“I haven’t made nearly that much with my engine designs, but I will. Steam travel is upon us,” Cort said with a thoughtful sip of whisky. “I can get a fast thousand pounds together. Knox, how much blunt can you toss in the pot to rescue that hellion for our youngest?”
Damien started to stop them, but his heart was overflowing with love for his brothers and the girl. So, he let the twins go on, debating how to help him save her.
Knox propped his head on his fist, his signet ring sparking in the candlelight. “The Derbyshire estate is unentailed and falling into disrepair. Although it’s attached to a profitable tenancy and a hundred acres of timber, I’d be happy to be rid of it. I can’t manage everything lumped on my shoulders as it is. That, combined with a few items I could sell, might get us close.”
Cort stretched out his legs with another yawn. “Would be easier if we could simply blackmail the bastard. I’ll contact my investigator in Shoreditch and see if he can dig up any bodies.”
Damien and Knox stared at their brother in stunned silence.
Cort shrugged in apparent ease. “I didn’t leave all my viciousness on the battlefield.”
“I have a thousand or so to chip in, to keep the Troublesome Trio from stooping to extortion.” Damien knocked the fire iron against his leg, nerves making him antsy. He wished with every fiber of his being that Mercy was there to soothe him.
Knox crossed to his desk, removed his crested stationery from the top drawer, and began writing. After a moment of silence, he glanced up. “Don’t you two have duties to attend to if we want to get the blunt together before Readlyn’s ball on Thursday? Rumor is, someone’s announcing their marriage that eve.”
Damien hesitated, his throat tight, his gaze going hazy around the edges. “I don’t know what to say, how to say thank you. Both of you. For everything.”
Knox swallowed, his fingers clenching around the quill. “I suppose you’ll be needing the ring Grandmother Henley left you. That old goat always loved you best. I promised I’d never sell the piece, or damned, if it wouldn’t be off to the jeweler to help us out of this fix. Coincidentally, it has a sapphire big enough to choke a goose that will look quite nice on Lady Mercy’s finger.” Looking down, he continued scribbling. “I’m sure it will be splattered with paint if she’s kept up the hobby.”
Damien braced his hand on the mantlepiece, his heart taking a dive to his feet. When, of course, he was going to marry her.
Cort slapped him on the back on the way to the door. “Come, professor, and let’s gather our scant funds for your lady. You’re riding in like a white knight, which Willie is simply going to love when I tell her. My wife is a romantic at heart. Although our story was so dashed dreamy, yours won’t have a chance of eclipsing it.”
Damien grinned, having no choice but to follow.
His step was light, because the most incredible woman in England was waiting for him in a Fitzrovia art studio.
“He’s not coming,” Mercy whispered, her nose pressed to the carriage’s windowpane as she searched the lane in front of the Earl of Readlyn’s terrace. Four more conveyances, and she would be alighting from hers, heading into the ball where her engagement would be announced. Her father’s threats were chillingly clear on this point.
Abby set aside her knitting. Her companion wasn’t going to waste a moment, even during travel, when she could be making someone an ugly scarf. “You don’t have to do this, Mercy. Leave the earl to solve his own problems, the cad.”
“I can’t do that to my family.” Mercy trailed her finger over a crack in the pane, thinking of the measly hundred pounds she’d managed to scrape together by selling her art supplies and leasing out her studio in Fitzrovia. Her father’s incensed response when she’d offered the money as a partial, possible, solution hadn’t been pleasant. Now, she was left with no art, no place to create art, and no Damien, the love of her life.
The door to the carriage opened, cracking against the side of the vehicle. Damien climbed inside before she could take a breath, rocking the vehicle in his urgency. He nodded to Abby, but his warm gaze was reserved for Mercy.
He’s here, she thought with a powerful rush of yearning.
He looked wonderful, dressed in formal black, the only break in color the flash of cream silk at his neck. Happily, she realized she wasn’t going into that horrid ball—even if he only had five shillings in his pocket and no solution to her father’s mess. “You didn’t forget me,” she whispered, reaching to straighten his spectacles.
His smile was beauteous. He caught her hand and pressed his lips to the slice of skin between her glove and sleeve. “Minx, I’ll never forget you. You owe me a sketch or two, as I recall.”
Abby tucked her half-knitted scarf and needles in her satchel. “I’d like a breath of fresh air, not that London’s air can ever be called fresh. If you two will excuse me.” With a wink, she let Damien assist her to the sidewalk. “You can find me by the ratafia bowl, if you decide to come inside, which I wouldn’t advise you do. Balls are a dreadful waste of time.”
Damien closed the door with a soft snick and settled beside her on the velvet squab. He thumped the roof with his fist, then leaned in as they began to move, his fingers curling around the nape of her neck and drawing her into a fiery kiss. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered against her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I went to the flat, only to find you’d leased it out. But we needed the week to gather the funds and—”
She stopped him by drawing his bottom lip between her teeth, a little trick of hers that he loved. He growled and pulled her into his lap, cradling her jaw, tangling his tongue with hers. They dove in as lovers who’ve gained knowledge of each other’s bodies do. Rapidly, ravenously. His hand cupped her breast, sliding down to her waist, where he drew fistfuls of her skirts high. His shaft was hard beneath her bottom, and she wiggled, teasing him.
“Don’t, please,” he said, his voice ragged. “Not when I’ve spent the past five nights staring at the ceiling, my cock in my hand, I was so hungry for you.”
She lost herself in the kiss, in the sensation of his fingers tracing circles on her thigh. “I touched myself, too,” she whispered, her cheeks flaming.
But who else would she, could she, tell?
“Ah, the thought of you doing that makes me crazy, minx. Until I can watch, someday soon, let me pleasure you now.”
Her head fell back as he touched her through the slit in her drawers. “The coachman…”
He slid the tip of his finger inside, sending a tremor through her. “I told him to drive until I thump on the roof again. We won’t be bothered.” Stroking her, he sighed against her neck. “You’re so wet, minx, I don’t think you’ll need long. I’ll be a very diligent taskmaster. I’m making up for our forced time apart.”
