Kissed at Midnight (11 page)

Sensible child. She was
saving him from wanting things he couldn’t have. One kiss had to be all he
could ever have. He wouldn’t keep this brave, bold woman from her dreams.

What was he doing? August clasped his hands behind his
back and peered out of the window, awaiting Ivy’s return. The day was growing
late though it was far from dark yet. That knowledge didn’t stop him from
tapping his foot and patting down his jacket for his cigarettes as a gnawing
ache opened up in his chest. How he longed for a deep draw of smoke at the
moment. But he’d seen a few men die from clogged lungs and he wasn’t going to
be one of those.

However, his anxiousness
couldn’t be put down to a need for tobacco. So what was he doing? He’d returned
from visiting the tunnel site expecting her to be home. Like a damned fool he
looked forward to seeing her or perhaps even catching her sing. He’d become far
too comfortable having her around.

And at the same time she
still caused far too much discomfort. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d
been this frustrated. August hadn’t touched her again, but the temptation was
there, calling to him. Every purse of her lips, every movement of her body
begged him to draw her into his arms and strip her bare. Regardless, he’d
avoided temptation thus far and enjoyed their meals together.

“Bloody fool,” he murmured
to himself.

She’d be gone as soon as she
found something better. Perhaps spending time with his ward was no bad thing
but growing fond of the governess was an idiotic move.

Where was she and why the
hell was he still staring out of the window, watching for her? He had many
other things he could be doing. A stack of paperwork awaited him in the study
and he needed to write a progress report after his visit.

His heart hitched into his
throat when he spotted the coach of a special messenger coming down the street
at far too quick a speed. Had something happened? Was she hurt? Was Elsie
harmed? He clamped his hands at his side. He was behaving like a flapping
woman.

August’s mouth grew dry as
the carriage drew to a halt. It could be for one of the neighbours. But no, the
man on top climbed down and headed up the steps to his house. The knocker
rattled and August’s heart followed suit. With several swift steps, he was at
the door, waving away Jamieson who must have been close by.

“Yes?” he barked.

“Telegram for you, sir.”

He resisted the desire to
roll his eyes as he snatched the missive. “Where’s it from?”

“Don’t know, sir. I wasn’t
in the office at the time.”

“Right, thanks.” He drew out
the money clip from his jacket and handed over a pound note—far too much money
really but he had no patience for rooting around for coins. He shut the door
before the man could offer his thanks.

Tearing open the missive, he
glanced at Jamieson. The old man must have realised something was up as he was
hanging around the hallway like a bad smell. Throat tight, he scanned the scrawled
words. For a brief moment, relief came over him when he recognised the name of
his foreman. That was until...

“Fucking bloody hell.”

“Sir?”

August thrust a hand through
his hair and let it rest on the back of his neck before reading the telegram
once more. It was short and to the point. A cave-in at the tunnel. Five men
dead. Two injured.

Fury rushed through him and
more inappropriate words begged to spill from his tongue. Instead, he clamped
his mouth shut and screwed up the missive before stuffing it into his pocket.

“Jamieson, I’m going out. I
do not know when I’ll be back,” he declared.

“Sir...”

“Fetch me my coat and hat.”
He drew in a breath while the butler rotated slowly and shook his head. “Never
mind, I’ll get it.”

Retrieving his hat and stuffing
his arms into his light coat, he strode out into the street, barely acknowledging
the greeting of one of his neighbours. He kept his head down when he spotted
Mrs Pepperwhite in her window. He cringed, aware of her door opening behind
him. He didn’t need to glance back to know she’d likely hastened out down the
steps and intended to try to talk with him, but if he kept his pace brisk
enough, she’d never catch up. The damned woman was becoming a real nuisance.

The boxing saloon was only a
fifteen minute walk away. He did it in ten. Since Ivy’s arrival—in fact since Elsie’s—he
hadn’t been to Smythe’s. He used to frequent it on a weekly basis and he was
fairly certain his waistline was growing wider from lack of exercise. He’d have
to rectify that.

August stepped under the
white archs that adorned the red brick building and drew in the scent of
sawdust and the stuffy smell of sweat and blood. Not appealing to some but, for
him, it brought about a sense of relief and familiarity. Nothing about his life
had been familiar recently.

