Between the Devil and Desire (19 page)

“I just don't know what he was thinking. I suppose we'll never know.” She sighed. “I miss him, but not as much as I probably should. I was very lonely. Some
times I wish I hadn't been the good daughter. I wish I'd rebelled and run off with someone of my choosing. The gardener perhaps.”

“You were in love with the gardener?”

She laughed lightly, because he sounded so appalled. She'd never envisioned Jack being horrified by anything. “I was only giving a ridiculous example. There wasn't anyone else really.” She clutched her hands, studied them. “You were correct, by the way. Lovingdon was concise in all matters. But I don't regret marrying him. When I look at Henry, I'm thankful. I just wish I hadn't killed him.”

“You didn't. If anything he killed himself with his clumsiness.”

She shook her head. “I'll always feel guilty. If I'd loved him more deeply or not coddled Henry so much…I know I coddle him. But I have to put my love somewhere.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I suspect,” he said quietly, “based upon what we now know of Helen that you did hear Henry cry out.”

If he thought to make her feel better…

“You're trying to absolve me of my guilt, which I truly appreciate, but unfortunately it only serves to show I was not only a terrible wife but a horrible mother.”

“You can't blame yourself for not knowing about Helen. People who take their pleasure in harming children are very skilled at hiding it.”

“Did the person who hurt you hide it?”

“Yes, I believe he did.”

She didn't press for more details, although she dearly wanted to know everything about him. She took a last
swipe at her eyes before handing him back his handkerchief. “Are you going to tell your friend from Scotland Yard?”

“You didn't kill him, Livy. We can ask Swindler's opinion if you like, but he'll tell you the same thing I have.”

She slowly rose. “They say confession is good for the soul. I actually do feel somewhat better. Thank you…Jack.”

“My pleasure, Livy.”

He made no move to return to the house. His gaze dropped to her lips, and she wondered if he was thinking of other pleasures.

“The morning you came into the dressing room—” he began.

“I didn't realize you were in there,” she interrupted, anxious to stop him before he said too much.

“I'd thought perhaps you were coming to pay me what I was owed.”

“I don't believe I owe you anything.” She was breathless and feeling warm again. “You accepted the challenge, and it came with limitations.”

“Then we are once again at odds.”

“It would seem that we are.”

He gave her a seductive smile. “Strange that it doesn't seem that way.”

Before she could counter his claim, he extended his arm. It was a truce of sorts, she realized.

As they walked back to the house, it occurred to her that the more time she spent in his company, the more dangerous to her heart he was becoming.

H
e was by nature a patient man. He was also a cautious one, but of late he'd grown bored.

Being in the gaming hell when he knew he'd not be welcomed if his purpose was discovered was quite…thrilling.

The hazard tables did not interest him. Nor did the tables where various card games were played. The room that contained the women was boring. And he'd never taken any pleasure from spirits.

But the boys. They were another matter entirely.

No one noticed if a child went missing in the rookeries.

But here they might notice.

Especially if that damned inspector Swindler was nosing around.

The key was to take his time, to determine which was the right boy, and then to make his move.

 

Olivia knew she needed to get up and begin her day. Instead, she indulged herself and stayed where she was, listening as Jack took his morning bath. In the four days since her illness, she was very much
aware of Jack watching her intently, as though trying to judge her readiness to face something. It made her a bit uneasy. Maybe he'd told Swindler about her confession and she was going to find herself carted off to Scotland Yard. Every morning Jack asked after her health, wanted to know how strong she felt, and put her through an inquisition somewhat similar to what she envisioned Graves had endured. She found herself sympathizing with the man. Anxious to determine why Jack was so concerned with her health, yesterday morning she'd answered, “I feel as healthy as I was before I took ill.”

All he'd said was, “Glad to hear it.”

Which made her wonder if she'd opened herself up to his attempts to lure her into his bed. He'd exhibited particularly good behavior since their walk in the garden. They enjoyed dinner together in the evenings. Their relationship had taken a definite turn toward the pleasant, and she was finding it difficult to recall why she'd ever objected to his being guardian.

When all grew quiet in the dressing room, she stayed where she was for a bit longer, trying not to imagine him dressing his enticing body. Of course, the more she tried not to imagine it, the more she did.

A sudden sharp rap on her door startled her. She'd barely sat up before the dressing room door burst open and Jack walked into her room. Gasping, she clutched the covers to her chest. “What are you doing here?”

“I've been putting this off until you were recovered enough to join us and the appropriate day rolled around. Henry wants to go to the Great Exhibition.”

