The Veiled Heart (The Velvet Basement Book 1) (10 page)

The day’s note came at four thirty.

Worthington swiveled his desk chair to face the window as he opened the neat cream envelope and unfolded the note, then laughed.

She’d bought a damn typewriter.

Of course, she’d want one. What determined woman who was serious about her work wouldn’t get herself a typewriter?

As per our arrangement.
A missive to inform you of my schedule. You may join me or not. I head out tonight for Whitechapel 9 p.m. A new strategy, I plan to tackle the fallen women working on the street.

Lily

Lily.

Pleasure flushed across his chest. She had not signed her own name, Miriam, but the one he had given her. Lily. That said more than she might have wanted.

They had been going out every other night. He’d accompanied her as she presented her sheaths to women in brothels. A rather dismal process in most establishments; but he had to give her credit, she continued and approached each visit with gusto and enthusiasm as if the previous visit had not been met with indifference, sometimes ridicule, and most certainly failure. And each night, he showed her a little more of the pleasures her body so readily responded to.

More importantly, he did not interfere with her plans. His hands often curled at his sides with the need to step in, but he held back. He wanted to show her he would support her in any endeavor she wanted to pursue. And would support her in how she chose to pursue it.

Worthington folded the note and placed it back into its envelope, turned his chair back to his desk, and proceeded to write a response.

My favorite part of town. I’ll be your guide and bring our transport. No slipping away without me.

Max

Whitechapel. Did people even live long enough to need protection from sexually transmitted diseases? London held a wealth of brothels all over the town, and she had to go into the worst places. If he hadn’t met her in the shop, she would have gone alone and that would have ended with one less woman in London because she would not have survived the exercise at The Split Tart.

He placed his reply in an envelope and motioned to Bradley, who stood like a stoic pillar at the far side of the room. Butlers must have boards sewn into the back of their jackets because he had seen the same stance from every one of them.

“I’ll be heading out tonight after dinner. There is no need for supper.”

“Will you be needing the carriage, sir or a cab as before?”

“A cab, Bradley. Book it for the night to arrive here at a quarter to nine. Cash payment at the end of the night, no names, no addresses, extra for discretion. You know the drill.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

As the library door clicked shut, he swiveled back to the window overlooking the sweep of the pebbled drive and further along the street. Carriages were passing by, the tops of them visible above the hedge. The gardeners were raking up stray leaves and fallen bits of tree litter.

Everything just so.

Everything in its place and not a sign of exuberant spirit anywhere.

This was his mother’s side of the family. It echoed her closed demeanor and focused determination. On his desk were a dozen invitations to view the season’s debutantes. He had a duty to the Worthington line, she said. No more running around in the Americas and undertaking business. The last word said with a twist of distaste to her lips.

Marrying her had been his father’s strategy to a better life. How she had ever accepted him was hard to imagine, even now. She was everything society expected, and that was exactly the woman she would have him take as his bride. And yet, she had chosen a man that almost had her disowned by the family. Noble, but a nobody.

When the title was conferred, his mother moved back into the house she grew up in and grew inches.

But gaining the title hadn’t brought him home.

It had been Lily coming back to town.

Even in Canada, he had read that the famous Lady Miriam Rothbury had come back to London. That she was no longer in mourning. By all accounts, a ripple had gone out and was still rippling through the debutantes. ‘She isn’t coming back into society because the love of her life, Freddy Rothbury, is gone forever.’ ‘She is going to be a recluse and stay indoors.’

And so far, she hadn’t accepted a single event except for his dinner, which she then didn’t attend. She hadn’t come back for society; the few times the topic had come up between them, it was clear she held it in very low esteem. And she most certainly wasn’t mourning Freddy.

No, she’d come back to London to come back to life.

A life she was grasping in large, eager handfuls.

Would she have asked another man the same thing she asked of him that first night in the cab?

It made a tight knot in his stomach. He needed her focused on him. Knowing that what he had to offer her was what she needed.

When he needed a fortune to be in the running to win her at her come out years ago, he didn’t have enough to put him in the running. Ironically, now, years later, fortune had given him wealth, a title, and real standing while she now held society and all men of wealth and power with disdain.

He may have the Worthington title and the estates, however for most of his life, he’d never expected to be anything except a man of good birth who had to use his ingenuity to make a good living. That was the fundamental difference. That birth, that life as he grew to manhood had given him balls. He could show her the man she needed. A man of the world not afraid to work and be part of the fabric of life.

A few hours later, he stepped into the cab. He’d made a few concessions to his premade clothes. His shirt was from his tailor, as was his waistcoat. She loved to move her hands over his chest. He wanted her to have something soft, fine under her palms.

The vehicle rocked into motion and his hand checked the pistol in his seaman’s coat. There would be no repeat of the last time they were in Whitechapel. Getting jumped on and losing his cane were far from the high points of returning to London. What followed under the eaves was a different matter entirely. If it wasn’t enough he had already lost his heart, he now most certainly had lost his head. A crazy and improbable course was now plotted, and he would have to navigate a landscape where up was down and left was right. Tell a lie so he had the chance to tell the truth.

The carriage drew to a stop.

Outside, he saw the iron gate open and there she was. The veil he’d sent this morning was wrapped around her face. He’d buy a bolt of lace and wrap her in it just for the pleasure of tearing through the openings to touch her.

“You’re late.” The door to the cab opened and in she stepped.

The scent of lily of the valley washed into the space and the dreary interior became the most exotic garden a man would want to lounge in.

“Nice veil.” It was one of his, of course.

She laughed and it wrapped around him drawing whatever leash she had around him in tighter.

“You must have a standing order at Harrods.”

Well, he had a stack in the drawer of his desk. He intended to rip them off her at every meeting until she eventually came to him unmasked.

