Chapter 18 #2
And she continued to do just that. “You see, Lord Lydon, you’re too old for me.
While I appreciate that everyone has a different way of perceiving the passage of time, I think you’ll find it to be objectively true.
You’re entirely too old for me. Really, any relationship you might have with a lady of my years would be naught more than transactional. ”
Lydon opened his mouth, but all that came out was a strangled, “Ergh.”
“Further, you’re entirely too much of a wastrel to pique my interest,” she continued in that breezy, conversational tone that only made the words hit harder once one absorbed the content.
“Unless, of course, I was your creditor, then, yes, you would be of interest to me, but then that would bring us back around to the limits of a transactional relationship.”
Lydon sputtered. “I…I am a marquess.”
“Yes, you are a marquess, Lord Lydon,” she said with devastating equitability, “but not much of a man, are you?” The question was rhetorical, for she kept going. “You prove out the riddle that a marquess can be nobility, but not noble.”
Lydon sputtered and stammered and had no success in spitting out a comprehensible word, not even edgewise. His face had turned the unhealthy shade of purplish-red that was usually reserved for the bulb of his nose.
And Blaze realized something about himself.
He was completely, utterly, irretrievably, undeniably, irreparably in love with this woman.
Her gaze shifted and landed on Blaze. “Now, your son, on the other hand—”
Blaze didn’t hesitate. He closed all the distance between them in one long stride, “That’ll be enough for tonight, Lady Viveca.”
He wrapped a loose hand around her upper arm and marched her through the club. They entered a dark, cramped room that served as the alley entrance out back and a set of stairs to the left that led up to the office. In all, a handy little room for when discreet arrivals and ejections were necessary.
Viveca pinned him with her gaze. “I’m not leaving just yet.”
Blaze hadn’t expected any other words to cross her pretty pink lips.
And though he shouldn’t, he led her up the stairs and into the office. She closed the door behind them, then pressed her back against it. He leaned against the desk, facing her.
And as he faced her, a knowledge came to him, all sudden like. This feeling inside him—the one that unsettled and shook him to his bones—this was what it was like to be vulnerable to an adversary.
Except Viveca was no adversary.
But she was no friend either.
He didn’t know what she was to him or what he was to her or what they were to each other.
It was something that should’ve never been.
It was something that simply was.
“Lady Viveca,” he said, cocking his mouth at its usual arrogant angle, “that was something I would have splashed out good money to see.” He let some silence achieve the distance his footing needed. “Now, how about you tell me why you’ve invited yourself into my den of iniquity.”
“You’re here.”
And there was all distance gone, like that.
“Viveca.”
“You fund a food pantry in Whitechapel.”
Both shock and annoyance struck through him, but he managed a wary, “What of it?”
“Why did you never tell me?” Her voice had gone…accusing.
“I have a wide variety of interests.”
“You sound like Gabriel.”
“Your brother has much to teach, actually.”
“I don’t want to talk about my brother.”
“You brought him up.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It never crossed my mind that you’d be interested.”
Her eyebrows crashed together. “But I would be…I am.”
Even as Blaze snorted, he knew it for bravado.
In truth, something squeezed inside him.
“It’s something of you, Blaze,” she said, earnest. “That’s why I would—do—want to know.”
As he gazed into those sincere, fearless blue eyes, he understood something that shook him to the soles of his feet.
He liked being seen by her.
He liked being more than a bit of rough to her…being more than a novelty.
He liked it too much.
So, what?
What he was to her was different and interesting.
It made him more to her—but not everything.
Not like she could so easily become to him.
Her gaze shifted—of course it did; it was too inquisitive to be still—and landed on the stack of books at his side.
She pushed off the door and crossed the distance between herself and those books.
He doubted it was even a conscious action.
She scanned the titles before glancing up. “All Shakespeare and Byron.”
Had she realized yet how close she was to him?
Separated by inches, in fact.
Reverently, she smoothed her hand across the leather cover of the top book. “Are these related to your diversity of interests?” Her voice had gone low and slightly breathless, as if she’d only now recognized their proximity.
“Naw,” he said, his voice low and gravelly in the back of his throat. “Just the one.”
“Oh?”
Reading.
His one interest in those books was that he intended to read them.
That was what he should say.
That would put a damper on the hot pulse of madness sizzling between them.
What he shouldn’t say was the truth.
But when in his life had he ever done what he should have done?
So, he spoke the one word he shouldn’t speak and let the consequences fall as they surely would.
“You.”