For a wretched heartbeat he thought the clerk was staring at him in puzzlement, but then he smiled. “Yes indeed, my lord. Permit me to take you to Mr. Perry, my lord.”
Van wondered if he staggered as he followed down a corridor and into the handsome office of the owner of the bank.
Reprieve.
He had six weeks more of life!
He still felt dazed as he emerged, guineas in his pocket, wealth established, debts paid. Poor Mr. Perry had been disappointed to find that most of the fortune trusted to his care was to promptly leave it. Van still had a thousand pounds in the account, and nine thousand more if he could satisfy his employer.
The Golden Lily.
He took a deep breath of spring air, appreciating it like a fine wine. He blessed the warmth of the sun on his face.
But as he strolled back to his rooms, wariness grew. For twenty thousand pounds Mrs. Celestin had to want more than his adoring escort. What? He’d swallowed the hook, so now he’d be reeled in.
Despite her rejection, perhaps she was after coupling. He fought back a laugh. If so, he’d be the most overpaid whore in London, no matter what her tastes!
In fact, he rather liked the idea. He’d like to warm that damnable, cool composure, see her flush and become disordered, unruly, wild...
Madness. She was probably all cool composure in bed, too.
When a ragged crossing-sweeper hurried to clear some horse droppings from his path, he dug out the sixpence, the penny, and the farthing, and dropped them into the lad’s hand. With the boy’s enthusiastic thanks loud in the air, he strolled on, a sparkle starting inside him.
With difficulty, he recognized mischief and challenge. How long was it since he had felt that way? Despite his employer’s command that he not touch her without permission, surely in six weeks of adoring companionship, he could find out whether she was cool in bed.
Even a servant deserved amusement.
As he passed the gunsmith’s on the way home, however, he remembered the flint, and fingered it in his pocket. It comforted him. If the strange Mrs. Celestin demanded anything intolerable, he had the easy way out.
The next night, Maria entered the Yeovil mansion in a state of unusual turmoil. Few would guess, for it was her nature to conceal her emotions, but she knew, and she knew why.
He’d paid his debts. Everyone gossiped about that as much as they’d gossiped about his ruinous night at the tables.
Where had the money come from? they’d asked.
Had he gone to the moneylenders? If so, poor man.
Would he lose again? Then what?
A sad case, both men and women agreed. Hero in the war. Fine old family. No hope, though. Father ruined the properties, and the son doesn’t have the heart to start from scratch. Shame for such a promising young gentleman.
A promising young gentleman.
On hearing that, Maria had thought of the slack-lidded, stubbled man in the rumpled clothes, and the way he’d taken that pistol from her. Promising? Of what? Perhaps it was the fact that he was still a gentleman that had prevented him from shooting her.
If he was a gentleman, he’d work off his debt to her. He’d be here tonight. That terrified her almost as much as him not being here. If he was here, she’d have to deal with him.
For six weeks.
He did terrify her, and only the smallest part was a fear that he’d attack her. Instead it was fear of the energy and intensity he’d given off. She’d wanted to back away. To be safe.
Worse, she’d wanted to press closer, to inhale that energy, to absorb it, surrender to it. She’d surrendered to her physical nature once before, and lived to regret it.
She would not make a fool of herself again.
Harriette knew how she felt. Harriette was the one person who knew everything, and now her aunt glanced sideways and smiled—the sort of chins-up! smile given to someone before a trying experience.
They greeted the duke and duchess—the duchess was Maria’s cousin, twice removed—and their daughter, Lady Theodosia, who was being launched here. Then they moved into a reception room, and on into the glittering ballroom.
