With a hardened glare, he snatched the correspondence from her. “I’ll see he gets it. Unopened.”
She gave a half nod. “Good evening then, Mr. Stanwick.” She edged past him—
“You made a fool of my mother.”
His harsh words caused her to stop in her tracks and glance over her shoulder. “On the contrary. I believe that honor goes to your father. He was the one to brag about his conquest of me. I prefer discretion when it comes to such affairs.” She should leave it at that but couldn’t quite bring herself to do so. “For what it is worth, however, which I suspect is very little, it was not my intention to bring any hurt to your family. I believed my relationship with your father would remain a secret, known only to us.”
His jaw tightened. “That doesn’t excuse what you did.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
“I’ll not see you ruin my brother.”
Such conviction, such devotion, such... love. For a few brief seconds, she envied Marcus Stanwick. “He’s already lost everything, Mr. Stanwick. What worse harm exists for me to inflict upon him?”
Esme knew what it was to lose everything. Lying on her bed, with the fingers of one hand buried in Laddie’s fur, the other holding the drawing of her face, she wondered if Marcus Stanwick had seen her as clearly as the artist had. She was extremely bothered by the hope springing within her that perhaps he might have. He seemed an intuitive sort.
She was counting on that intuition when it came to the missive for him that she’d delivered. The thought of him reading and deciphering it sent a thrill through her. The possibility of seeing him again, matching wits with him, filled her with excitement. She felt as though she’d merely been existing before she walked into her parlor and saw him standing there. He’d made her feel as though she’d been struck by lightning and re-animated, much like Frankenstein’s creation.
She wondered how the artist might have drawnher face at that moment, when her gaze had first collided with Marcus Stanwick’s. She was probably being very foolish to initiate contact. But she welcomed the opportunity to outwit him and gain what she needed.
Chapter 4
It was late, the establishment closed, when the light appeared in an upper window, one that was part of Griff’s private rooms. Marcus’s chest swelled with his triumphant satisfaction. It had been only two nights since he’d seen her. Esme. Yet already she was beckoning him.
For a while each night since leaving her, he’d stood in the mews outside his brother’s place of business hoping—no, not hoping, merely checking—to see if curiosity would get the better of her, if she would remember something or at least wish to meet with him again. He’d regretted not lingering longer in her presence, not questioning her further, delving into her origins, her past... her present. He’d considered watching her abode, but if she truly knew nothing, his time was better spent elsewhere.
Yet no matter how deep and dark the alleys heroamed, how dangerous his surroundings, how wicked those he encountered, the Ice Princess haunted him. It was how he’d come to think of her. Cold and calculating. He suspected she’d gathered as much information from him as he had from her.
He shouldn’t be intrigued by her and yet he was. A disappointment to himself.
Looking around the mews, ensuring he was quite alone, he crossed over to the building, removed the loose brick, slipped his fingers inside the vacant slot that had housed it, and discovered nothing within. His brow furrowed.
“Care to explain why you’re spending time in the company of Father’s tart?”
He didn’t give a start at his brother’s voice, didn’t give any reaction at all to the words. Simply slowly returned to its place the means by which Griff passed him messages. If he had anything for Griff, he merely picked the lock, went inside, and left it on his desk. “You and I are not supposed to meet.”
“We’re not to fuck Father’s whore either.”
He spun around. “I’m not. I wouldn’t. Even the thought of touching her turns my stomach.” Although the thought ofnottouching her created a vivid sense of loss that he’d rather not examine, but it hovered at the edge of temptation.
“Then why is she bringing me a message for you?”
The desperation with which he wanted it in his hands, his eyes upon her words, astounded him. Not because they might help him, but because she’d penned them. Fighting back the urge to demand the letter be given to him, he leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. “I visited her, yes. I thought perhaps Father might have inadvertently revealed something to her. But she could think of nothing although perhaps something came to mind after I departed.”
“She’s more beautiful than I recalled.”
At one point or another, each of the duke’s children had caught sight of his mistress. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Liar.”
His brother had the right of it. A man buried six feet under would notice. “You mentioned she brought me a message. Where the devil is it?”
Griff held out an envelope so pristine white as to be visible and a stark contrast to the night as it caught light from the nearby windows and far-off streetlamps. Exhibiting extreme restraint, Marcus did not snatch it from his brother’s fingers and tear into it in order to see what she’d written. Casually, as though not filled with immense anticipation, he took it and tucked it into a pocket inside his jacket. “So how are you?”
Griff studied him for several heartbeats. “Happy, if you can believe it. I no longer miss the old life.”
“Good. What I’m doing won’t return it to you.”
