Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
R owan liked throwing open the curtains just before dawn when the world was gray with the promise of yellow around the edges. He’d thrown the window open, too, and he leaned against the frame, staring out into a foggy London almost-morning. Two days without a single sighting of Isabella Crewe. Clearly, she did not need whatever she’d left inside Hestia as badly as she’d said she did.
How in hell would he find her when he needed her to complete their game of pretend? Quick, she’d been, slippery, dodging between horses and coaches and disappearing like a fairy into the fog. He’d set his best footmen at every entrance. They knew just who to look for, knew as well to bring her to Rowan as soon as they caught her.
She wasn’t coming round to be caught, though.
He’d have to kill her off sooner than he’d planned. Surely the Barlows would pity a widower. Couldn’t be consumption. There hadn’t been enough time. Perhaps he’d tell them she—
He shivered and shut a steel door on the possibility of imagining her death. Didn’t like it one bit. Kill off the woman who’d put a sweet kiss on his cheek? Who’d tidied his cravat and teased him into a relatively… fun game? Even in his imagination, he couldn’t do it. He’d simply have to… find her. Wherever she was.
Isabella. Not Sarah. Likely not Crewe, either. Couldn’t trust she’d told the truth about that, so he’d been left with only one way of thinking of her—Isabella. His body didn’t seem to care how untrustworthy her eyes were. It simply liked the way she smelled and felt, the way being near her made him feel.
She was rather like that gas lamp on the street below his window, illuminating the fog, breaking through the darkness.
“Ridiculous.” He closed the curtains and sat at his desk, unsure of exactly what to do next until a knock at the door solved that particular problem. “Come in.”
The door opened, revealing a small, cloaked woman. For a half moment, his heart flipped, and his body grew heavy and light at the same time. Had she come to him before he’d been forced to seek her out?
“Darling boy, there you are!”
No. Isabella had not come to him. He plopped backward into his chair, making the front legs rock off the ground for an unbalanced instant before thumping back down. “Aunt Lavinia. What are you doing here so early?” His muscles relaxed. She always did that—softened him. He never growled with her. How could he? She’d been his second mother, loved him just as well as one.
She pushed her hood back and checked her coiffure in a small looking glass on the wall by the door. He only kept it there because she liked it, because she needed to make sure everything about her person was properly in place. “Is it early? I find it’s rather late. I was returning home from the Springdale ball and realized I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“A fortnight at the most. Come, sit.” He guided her to the large chair behind his desk and then leaned against the desk next to her, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I tried to visit you a few days ago. You were occupied with a guest.”
Her red brows furrowed. “Yes, the admiral told me you’d made a visit. He also told me you’re set against marriage. Nothing I didn’t know, of course.”
“There is nothing in it for me. ”
“Nonsense. There is companionship. Children. Love.”
“And which lady would I marry?”
She threw her arms out wide. “Any of them! You are rich and handsome, and your father—”
“Not really my father.”
“I’m aware. Your father was a dear friend to the admiral, and the admiral has tried his best to love you as a son.”
“He’s not simply tried, Aunt Lavinia, he’s succeeded.”
“Naturally. The admiral does not fail. And neither do I.” She wagged her finger at him. “You think on that, Rowan. Neither. Do. I. And I am currently engaged in quite the serious campaign to see you happily wed.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Apparently, I should also take on the campaign to see your quarters properly furnished. A desk. Chair. And curtains, Rowan?”
“I need nothing else.”
“You need a wife. And a rug.”
“I have plenty downstairs. Rugs. Not wives.” He quirked half his mouth into a smile.
She poked the outside of his thigh. “No teasing. I’m quite serious.”
Hell. He knew that well enough. But therein lay the problem. She did not understand how impossible it was for him. Every time he tried to explain, she waved his worries aside. Yet, he found himself explaining once more. “Who do you expect me to wed, Aunt Lavinia? Some titled lass with a large dowry? Some lady when my mother was a seamstress and my father a plain sailor?”
“But the admiral and I—”
“Love me. I know. And”—he swallowed the lump in his throat—“I love the both of you. I owe my life, my hotel, everything to the both of you.”
She cupped his cheek, and the lines in her face deepened with her teary-eyed smile. “You are the best of boys.” She sniffed and snapped to her feet, patting his cheek. “The best of men! And any lady would be overjoyed to have you.”
