her hand was hooked into her chemise tucker and, as if agitated, she had tugged it down to expose her collarbone. He recalled placing his lips there and tracing its perfect lines.

Hot desire lit his blood, filling his cock, threatening to make him forget his vow of a moment past.

Lord, he was so damned.

He was going to fry in hell’s fire for taking her innocence. For her ruin.

And now he was responsible for making sure she wasn’t ruined further.

What the devil was a man like him to do with a lost little girl?

* * * *

“Give me your cloak.”

Despite the pleasant tone, Emily could hear the tension beneath the words. She stared at Alex’s outstretched hand and clutched the aforementioned garment more tightly at the neck. She felt wholly out of place in the entryway of his red-brick Georgian house, amid the gleaming polished wood and brass and the marble tiles beneath her shabby shoes. She was loath to remove her cloak and reveal her threadbare gown.

Upon their entry, Alex had tossed his hat and greatcoat onto a side table in the hall, showing no reverence for its highly polished, mahogany elegance. This was normalcy to him. His home.