He bared his teeth and snapped them, his favorite implement for tearing through the fabric.

“No!” Her hand went to her lace. “I don’t want you damaging this one. I love it.”

The predictable wash of pleasure settled over him.

She sat opposite him, back straight and her chin at a determined angle. The veil was exquisite. But she could wrap a piece of lace curtain around her face and he would love it.

Worthington patted the bench next to him.

“Let’s both face the same way.”

A gentleman would always ride with his back in the opposite direction, allowing the ladies with supposedly gentler constitutions to face the front as they traveled. But he’d sat facing the front for a reason.

Her back straightened.

“Let’s stay focused on business.”

He patted the seat next to him again.

“I can focus better on what you’re saying if you are next to me. The longer I look at you, the stronger my urge to have the carriage turn about.”

“Oh and where would you take me? To a room with washing strung out of every window, and the walls so thin we couldn’t even pant without being heard?” But she had risen and was settling next to him.

“So cruel, Lily. What if that was all I had to take you to, would you deny me?”

“If you stopped sending expensive lace, you could afford a room at one of the local inns. We could have dinner, lounge by a fire.”

“Dinner and lounge by a fire. What, no grand overtures?”

“No.” She fidgeted with her skirt, straightening it where it needed no adjustment.

He let the motion of the carriage rock him so his shoulders rubbed against her. The fact that she didn’t pull away warmed the center of his chest.

“And, yes, if that was all you had, I would go.”

An unexpected flash of heat seared through him. He looked down at her and, as the poets would have it, she looked up at him. The frisson of heat flashed again.

The boathouse had been cool that afternoon. He’d taken the key from his father’s desk. The regional picnic had guests coming up from London; and, like all boys around fifteen, he was only interested in finding out if there were enough decent chaps with whom to play a game of cricket. It was odd that he had been so distracted by the girls. One. The one with raven hair and skin like pale cream. Her eyes, when he’d leaned in to kiss her, were like she was one of the creatures out of the fairy rings his nanny used to point out in the woods.

“I think I like this veil the best so far.” His voice was suddenly scratchy. He cleared his throat. “It will be a pity to see it go.”

Her hand came up and touched it. Another fissure broke open in his chest.

There was something about the size of a woman’s hands. Everything about them stirred a primitive response. He wanted to do things, dark and delicious things with her. When she held him, pulled him closer, he was more excited than from any ardent whisper or provocative flaunt.

That day in the boathouse, the girl’s hand had reached out and slipped into his. She’d held on tightly, as if she would fall into an abyss if he let go. It mirrored him; he’d held those small hands and felt like a king as pleasure flushed pink on her cheeks. Odd feelings were coursing through him alongside the pleasure; but most of all, he felt like he had won every match in the season. Had hit a six and run the team to unequivocal championship.

Even then, he knew what it was they had between them.

When he’d seen her at her come out, years and years later, she had become every bit the ethereal creature she had promised in her youth. In what seemed like moments she became betrothed.

He’d done the right thing in the preceding weeks, to change the course of events, to see her, but to no avail. The last time had been when he saw the bride after she’d said her vows at the altar. In that moment, his heart broke.

Her fingers slipped under his chin.

“I said, don’t you dare damage this one. It’s divine. I love the wisteria.”

He dipped his head down and kissed her through the lace.

“Don’t make me want to kiss you and it may stay intact.”

“Wait.” That small elegant hand moved him back. She rolled the lace up and there she was. His teeth ached to nip her. His lips wanted to taste every inch of her skin. She must have read some of what he was feeling in his face because she smiled and her eyes danced.

“Come here, Blue-eyes.” And she tugged his head down to her.

His arms curled around her waist and pulled her close. She folded into him perfectly; the softness of her breasts against his chest, the heat of her mouth under his. His arms wrapped further around her as if she might slip out, pulled her closer, dragging her half over his lap. Then his tongue was pushing past her lips, over her tongue, tasting the sweetness inside her.

The carriage came to a halt.

It was damn hard to lift his mouth from hers; to loosen his hands from around her. The softness of her against him, the drop in temperature as they separated, the look on her face, made the heat twisting in his body worth it. She wanted. Oh, she wanted him as much as he wanted her and that was a damn lot.

“Here, let me.” His voice was soft.

He rolled the lace down as his fingers shook with need. Violet eyes stayed on him the whole time.

“Why do I feel like I’ve known you forever?” she whispered. She ran her hand over his palm as he tucked the lace around her chin.

“Do you?” He held his breath.

She simply nodded; her eyes under the wisteria were wide and deep enough to fall into.

“Perhaps I was destined to be a brow-beaten gigolo to a harpy who insisted we travel the destitute streets of London for some worthless cause like the sex lives of the depraved.”

She slapped him on the chest with one wonderful small hand, and laughed.

“Don’t disparage my work. It’s all for a very good reason and a good cause. Do you have any idea how many men bring that disease back home with them to their wives?”

As true as that was, it was more than he really wanted to think about.

He opened the carriage door and helped her down.

“Are you sure this is where you want to be tonight?” The road was full of people, their eyes looking over to them and their fine clothes. Even dressed down, they would never be able to match the wear and filth that sat in these people’s daily presentation.

Lily stepped out of the carriage as if she were in the heart of Piccadilly on a shopping trip, not in the heart of a London slum.

“Right.” She had a box under her arm that no doubt contained her sheaths. “Tonight, I want to engage with the girls on the street.”

His heart sank. She would be disappointed; he knew it already. In the brothels, there was a slight chance of interest, especially if she won over the madam; but here, out on the street, no quarter was given to anyone. They would take none for themselves lest they fall behind as everyone surged forward in the fight to find bread for their tables.