Not even the tang of ale and
spirits coming from the bar to the right of the entrance hall doused the odour
that seemed to seep through the wood-clad walls of the building and, whilst
having a stiff drink was sorely tempting, his hunger for a better way of releasing
his frustration drew him past the reception and to the boxing hall.

Five men. Damn it. There was
nothing he could do. He’d go up in a few days to check how far behind it would
put them, but other than that he was powerless. They’d already lost men to a
cholera outbreak in the tunnel and a few to minor accidents. Being a navvie was
one of the most dangerous jobs about—everyone knew that—but it didn’t mean it
didn’t eat inside of him every time someone died in the name of his vision.

He changed and wrapped his
hands in linen strips, leaving his torso bare. Few men were in the halls at
this time of day but Holbert was guaranteed to be here and spoiling for a
fight. The man never backed down from one and could take hit after hit.

August warmed up on one of
the bags, relishing the beat of leather against his knuckles. By the time his
body was growing slick with sweat, Holbert approached.

“Heard you were looking to
spar.”

August paused, swiped the
sweat from his forehead and nodded. Together they stepped into the ring,
cordoned off from the rest of the room by a few ropes. He eyed his opponent
with a grim smile and got into position. Then he took the first swing.

***

So much of him ached. His lips, his eye, his body. He
relished it though. It gave him something else to think about. August staggered
up the steps only for the front door to swing open before he could reach it.
The glow of lamps spilled onto the darkened steps and silhouetted in the door
was the most beautiful sight.

Damn her, did she have to be
so enchanting?

“Where have you been?”

He stopped at the top step,
waiting for her reaction. Last he’d seen, his eye was swollen and his mouth
bloodied. He never usually allowed himself to get into such a state but tonight
he hadn’t cared.

Ivy’s eyes widened and her
mouth dropped open. “August!”

“Looks worse than it is.”

He slipped past her, aware
he slurred his words as though he were drunk. He almost wished he was because
then maybe she wouldn’t be staring at him with such horror, or perhaps he would
not be aware of it anyway.

“What happened?” She gripped
his arm. “August?”

Pressing shut the door, he
sighed and turned to face her. Concern creased her brow. “Did Jamieson not
say?”

“He didn’t know where you’d
gone.”

He searched his memories of
when he’d received the news but they were clouded with a mist of anger and he
couldn’t remember what he’d said. Perhaps he’d not said anything to the butler
but surely Jamieson recalled his master enjoyed a good session at the boxing club?
He supposed it had been so long since he’d been, Jamieson might not have
realised and the old stick didn’t have the best memory.

“I went to Smythe’s.”

She looked at him blankly
and lifted a hand to his face. He flinched away from the touch. He did not need
any soft sentiments right now. The knowledge of five lives lost burning into
his brain was hard enough to deal with as it was. For the moment, he wanted to
cling to the throb of his bruises and hope the pain prevented him from thinking
of anything else. The delicate touch of her fingers could well crack through
the haze and he couldn’t have that.

“Smthye’s is the boxing
saloon near the library.”

“You did this voluntarily?”

He lifted a shoulder and
winced. “I enjoy boxing.”

“Oh, August...” The words held
a tone of sympathy that he did not want or need. She wrapped a hand around his
arm and led him through the back of the house. For some reason, he followed.
Maybe because his body hurt too much to protest or perhaps it was because he
was just weak when around her.

Ivy guided him onto a
rickety chair in front the kitchen table. He sat wearily. Suddenly the pounding
he’d taken drained him. The pain no longer distracted him from the thought of
five men crushed to death building
his
tunnel. It weighed heavily once
more, pressing down on this chest and making the bruises on his body throb. He
grimaced and tried to ease the ache of his ribs by resting an arm on the table
but it didn’t work, and she caught the movement.

“You’re hurt all over, are
you not?”

He was tired. So tired.
Tired of fighting his need for her, tired of the constant strain of work and
being unable to unload it. And here she was, this extraordinary vibrant woman
who had not only run away from home, travelled across the country and survived God
knew what hardships, she had come into his house and taken care of his ward
with nary a complaint. And she had taken care of him. Drawn him out of his
stresses and strains and made him more... human?