“I know he does, but—”

“We're going today. We'd like you to join us. It's shilling day, a day designed specifically for the lower classes, so the upper classes—snobs that they are and I forgive them this one instance because it works to our advantage—don't have to breathe the same air that the lower classes do. The people who will be in attendance today aren't ones you normally associate with, so you're not likely to be recognized.” He tossed a bundle onto the bed. “To reassure you further, I brought you those clothes. They'll ensure that you don't stand out. We leave in half an hour.”

Before she issued another objection, he closed the door. She reached for the bundle, loosened the knot in the string, and unfolded the scruffy-looking clothes: a jacket, a shirt, trousers, shoes, and a cap. Was he insinuating she should dress as a boy?

Snatching up the trousers, she scrambled out of bed and headed to the door to confront him. It was entirely inappropriate—

But not as inappropriate as kissing him
.

Did one bit of bad behavior excuse another? She staggered to a stop and clutched the garment. It was clean, just a bit tattered. Jack, who bathed twice a day and—she'd heard from her laundress—had his clothes washed more often than a normal man should, had provided her with clean clothes. She held the trousers against her waist, letting the legs dangle down to her feet. They were long enough, appeared to be wide enough.

She didn't want to think about how closely he must have studied her to accurately judge the clothes that would fit her. She didn't know whether to be unsettled or flattered, to thank him or take him to task. She had
little doubt he was expecting the latter, was possibly waiting on the other side of that door, his arguments at the ready.

Weighing her choices, she took a tentative step back. Truth be told, she wanted to see the Great Exhibition as much as Henry. But to dress like a boy…

A bubble of laughter escaped and she slapped her hand over her mouth. Just the thought made her feel carefree and young and adventuresome. Where was the harm? Who would know?

She ran the arguments through her mind. The problem would be her hair. It might work if she braided it tightly, pinned it up, put on the cap, and brought it down low.

“No, I can't,” she whispered. “I can't.”

“Why not?” a little voice that didn't quite sound like hers asked. It was deep inside her mind. Maybe she was going insane. It was bad enough to talk to herself, but then to answer back was total lunacy.

A rap sounded on the door leading into the dressing room. “You ready?” a deep voice asked.

“No.”

“You decent?”

“No.”

“Get decent. I'm coming in.”

“No.”

The blackguard opened the door, peered around it, and studied her. “Come on, Livy, you know you want to.”

Feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable with him in her bedchamber, she put one bare foot on top of the other.

“Who will you hurt if you go?” Jack asked. He stepped out from behind the door, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest as though offering her a challenge.

He wasn't dressed in his usual tailor-made clothes. The brown tweed coat wasn't fitted to him. It was a little large and made him look common. She'd never realized before how uncommon he appeared. It occurred to her now that if she hadn't been aware of his background, when he was properly dressed, she might have mistaken him for an aristocrat. He had that air of entitlement about him. It wasn't very well hidden with his drab clothing. It seemed odd not to see him with his splash of color.

“Who will it hurt if you
don't
go?” he asked, as though giving up on her answering his earlier question.

She looked at the clothes strewn on the bed.

“Years from now, Henry'll be talking about his memories of the Great Exhibition. Don't you want them to include you?” Jack asked.

“That's not fair. Besides, what if someone
does
recognize me?”

“No one looks in the faces of the poor. Wearing those clothes, you'll look like a pauper.”

“Then how did I obtain coin for admittance?”

He sighed. “No one will ask. Come on, Livy, for once in your life, do something that you shouldn't.”

She almost reminded him that she'd kissed him, but as he'd not alluded to the encounter once since their walk in the garden, she suspected that he either wanted to forget it or had decided it really meant nothing at all. She tried not to be disappointed with that conclusion.

He tempted her, made it seem so easy to slip off her pedestal of high moral standing. Yet what he was asking of her was not terribly awful. It would be so nice to leave the house and do something with Henry. “I suppose there are worse things I could do.”

“With a man in your bedroom and you in your nightgown”—he winked—“what I'm suggesting isn't nearly wicked enough.”

Before he'd kissed her, she might have thought he was being offensive, but now she thought he was merely teasing, trying to make her laugh, to see the silliness of her dilemma.

“If I go to hell for this—”

“I'll be there as well. I'll dance with you,” he promised.

Something in his tone of voice, his gaze, made her think that this time he wasn't teasing, and she had an absurd desire to weep. It had to be the lingering effects of her illness, or perhaps it was simply that he recognized she feared being alone.

If she thought too much about what Jack was asking of her, she might take the coward's way. Instead, she jutted up her chin and waved her hand. “Go on with you now. I have to get ready.”

He gave her a quick flash of a grin before disappearing behind the door and closing it. Oh, she wished he hadn't done that, given her that beam of pleasure. It brought such an unheralded thrill to her heart. It was a wondrous feeling to bring a man joy, to know he wanted to be with her.

