AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“To look at my life from a new perspective?” Looking up, she offered him a watery laugh. “To understand that rejection and ridicule are not necessarily all that await me beyond these walls? My faith in humanity is far from restored, but you give me hope that perhaps there are more good people out there than bad.”
The sight of her shaking lips making a valiant effort to smile tore at his conscience. Don’t look to me for an example of what is good! He wanted to shout it, to dash her hope to pieces, to ensure she remained safe in the shelter of the little world she’d built around herself.
Until coming here, his life had been nothing but battle after battle against darkness and evil, against the worst humanity had to offer. And it had left its mark on his soul just as surely as it had left those marks on her wrists.
He’d done terrible things in the course of executing his duty. Granted, they’d been necessary, but God help him—he’d occasionally enjoyed meting out punishment on the guilty. There were times he’d even hoped a collar would be difficult just so he could exact a measure of retribution on behalf of the victim. If she knew, she’d never look at him with such trust and warmth.
She deserves better.
Shame sealed his lips, so he grunted a response, hoping it would be enough to appease her.
Chapter Ten
Jacqueline marveled at her sudden lightness of heart. Here was a good man. I daresay as good as Lord Tavistoke…
There had been neither disgust nor judgment in his eyes when he’d looked at her wrists. The idea that her scars might not matter to him elicited a rush of warmth throughout her entire body that had nothing to do with the fire blazing in the grate.
Except, my scars are not restricted to my wrists.
The thought was a dash of ice water down her whip-marked back, calling a quick return to reality. Longing for the impossible was a path ending in misery. Despite knowing it, part of her still harbored a tiny spark of joy—and want.
Stop it this instant!
Reaching out, she took his empty teacup and saucer and placed them back on the tray. “The hour is late, and you should be getting home.” His eyes reflected surprise at her sudden change of demeanor, and she bit back a curse, gentling her tone. “Mrs. Hayton will worry if you are not home by nightfall.” And so will I.
“Yes, of course,” he said, looking away.
“Penny should be ready for full integration within a week,” she said as she picked up the tray. “I can keep you informed of her progress daily, if you like.”
“I would indeed. Thank you again, Headmistress.”
“It’s nothing. I do the same for all of my teachers.”
“I meant for trusting me.”
Heat unfurled in her belly at what she saw in his deep blue eyes. “Oh. Yes, of course. Well, one must begin somewhere. Good night, Monsieur Woodson. I bid you a safe journey home.”
“Good night, Headmistress.”
She swore she could feel his gaze settle right between her shoulder blades as she turned to go. The pulse throbbing in her veins quickened, and it was all she could do not to run. What in heaven’s name is the matter with me?
That night, she dreamed—of the solidity of Monsieur Woodson’s chest when she’d brushed against him to give him the faire la bise. Of the surprisingly hard shoulders beneath the wool of his coat. Of the faint rasp of stubble against her cheeks and lips. Of the heat of his skin.
This time when she awakened in the dark, there was no fear-sweat, no scream in her throat. Only the pounding of her heart in her own ears and a hollow ache she’d never expected to feel again.
Desire.
In the darkness, a faint gleam caught her eye. It was her wrapper, draped over the bedpost. The image of a smiling, golden-haired man holding up a white gown flashed in her mind’s eye, and Jacqueline’s innards knotted. A wave of nausea swept over her, followed by a scalding rush of anger.
Desire was the root of all her troubles and the author of her worst nightmares!
Not everything she’d told Monsieur Woodson was a lie. Fresh from France, she’d been targeted immediately by London’s worst. The man at the inn who’d robbed her of her coin. The crone lurking in the street outside who’d referred her to Madame Boucher, a kindly woman who helps girls in situations like yours.
Boucher. Ice crept through her veins. Monsters were real. They wore human flesh and looked out from behind the eyes of seemingly benign people. You passed them on the street every day, never knowing they’d marked you as prey until it was too late.
Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to find honest work. Despite her good manners and perfect French, the Quality wouldn’t hire her without references. Her looks, which she’d thought an advantage, had turned out not to be in her favor. One prospective employer was blunt enough to tell her she was too pretty to be in the same house with her husband.
In the end, she’d had little choice but to seek out Boucher. Working at a brothel would at least guarantee food, shelter, and better protection than she’d have selling her body on London’s streets alone.