He’d snort at himself if he
didn’t think it would hurt so much. But before Ivy he’d done nothing but work.
Now he was having bloody breakfast with her and enjoying civil conversation.
There were a few men of his acquaintance who would be truly astonished. Most
thought him far too taciturn for their liking with the exception of the
navvies. But they were far easier to talk to than the men of high society.

Ivy began rooting around in
one of the dressers. August dreaded to think how Mrs Cartwright would react
when she found it all in disarray. She let out a little sound of triumph and
placed several pots on the table. He lifted a brow as she fished out yet more
small white pots and a bottle of some vile brown liquid.

“I’m not dying,” he
grumbled.

If she was planning to
slather him in every salve known to man and force some God-awful potion down
his throat, he’d drag himself out of the room on his hands and knees if he had
to.

Which was about all his
injuries would allow now he’d sat down.

His body seemed to be
seizing up and now he was stuck on the damned uncomfortable chair until she was
done with him.

She turned, bestowing that
radiant smile on him that reached down inside him and drew up yet more
uncomfortable feelings. Was it not enough he was already in agony outside? Did
she also have to pry open the ache in his chest further?

Hands to her hips, she eyed
him with a certain look of determination in her gaze that made him want to
shrink back.

Damn. Intimidated by a
woman. What the hell was wrong with him?

Everything. Everything was
wrong with him. And no lotion or potion could cure him of the painful throb
that was coursing through him as he eyed the way her chemise caressed her waist
or how her breasts pressed against the white fabric. Wanting her was what was
wrong with him.

But then she stepped close and
his gaze was lined up beautifully with the top of her breasts. The chemise gave
little away but it was enough. Enough to flame his fantasies and remind him
exactly why he wanted to break every rule and take the woman who was
subservient to him. No matter how wrong that desire was.

A certain darkness had crept into his gaze as it skimmed
down her body and back up to her face. Ivy gulped. She pressed a hand to his
chin and lifted his head this way and that to eye his injuries. Why had he
allowed himself to get in such a state? Surely boxing clubs had certain rules?
Whatever the reason, the troubled haze to his eyes sent swirling dread into her
stomach.

She kept smiling, however.
After all, she was a performer. Smiling would do no harm and there was no sense
in adding to his worries with her own. She wouldn’t confess how worried she’d
been for him when he hadn’t returned or how her heart nearly broke in two when
she saw him bloodied and beaten on the doorstep.

It had to be to do with the
letter he’d received. Jamieson had said a telegram arrived before he stormed
out. What could it have possibly said that would have made him want to get into
such a state?

Letting go of his roughened
jaw, she retrieved a damp cloth and dabbed away the blood from his lip and
around his eye. Ivy fought the desire to press kisses to the cuts. He wouldn’t
appreciate it. August had not tried to kiss her again since that night. Yes,
he’d been pleasant indeed to live with and she enjoyed every mealtime with him,
every little conversation, but the freedom to be able to touch him as she
wished burned so hot in her chest, like a tiny spark just waiting to flare
through her.

And if she let herself she
feared it really would consume her and turn into something deeper than mere
desire.

Like love?

Oh dear, how could she fall
for her master? No, that wouldn’t do. She had too many plans to be waylaid with
an emotion like that, particularly to a man who might be searching for a wife
before long. A husband and a child were certainly not in her future, even if
August did want her.

Which he did not.

Smile in place, she finished
cleaning away the grime and blood from his face and drew over a tub of salve.
She slathered generous amounts on his cuts and bruises and he let her,
surprising her with his malleability. However, the turbulent mien to his
expression remained. His jaw tensed with every touch and when she glanced down,
she saw his fingers digging into the table.

Heat pricked her skin when
she realised she’d seen to all the visible injuries. Ivy attempted to force
down the lump in her throat and keep a quivering smile on her face.

“Let us get that shirt off.”

Two dark eyebrows rose but
he made no protest when she began unbuttoning his waistcoat. She’d never
undressed a man before. The little buttons seemed no bigger than ants to her
fumbling hands. If he saw how nervous she was, he made no mention.

August’s breaths brushed her
hair as she bent to undo the bottom few buttons. Every part of her blazed with
awareness. The spark inside her began to heat. No matter how she tried to
distract herself with thoughts of the mundane, she feared it was burning brighter,
lying in wait to singe its way through her body.