“Would she? Would her family?” He wandered back to the window and pulled the curtain open. The sky more yellow than gray now. Below, two travelers—a man and a woman—stepped through Hestia’s grand double doors. The couple would find a home here for as long as they chose to stay. “I am like a traveler—out of place, unmoored. But there is no eventual dock for me, no pier to welcome me home.”
“You will not make me cry, young man.”
He faced her. “I don’t mean to. I only mean to make you understand. I do not fit into your world. I do not fit into the world I was born to. But a hotel accepts all travelers, no matter their home. No matter their destination.”
She sniffed. “And as long as they have enough coin. Do not pretend to be altruistic, my boy. But I see your dilemma. You do not have to pursue a titled lady. A cit’s daughter, perhaps? What if your father-in-law were a self-made man? There’s one in Town at the moment, a master of a cotton mill, and he is causing quite a commotion. But… I would not wish that association on you.”
“I do not intend to marry.” Having a pretend wife was difficult enough. A real one would likely prove a thousand-fold more challenging.
But then, perhaps no one was as challenging as Isabella.
Aunt Lavinia marched right up to him and poked him in the chest. “I cannot control whether you marry, but at least promise me one thing.”
“How can I deny you?” He held his palms out flat.
“Attend an upcoming ball. No— no . I see that refusal in your eye. I have secured you an invitation. My good friend the viscountess, Lady Noble, throws a ball every year for her brother, in honor of their mother. Any number of individuals—titled and untitled—are invited. You will attend. And you will dance with a generous handful of women. You might even find one of the viscountess’s sisters appealing. She has three of marriageable age. They are all quite pretty. It is true that at one point I rather disregarded them as good matches for my boy, but years of life can change a woman’s mind, you know.” She poked his arm. “Say you’ll attend.”
What was one night? He sighed. “If my work permits it, I will do as you say.”
She popped up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Excellent. I’ll send more information later.” After checking her hair in the mirror one more time, she opened the door.
“Aunt Lavinia?” When she paused in the doorway, tilting him a curious look, he scratched the back of his neck. “Do you have a footman with you?”
“Of course, dear boy. Waiting right outside.”
“Good.”
“Do find a pretty young thing to worry over, Rowan. My bones are too old to necessitate such fuss.”
He chuckled as she swept out of his study, the door clicking closed behind her. He tried to sit at his desk, look over some documents, but his brain would not settle on the page. The ink danced, and his mind did, too, so he shrugged into the waistcoat hanging over the edge of his chair and buttoned it up. He brushed a hand through his hair to tame it and went to do what he always did when he couldn’t sleep or think—walk the halls of his home. The only home that fit him—a waiting space where everyone but him stopped before going on to where they truly belonged.
A narrow set of stairs at the back of the hotel led from his apartments to the rest of Hestia, and he took them carefully in the dark. He paced the length of the next floor down, the servants’ quarters. They were already up and about and passed him without even a nod, used to his silent presence. He compiled a mental list of repairs and improvements to both the building and its operations. The list was always short these days. Hestia had reached near perfection some time ago. It made him restless. He needed a challenge. The expansion would offer one.
The guest rooms began on the next floor down, where he could roam more anonymously. Few were up in these early morning hours, and as he wound his way down the hallways and stairways, each pristine, his imagination brought to life, he had time to revisit those near mistakes from two days ago.
He’d almost kissed Isabella twice. In the coach. Behind Hestia. Both times she’d run, and he’d been left… simmering. Like a pot of water over a flame. Her ghost roamed these halls with him. Hadn’t he seen her everywhere, after all? Before he’d known her name. Her fake na me. She’d darted about as if she belonged, as if every room and hallway was her right. She’d done so quietly, face tilted down, avoiding prying eyes. She’d never avoided his. He’d always seen her, the little quiet mouse of a maid.
And now he knew she was no mouse.
The second floor was quiet. Only one family resided here currently, and they often were out all night long. Balls and parties. They were likely headed back to Hestia now from the same ball Aunt Lavina had attended. They’d sleep till noon, then request a repast, and—
Was that door open? Perhaps one of the maids was cleaning. But she should be done so close to the family’s return. They were never to enter the rooms with the guests present unless requested.