Happiness. She was experiencing happiness beyond anything she'd ever known.

Reaching for the bellpull, she couldn't recall a single moment in her life when she'd ever been so excited.

 

The clothes were a mistake, a dreadful mistake, because Jack was forced to admire the lovely shape of her bottom as they stood in line waiting to enter the Crystal Palace. She must have had her maid bind her breasts, because she was as flat as a board in that shirt. Or maybe it was the way the jacket hung over it. The too-short jacket that let him see her trouser-clad bum.

They looked like three mates searching for adventure. Or at least she and Henry looked like lads. Jack looked more like their father. Felt like it too. He felt old and cynical. He'd never before minded his harsh outlook on life, except now it made him feel ancient, while she and Henry were filled with wonder, and they hadn't even gotten into the building yet.

He'd never seen her eyes filled with such merriment. Every now and then she'd bend down and talk to Henry, while pointing out something. As much as he knew he shouldn't, Jack wanted her to share it with him, to touch his arm, rise up on her toes, and whisper her delights in his ear.

Even when she was dressed in ill-fitting clothes, she was delectable. But she also still looked like someone from a higher station in life. He could put dirt on her cheeks and mud on the end of her cute little nose and she still wouldn't look as though she belonged in the quagmire that had been Jack's life. If someone bumped into her the way he'd just knocked into Jack, she'd either apologize or do that little sniff she did when she was displeased. She wouldn't shove—

Damnation.

Searching the pocket of his coat, he glanced around quickly. Not a thief in sight. “Bloody hell.”

“'ere now, mate, watch yer language. Got a lady 'ere.”

Jack jerked around to the man who'd spoken. He was considerably older, his wife unattractive—but blast it, he looked like he cared for her, that they really were a couple.

“What's wrong?” someone croaked.

He slowly turned his head to Olivia.

“What's wrong?” she repeated in a voice that he guessed she thought mimicked that of a lad, when in truth it didn't come anywhere close. If it weren't for the fact they were striving not to be noticed, he might have teased her about it.

“Got my pocket picked.” A hell of a thing to have to confess.

“What was in it?” she asked, concern returning her voice to normal, which earned her an eyebrow raise from both the gent behind them and his lady fair.

“A locket that contained a picture of my mum.”

“Why would you carry something that valuable—”

“I always carry it,” he stated succinctly, not in the mood to have his foolishness pointed out. “I must have had it lifted half a dozen times over the years, but I was always quick enough to catch the blighter who was trying to snatch it.” He wanted to curse again, but didn't want to get into a fight with the bloke behind him. The man might be older, but he had more bulk to him and a meaty fist that Jack knew could do some damage. If it was only him, he could dart away easily enough, but he
had to worry that Olivia or the boy might take a blow intended for him.

“So someone with your skills lifted it,” she said, more than asked.

He almost told her the truth, that skill had nothing to do with it, that he'd been distracted by her, not paying attention, which must have been obvious to whomever had identified him as an easy mark. But he decided that confession would make them both uncomfortable. “It's of no value to him. He'll have to fence it. I'll find it.”

She stepped around Henry, who'd been standing between them, serving as an innocent buffer. She touched Jack's arm, and even though he was wearing a jacket and a shirt, he felt the warmth of her palm as though nothing separated them. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was fevered. Or maybe he was. He wanted to jerk away, he wanted to move closer.

“I'm sorry,” she said softly, a whisper of comfort that had the power to penetrate his carefully built wall.

“Not your fault—my foolishness.” His throat felt raw, his voice scratchy. What in the bloody hell had made him think that going on an outing with her was a good idea?
Had he completely lost his mind?
He wanted her more now than he had the night he'd kissed her. Her innocent lack of awareness regarding his desire for her tormented him.

“Do you have another picture of her?” she asked.

“No. It doesn't matter. It's not important.” Although her hand wasn't moving, he felt as though it was, as though it was stroking his shoulders, his chest. He could imagine it, wanted it with a fierceness that was almost his undoing.

“Why aren't they opening the doors?” he asked irritably.

Her hand slipped away as she looked toward the glass building. He wanted to snatch it back, hold it tightly, and never release it.
He had lost his mind.
He no longer had any doubt.

“Looks like perhaps they are,” she said. “I see some movement at the front.”

She looked back at him, held his gaze, and for a horrified moment, he thought she could see the turmoil she caused within him. He suddenly wanted more than he could have—so much more. He wanted to bring her on a day when the elite came. He wanted to wear his tailored clothing and see her in a dress other than black. He wanted her hand on his arm, knowing he would be envied because she was at his side.