His every wince and grimace
tugged at her heart as she drew off his waistcoat. How she longed to press him
to her breasts and tell him everything would be well. She hardly knew what was
wrong with him, but it mattered little. She saw how much he took upon those
great shoulders of his.

And why would he not? He was
an important man, in charge of a great undertaking and watched by all as he did
it. But she only wished he would let himself loose of that burden just
occasionally. Wished he would give up control for a few moments. He had once,
perhaps, when he kissed her, and she heartily wished he would again, but that
seemed unlikely.

Drawing in a breath, she
allowed her singing teacher’s instructions on how to breathe correctly echo
through her mind. Breathing, it seemed, was becoming extremely difficult around
August. Even in his bruised state. His handsome face was swollen and red and
bristle covered his jaw. Was his crooked nose a product of the sport? How lucky
he was to look completely charming with it.

It might have been only
seconds, but it felt like she’d been drawing up the courage to remove his shirt
for hours, and his eyes had never strayed from her. Even when she didn’t look
directly at him, she saw him skim over her again and again with his gaze. Her
breaths thickened.

One button. She drew in a
breath. Two buttons. She released a long one. Oh Lord, he wore nothing beneath
and it did not matter that she’d already seen his chest. She’d never been so
close before or known that she would soon be touching it.

Ivy finished unfastening the
buttons and paused when she felt a tug on her skirt. He had the fabric clutched
tight in his free hand, his knuckles white. It seemed doubtful he’d done it
intentionally. Did he feel as full of tension and need as she? Did that explain
the sheen on his forehead or was it simply pain causing that?

Pushing the shirt from his
shoulders, she gritted her teeth at the sight of bunched muscles marred with
several bruises. One on his upper arm and a scattering across his abdomen. Her fingers
flexed as she imagined spreading her palms across his chest and through the
scattering of dark hair. Maybe she would even nuzzle against it.

“Ivy?”

Heat flooded her face. She’d
been caught admiring when she should be nursing. Avoiding his gaze, she scooped
up some of the cool salve and smeared it over the bruise on his arm. In spite
of the kitchen not being particularly warm, his skin was. The little lines of
muscle intrigued her and she couldn’t help trace them as she smoothed in the
lotion.

“Do you box often?” Her voice
came out thin and weak like a cheap broth.

He nodded.

That would explain his
build. She’d always puzzled over how a man who spent most of his life in the
study was so strong and—she glanced down the rippled lines of his abdomen—firm.

“At least until Elsie
arrived.”

His voice sounded gritty.
Not weak like hers, but certainly strained. Everything about him from the
bunching of his muscles to his continued grip on her skirts screamed of his
need to break free of restraint.

And she could not help
believe he was holding back for the same reason she was. He wanted to kiss her,
maybe even touch her. She felt it in her bones, in her blood. As elemental as
the air in her lungs. Ivy feared if he did not break and give her that kiss,
her body might waste away, starved of his touch.

Licking her lips, she
steeled herself for what was to come next. “Lift your arm.”

She used the cloth to clean
away some more of the grime and sweat from his body. “You are filthy,” she
murmured in a bid to distract herself from the way his stomach muscles tensed
as she slid the cloth down them.

“Boxing rings are filthy
places.”

Suddenly the distance
between them seemed so very great. He built railways and knew more than she
ever would. He frequented places she would never step foot in. She might have
some noble blood running through her but he was far superior to her in every
way.

What could she say for
herself? She sang. If she could bring her voice out to the world then perhaps
she might be able to say she brought joy to people but, for now, she could not
even bring herself to sing in front of August. It frustrated her beyond all
belief.

“Ivy?”

She peered down and realised
she was absently stroking his firm stomach with the cloth. “Oh.” Abandoning the
cloth, she reached for the salve and bent to rub it over the marks on his ribs.
“I hope nothing is broken.”

“No, just bruised. I’d know
if it was.”

She lifted her gaze to his
and found that her mouth was mere inches away from his. Her breath near froze
in her throat. “Have you broken a rib before?” she asked huskily.

“Yes, a long time ago when I
first started boxing. I didn’t...” His words trailed off and she saw his gaze
drop to her lips.

In response, she tucked her
bottom lip under her top teeth. A sharp hiss echoed from him and her mouth
tingled. She searched his gaze and saw it there—the same need flaring through
her. So why did he not move? Why did his grip on her skirts tighten and why did
his muscles bunch?