With a firm palm to the heavy wood, he opened the door wider. A top hat had been thrown on top of the bed, and a man in a greatcoat leaned over an open trunk. Something off…
Hell. Swinging beneath the hem of the many-caped greatcoat—blue silk skirts. And above the coat’s collar, an elaborate mass of curls and pearls, braids and ribbon.
Isabella.
She’d not noticed him yet, and she was mumbling something he couldn’t quite make out. On quiet feet, he grabbed her hat off the bed and set it on his head, tilted over one eye. Leaning against a bed post and crossing his arms over his chest, he cleared his throat. She screamed, a tiny yelp, muffled behind her palm as she whirled around, her other hand flying to her heart.
He pushed the brim of the hat up with his index finger.
She gasped, rushing forward. “You!” Her gaze swung to the open doorway, then back to him. Was she contemplating escape?
She’d find it impossible.
“Me.” He bent and picked her up. Her gasp seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room as he threw her over his shoulder. She beat on his back, but only a time or two as he asked, “Was the trunk locked?”
“No, you brute. Put me down.”
He closed the trunk instead, exited the room, and locked the door with the key he always kept in the small waistcoat pocket.
All the while she wriggled, poking at him, knocking her ear in his elbow, introducing her knee to wherever it could reach. As he carried her down the hallway, she hissed, “This is insupportable. Release me now.”
He did, inside of a large linen closet near the servants’ staircase. He joined her there, keeping the door open a crack so a sliver of candlelight seeped in, slicing a barrier between them.
He removed the hat and plopped it onto her head. “You are a thief, I see.”
“I’m not! I was looking for something that belongs to me!” She backed as far away from him as she could, pressing against the floor to ceiling shelves that held pile after pile of pristine white linens.
“One of my guests is a thief, then?” He couldn’t have that. A single rumor about theft in any establishment like Hestia could permanently damage its reputation. No one wanted to stay where they and their belongings were not safe.
The hat was too big for her. He saw that even in the shadowy dark of the closet. It fell over her eyes, and she shoved it back to scowl at him in the dim light.
He stepped closer to her. “If there is a thief about Hestia, you will let me know, and I will confront him personally and ban him from the premises. I will recover, as best as I can, whatever items he pilfered, and—”
“No”—she sighed—“it’s not that.”
“What is it, then?”
She tried to step around him.
He blocked her path.
She stepped to the other side.
He moved with her. “I’m not releasing you until I understand what has brought you here dressed as a man.”
Her hands balled into tiny fists. She turned her back to him, her arms rigid at her sides. “I started coming here to collect information. About a man. My friend’s husband. I wanted her to know everything there was to know, everything that might be hidden from her. That’s what I’m after now, too. Information that could impact a potential marriage.”
Her neck curved, soft and… soft? Yes, like velvet beneath his fi ngertips. When had that happened? When had he conquered the two steps between them to place his hand, oh-so-lightly on her vulnerable nape? Goose bumps erupted across her skin, and he tried to rub them out with the pad of his thumb. Her shoulders did not rise and fall. She’d stopped breathing. He cupped her neck, wrapping his hand gently around it so his top finger flirted with her earlobe.
Another question—why was he here, seeking warmth from such a rigid little thing?
Her breath caught in her throat, but through the trapped breath, she managed to say, “W-what are you doing?”
“I know what you’re doing.” He traced his fingers down the curve of her too-well-covered shoulder. “You’re helping people find where they belong, who they belong to. You rather remind me of my aunt. She also believes in the bliss of matrimony.”
“Only bliss with the right person.”
“Hm.” The longer he touched her, the more he wanted to touch her, strip the too-large coat away and see what the gown she wore looked like. Who was she? Educated and well-dressed, but with the freedom to move about London as she pleased. Odd, as well—she did not seem scared of his touch. In fact, her shoulders had begun to relax, and her head to tilt to the side. He could see only her profile, but that was enough. Her eyes had fluttered closed, and her lips had parted slightly. Was she an innocent, or had she experienced the lusty attentions of a man? She certainly seemed to enjoy his caress, was melting into his touch, minute though it was.
Minute? No, not small at all. It rocked raging desire through him. He would have to release her or do something he’d regret.
