“His name, yes, but what is he to you? How did you come to be with him, with your hair undone? When I walked in, you looked as though you were on the verge of inviting him into your bedchamber.”
“Bedchamberis a bit too elegant a word for the room in which I sleep. As for how I came to be with him...”
She explained all that had happened, and when she was done, he cursed soundly.
“I won’t be late again. I swear to you.”
“Was she someone I know?” She couldn’t imagine he’d gone to a brothel. Their coins were too precious for something as selfish as that.
He turned his attention back to the fire. “Doesn’t matter. She’s to marry another.”
Someone from their past, then, probably a lady of the nobility. She hadn’t known he was courting anyone, but as she was discovering, there was a good deal about her brothers she hadn’t known. “I’m sorry, Griff.”
He shook his head. “How could it all go to hell like this? We had it all. Nothing was denied us. And now we’ve lost everything.”
He’d needed to get out of there before he jabbed his fist into her brother’s perfect aristocratic nose. Entitlement had rolled off Griffith Stanwick in waves as forceful as those kicked up by a sea tempest. If they weren’t bluebloods, Beast would sink every one of his ships.
Added to that, he’d miscalculated the impact that touching his fingers to her silken flesh would cause. He’d done it in an attempt to distract her from the bite of the gin. It was a trick he’d learned from his mum. Or at least a version of it. Hers had never been so intimate. She’d simply shaken some part of him—a hand, an arm, a leg—until he’d been so focused on what she was doing that he’d barely noticed the sting of anything she was pouring over a scrape in order to cleanse it.
He should have shaken her shoulder. Should have not touched her at all. Because now it felt as though her skin had married his. No matter how hard or briskly he rubbed his hand over his thigh, he couldn’t rid himself of the sense he was still caressing her, that his fingertips were still pressed to the underside of her jaw.
She was not his concern, not his to worry over. He’d seen that she’d come to no harm tonight. All future nights were the responsibility of her brother. Would he see to it?
Two nights he’d put her at risk. Did he not understand the dangers that resided in Whitechapel? Did he not comprehend how precious she was?
Bugger it all. He was going to stop thinking about her. He had other matters to worry over. Finding a tutor for one. Perhaps he’d ask his sisters-by-marriage to assist him. If they each took a couple of hours a month—it would take forever. But still it would be a step toward ensuring the ladies no longer had to earn coins while on their backs.
He shouldn’t have told her about his mother.
He released an obscene curse into the darkness surrounding him. He was thinking about her again. She’d been embarrassed that he’d seen the condition of her hovel—as though he’d judge her by it. Had someone judged her? Why did he have the sense she had no one else to come to her aid except for her unreliable brother?
Unreliability was something he avoided exhibiting at all costs, didn’t tolerate well in others. His mother had been unreliable, had not kept her promise. When he was younger, that knowledge had created an unbearable pain, had confirmed she hadn’t truly wanted him. He was fairly certain he knew why, and it had nothing to do with his being born out of wedlock. Parents liked for their children to be perfect, and he wasn’t.
Telling her about his mother only served to remind him of things he tried to forget.
And now he needed to forget Althea Stanwick.
Chapter 4
Lying on the mound of blankets, she decided it had been long enough since her head had smashed against brick that she could safely go to sleep, and yet sleep eluded her, all because of him. Beast. Benedict. Ben.
It was an odd thing to find herself aching for his touch when he’d merely dabbed lightly at her scalp, skimmed a finger along her jaw, then held her briefly when she swayed, and yet she felt as though the length of his hard body had imprinted itself over hers. Or at least the part of him that had rested against her. He was comprised of substantially more than she. He stood at least a head and a half taller, and the breadth of him made her feel incredibly dainty.
If she still walked among the aristocracy, would their paths have ever crossed—other than a sighting at a wedding?
She was finally beginning to drift off when she heard the deep male voices outside her window. It had been a long night, and now that sleep was on the cusp of arriving, her neighbors had decided to have a harsh discussion.
“I don’t understand why you won’t let me help.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m not a child.”
The voices, the inflection of them, were familiar. Scrambling out from beneath the covers, she crawled to the window and lifted her head only enough to peer over the ledge andhopefully not be seen. The two men were shadows, but she’d recognize their silhouettes anywhere. The larger of the two was Marcus, the other Griffith. Why was her older brother visiting now, at this ridiculous hour? Why didn’t he come inside out of the cold? Why not come inside so he could see her?
“Then don’t act like one,” Marcus said, disgust rife in his tone.
“Christ, you sound just like Father.”
