“What are you hiding from?”
“The same as you: my past.”
If he asked, would she tell him the truth of hers? He doubted that she trusted him to that degree, probably didn’t trust him at all. It bothered him how easily he confessed things to her, how she made him long for a future, one that didn’t include the gloominess. One where he again walked among theton, not as a lord, but still respected enough to be welcomed. That was the reason he was now enveloped in darkness, hoping for the light.
Looking out the window, he was grateful to see the familiar surroundings, to know they were nearing her residence. The carriage rolled to a stop. Brewster opened the door and, in silence, handed her down. His glare at Marcus, however, spoke volumes. The butler, or whatever the devil he was, didn’t like him, didn’t trust him, and wanted him gone. The feeling was mutual.
Marcus followed Esme into the residence, into the parlor, where she went straight to the sideboard and filled two glasses with scotch. She extended one to him before lowering herself into the chair she’d occupied that first night. After he was seated, she lifted her glass. “Cheers.”
Their eyes on each other, they each took a healthy swallow, and the tension that had been rising in him abated somewhat. She took another sip, then set her glass on the small table beside her and lifted the lid on a wooden box. “Would you care for a cigar?”
“I’ve never had a woman offer me one before.”
She lifted one out, placed it between her lips, struck a match, and held it to the tip, puffing until it was alight. Removing it, she blew small circles of smoke into the air. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
Rising gracefully, she crossed the short distance to him. When he reached for the cigar, she quickly moved it beyond his grasp, her golden-brown eyes filled with challenge. Not until he lowered his hand did she bring the cigar closer, closer, closer until it was a hairsbreadth from his mouth. He parted his lips, and she slid it home. As he inhaled deeply, he tried not to contemplate how her lips had been where his now were.
After pivoting about, she returned to her chair and prepared a cigar for herself.
“I’ve never known a woman to smoke.”
“You have quite a list of things you’venever, Marcus Stanwick.”
It was odd, how much he liked when she teased.
She studied the glowing tip, then looked toward the empty hearth. “I was twelve the first time I smoked, not a woman yet, of course. I’d stolen it from my father’s study. When my mother discovered me behind the stables, no doubt turning green, that genteel lady made me stand in the corner, holding my father’s heavy cigar box for—well, she said it was only an hour, but it felt like days.” She turned her attention back to him. “She thought the punishment would make me docile, obedient. All it did was make me rebel all the more and desire the forbidden.”
As though needing to wash the bitter taste of the tale from her tongue, she tossed back her remaining scotch like a sailor just in from sea, got up, refilled her glass, and with bottle in hand, stopped to replenish the contents of his glass, before returning to her chair for another puff and then a sip. She’d set the bottle at the far edge of the table, within easy reach, indicating she did indeed intend to get drunk. If he was patient and gave the scotch the time it needed to loosen her tongue, he’d be able to pry the answer from her luscious lips for every question about her that plagued him. Taking a slow swallow of his own liquor, he relished the burn, determined to wait her out—
And yet, he was tempted to join her in the escape, to perhaps eventually move beyond booze and cigars to silken flesh and soft valleys, to hidden treasures where a man could truly become lost. “Was your father really the village drunkard?”
“No. Nor, as I’m certain you’ve already surmised, was the pocket watch ever his.” Her eyes had softened until they reflected a deep fondness. “He was an officer in Her Majesty’s army. He wasn’t often home, but when he was, he would sit me upon his lap and reassure me that his job was to deal with monsters so I would always be safe. When I was twelve, he received orders to go to the Crimea. Mother and I saw him off at the railway station. I didn’t want him to leave. I clung to him and wept, terrified he wouldn’t come back. He knelt before me and told me he had to go in order to protect his family, countrymen, and homeland. That he had to go for the Queen. That if good people did nothing, bad people would win. A year later he died in battle. But at least his actions are immortalized in poetry.”
His gut clenched at the deep sorrow reflected in her voice. “Not ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ surely?”
Her nod was slight, almost imperceptible. “I suspect he knew they were doomed, that a mistake had been made and they were being sent to their deaths, but he followed the orders anyway. Which might be why I don’t always, not when I disagree with them, as I often do with O. But more importantly I always regretted that my father’s last memory of me was sniveling. I’ve only ever cried once since. The day we received word that he’d been killed.”
Her gaze had drifted to the empty hearth, and he wondered if the images of that final farewellwere flickering through her mind. “Is he the reason you work for the Home Office?”
Bringing her attention back to him, she rolled a shoulder. “Partly, I suppose. For a while, I wished I was a son and could join the army to avenge him. But in the end, we have to travel our own path rather than the one our fathers tread.”
Which brought them back to the matter at hand. “Why didn’t Brewster accompany us tonight into the tunnels? I have the impression he’s your protector.”
It was almost a physical shifting, the manner in which she shrugged off the past and the memories of a vulnerable young girl, like changing out of a sturdy winter frock into a lighter one for summer. “I protect myself, although he has his uses, and he does also work for the Home Office. We’ve been a team for a while. O, however, prefers to meet with only me. Like many of us who have witnessed how easily people betray confidences, he trusts few, you see. And Brewster doesn’t need to know everything, only what is essential for him to carry out his orders. The thing is, your safety is better secured when you suspect everyone of being against you.”
He’d learned that lesson the hard way, but it bothered him that she’d attended the same harsh school of reality. Once the darkness had inhabited your soul, you could never rid yourself of it completely. He often wondered what sort of man he’d find himself to be at the end of this journey. “How did you become protector of a queen?”
She took another puff on her cigar. He liked far too much the manner in which she blew out the smoke, tilting up her chin to expose the ivory expanse of her throat, a throat he would like to nibble his way along until he reached the delicate shell of her ear so he could whisper in a hoarse voice precisely what he’d like to do with her. She wouldn’t be shocked by his crude suggestions. She’d find them alluring, erotic, would no doubt return the favor with vulgar propositions of her own.
“She believed me when no one else would.” He swore he heard a measure of hurt laced through her tone. “The disadvantage to being disobedient is that people expect the worst and are less likely to give you the benefit of the doubt. Her belief in me quite literally saved my life, and so now I seek to return the favor.”
Another inhale of the cigar, another exhale. A twist of her lips formed a mockery of a smile. “And what of you, Marcus Stanwick? Why is restoring your family name so important when those you seek to impress are unlikely to ever again welcome you into their parlors?”
Clenching his jaw at the reminder that he could never be what he once was, of all he’d lost, he glowered at her.
With amusement in her eyes, she angled her head slightly. “Did you think I would allow you to be the only one asking questions? Do you not think that, like you, I have been biding my time waiting for the scotch to loosen your inhibitions, so you’ll speak freely?”
