Chapter Five
Eliza had plentyof time to calm herself as she waited, sipping a hot cup of rum-laced cider Hermia had brought. Redver had been everything she’d expected him to be—haughty, concerned chiefly with his own needs, and considerably skilled at manipulation.
But she hadn’t been prepared for him to be both terrifyingly tempting and curiously compelling as well. They’d never been introduced. They’d barely conversed. And yet, she felt as if she knew him.
As if, with time and experience, they could mean more to one another. Which was absurd. Shehatedhim. And yet, when he’d tasted her, she’d felt delicious. Could onefeeldelicious?
One must be able to feel delicious.
He’d been as succulent as a nectar-plumped plum, as juicy as the apple slice bobbing slowly in the rum. Even now, the phantom experience of his touch ran rampant over her skin. Every breath she drew renewed the aching tenderness in her lips.
She held a hand to her cheek.
At least she’d had the presence of mind to insist he cover his eyes. Her presence here must be kept secret, or she wouldnever be able to mend her reputation, let alone give her sisters a second chance.
Such a discovery was—she reassured herself—an unlikely event, given that she and her sisters had been sent to bed an hour before she’d left and were never disturbed by servants or her godmother’s family at night.
Still—she’d dallied with Harbury’s friend, and she’d liked the dalliance.
She had to subdue the part of her that desperately wanted to see him again.
As soon as the door latch clicked, Eliza stood, hastily straightening her dress. She had been looking forward to meeting the infamous proprietress, but the woman who entered was not at all what she expected.
Though beautifully attired, she was, as Eliza had been earlier this evening, fully veiled. Hers, however, was no makeshift production furnished out of a fichu, but a swathe of fine, black net hanging from a stylish, equally black hat.
In fact, every inch of her clothing was the color of coal. Even the beads glittering on her bodice were jet.
“As the night, I understand, has been a trying one for you,” the woman said darkly, “I will forgive your intrusion. This time.”
Eliza suppressed a shiver.
“Next time you wish to meet with me, Elizabeth Wainwright, you will make an appointment.”
“How do you know who I am?” Eliza demanded. “I’ve told no one.”
“I make it my business to know everyone who comes and goes beneath my roof.”
Eliza frowned. “Even so, how did you know I wasn’t Cassandra? My own godmother sometimes confuses us.”
“Please sit.” The widow extended her black-gloved hand to the chair.
Eliza did as she was bid.
“I cannot speak to what your godmother can and cannot see. Only to what I know.” She folded her hands against the desk. “Miss Wainwright and Miss Cassandra Wainwright made their debut at Almack’s this evening. Miss Cassandra was drawn into a waltz, possibly against her will, and both girls were then banished.”
The Black Widow’s veil moved with her breath in a manner so disorienting, Eliza failed to summon a response to her terse summary.
“A chit meek enough to allow Harbury to draw her into a waltz rather than stamp smartly on his slipper would hardly have the temerity to sneak into a gaming hell in the middle of the night, would she?”
That brought Eliza back to her senses. “Cassandra’s gentle nature is not at fault for our predicament.”
“Perhaps. But am I wrong about your nature?”
“No,” Eliza conceded. “Only I would not have been so obvious as to tread on Harbury’s shoe. I would have used the stick pin I keep tucked in my glove—”
The Black Widow’s chuckle made Eliza start.
She resumed, “I gather, however, that word of our disgrace already spread?”