Regret? He couldn’t imagine ever regretting touching her. No way to know for sure.
Unless he tried.
The thought bred action like the wind blows a tree branch—immediate and uncontrollable. He slipped his hand farther around her neck and tipped her chin up, spilling her head back toward him until her lips were tilted just enough for him to bend low…
And kiss her.
Only bliss with the right person .
Then what in hell was this? Her lips warm and inviting, giving beneath his own, her breath like a chuckle. She tasted of champagne and chocolate, and he needed more. He lifted his lips from hers only to spin her in his arms and cup her cheeks, draw her closer. She grasped at him as well, clutching the open edges of his shirt near his neck and rolling up onto the balls of her feet as she met him kiss for kiss. Closed at first, and teasing as he explored the shape of the bottom lip she liked to chew, the top lip so like a bow.
He'd unwrap her. Sliding the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips, he told her his intentions. No words necessary. She sighed and tugged at his shirt, her bare fingers curling against his chest. Thank God he’d not seen the need to don a cravat when he’d hopped out of bed, haunted by her.
She’d haunt him even more now, wouldn’t she?
Her mouth parted, and he delved inside. Warm and wet and the most arousing thing he’d ever done. A single kiss. A damned single kiss.
One that had him walking her backward until her back pressed against the shelves and linen. One that had him leaving the home of her panting mouth to taste the fullness of her cheek, the lobe of her ear, the slope of her neck, that mesmerizing birth mark placed just so to devil him. One that flattened her palms against his chest as her breaths rushed ragged across his cheek, ruffled his hair. As he kissed her jawline, she buried her face in his neck with the slightest moan.
Heavy and hot. His body needed more of her, pressed against her, needed to sink into her. He caught up her hands, weaving their fingers together, and pinned them against the shelf just at her head height. She jolted away from him, her gaze heavy and hazy as she licked her lips, watched his.
“Hell,” he hissed.
Before he kissed her again, dropping down just as she surged up. Who was she to kiss like she knew his every secret, every dream? A true fairy, come to ruin him, to lead him to everlasting folly with a sharp tongue and soft body.
The first kiss had been an unexpected exploration, what it would have been had they kissed in the coach when her body had been thrown against his .
This second kiss a clash, as it would have been in the alley behind Hestia—two wills dueling for control and realizing, finally, they did not have to fight.
The kiss softened as he parted her legs with his knee. So much material between them, somehow none of it mattered because this kiss delved deeper than a suit of clothes, deeper than anything a disguise could hide. He moved his lips, gently, sucking at her bottom lip and licking at the top. When he released her hands to wrap his arms around her waist, she melted into him, her arms landing like a feather on a warm lake around his neck. He lifted his leg and bent his knee, lifting her off her feet as he settled his boot on the very bottom shelf, creating a shelf of his leg for her to perch on.
Somehow she knew what to do, and as her legs wrapped around his waist, her skirts bunched up. His hand found her knee and slid down her leg, over a ribbon and onto a stocking. Silk. What color? Either he’d know or perish. He broke the kiss to look down, resting his forehead against her chin. The sliver of light from the slightly cracked door fell across her leg. Cream. The softest cream stocking with a pale-blue ribbon holding it up. He shuddered, his body tightening, hardening everywhere.
He could take her here. Take this woman he barely knew and make her his in a damned linen closet. Door open a crack, maids likely ambling by.
Over. Done. This must end now.
Ending it seemed to go against every bone and breath in his body.
He must.
With trembling fingers, he untied the ribbon and placed it in his pocket. Then he set his boot on the ground and lowered her to her feet. She fell backward against the shelves, curling her hands into the thick wool of the greatcoat, her eyes wide now with more fright than she’d shown when he’d surprised her rummaging through that trunk.
He picked up her hat—it had fallen at some point—and handed it back. She held it like a shield between them.
He stepped backward toward the cracked door. “No more searching guests’ belongings. If I find out you’ve been doing that again, I’ll kick you out for good. Take whatever secrets you wish from this place. But never let a soul know where you found them.” Folly. All of it. But people needed safe homes, needed to belong. And she made that possible. So did he. In their own ways they followed the same star.
If felt like ripping his skin to leave her alone in the linen closet, her lips kiss-swollen.
But he did. Damn his soul. He did.