“Please,” she whispered
before she’d even thought about it.

“What do you want, Ivy?” he
asked in a low, rough voice.

Did she have the courage to
say? Few things held her back in life and she could rarely claim to have
control of her tongue, but she hesitated for a moment. Perhaps because the
stakes were so high. Her heart throbbed painfully as if to remind her exactly
what was at stake. It would be so very easy to fall for him. But a kiss? Maybe
more? Would that be so bad?

“I want you,” she replied.

August’s hand uncurled from
her skirts and she peeked down to see him flex his fingers. Unhurriedly, he
lifted his hand to touch her face. A finger skimmed over her cheek and came to
rest on her bottom lip.

“I cannot.”

Did he want her to beg? For
at this point, she was ready to do so. Frustration burned through her, only
inflaming that spark.

“August, please. Kiss me.
You want to, I am sure of it. Kiss me before I explode with frustration.”

His lips curved upwards.
“You have such a way with words, Ivy.”

“No more words.”

His fingers slid beneath her
hair that had been braided to one side but now hung loose from her shoving her
hands through it in worry. Then he used his hold on the back of her head to
draw her close. For many moments, he held her there, at his whim, his breath
skimming her lips. Candlelight highlighted the cut on his lips and she wondered
if demanding a kiss had really been a sensible idea but he cut off that thought
by pressing his injured mouth to hers. Even the tang of blood could not persuade
her she didn’t want his kiss.

Disappointment burst through
her when he dropped his hand from her hair and broke the kiss.

However, when he coaxed her
into the cradle of his thighs with his hands cupping her rear, a new thrill
surged through her. Emboldened, she pushed her fingers into his dark hair,
relishing the softness. He allowed her to as well. This independent, gruff man
let her stroke his hair as if he were a child and in response he burrowed his
face against her breasts. She heard him inhale deeply.

“You smell divine.”

“Perfume.”

“Not just that. It’s you,
Ivy. It makes me want to lick you all over and see if you taste as sweet as you
smell.”

The tips of her ears felt
like they were burning at his words but at the same time, her chest swelled
with pleasure. Not to mention she was now rocked by images of his lips on other
parts of her body. Her inner thighs perhaps or even her breasts.

“You are so hard to resist.”

“Then do not,” she murmured.

“I should not.”

“You say that a lot.”

“And you don’t,” he stated.

Not a question, just an observation.
It was true, she rarely resisted impulses. She had wanted to become a singer so
she had given in to the impulse to run away. She’d heard about jobs in
Manchester so she’d travelled up here without any thought to the consequences.
And then she had accepted a job she knew she was not suited to.

And now she was giving into
the impulse to kiss and touch him. But how could she regret any of it? Surely
everything she had been through was for the best? She’d rather be in this predicament
than married to some fusty old gentleman.

Ivy had no qualms about
giving into her impulses but August still seemed hesitant. How could she
persuade him to follow in her footsteps and take what he wanted in life?

She held his head to her
chest, taking in several deep breaths. His fingers began to move over her rear,
smoothing up and down. Desire simmered low in her belly and under her skin.

 “Touch me, August. Do not
resist.”

His fingers dug into her
rear—hard. She released a gasp and an unnatural sound vibrated through the
room, emanating from the back of his throat.

“As if I could,” he growled.

Hot lips met her collarbone.
It felt like every part of her body sighed with contentment. Grip tight on his
head, she urged him down until his mouth met one of her hard nipples. He sucked
the peak through the cotton of her nightgown. The utter bliss of his hot mouth
over the aching bud made her close her eyes. August released his grip on her
rear and swept his hands under her robe to stroke her back. A rumbling moan
sent vibrations through her body and she tightened her grip on him.

“Oh, August.”

“Bugger it.”

He stood suddenly, forcing
her hands to drop from him. He towered over her, his body slightly glistening
and impossibly male. A small part of her wanted to shrivel away from him,
unsure whether she could handle such a man, yet the part of her that always
rose to the challenge relished the sight of his dark hair and flexing muscles.

He pressed her back against
the table, leaving her open to him. One hand rested on her lower back while the
other grabbed her chemise and dragged it higher, higher. The silk of her robe
stroked her thighs, making her aware of her nudity beneath the nightgown and
how close his fingers were to touching her in her most intimate places.