Chapter 21
AN HOUR LATER
Blaze hopped down from his carriage and onto the unwashed cobbles of Osborn Street, calling up to Stanley, “You can come back in an hour.”
“Right ye are,” said the driver and flapped the reins, urging the matched pair of blacks into motion.
Blaze set his feet toward his destination. He’d skipped last Wednesday, so best he showed his face today or Molly Weaver would get fussed.
But he’d had a good reason for his absence. He’d been in Brighton, seeing the second Archangel club getting fitted up for business.
He hadn’t precisely needed to go, he supposed.
But he hadn’t been able to stay in London, either.
Not with Viveca only a short carriage ride away.
Not knowing he could walk into her place of business bold as he pleased and see her anytime between the hours of nine o’clock and four.
Maybe, just maybe, he should take to the road.
Go to all those countries the aristocratic lordlings liked to visit on their Grand Tour.
Blaze snorted.
Grand Tour.
Nobs didn’t miss an opportunity to puff themselves up, did they?
Still, the notion held appeal.
To see all those mountains in Switzerland and those ancient ruins in Rome and maybe a Greek island or two.
And to keep him out of London for a few years.
He could sell his majority share in The Archangel to Dupratt and Ricard. After all, he’d made his fortune. What did he have left to prove to anyone, or even himself, for that matter?
He could do as he liked, when he liked.
Except that wasn’t precisely true, was it?
There were Mam and Granddad. Even Lady Bea figured into the picture, along with that little niece or nephew who was coming at Christmas. Then there was all he’d built.
He couldn’t turn tail and run.
He couldn’t desert his life.
He couldn’t desert his folk.
That wasn’t him.
So, he would just have to accept the fact of Lady Viveca Calthorp sharing the same town as him.
He’d suffered worse tribulations in his life.
Truly, he had.
Except his heart was having a hard time remembering when.
He’d just reached the top step of Number 3 when a female figure stepped into the doorway and blocked his path. Before him, stood the sturdy, unyielding figure of Molly Weaver. “Well, well, well, Molly,” he said, “you been keeping a lookout for me?”
“Aye.”
His head cocked. He couldn’t say he much cared for that grim note in her voice. “Is there something I should know?”
He didn’t much care for the slightly frantic glimmer in her eye, either.
“There’s a lady here.”
Blaze wasn’t too bothered. “You’ve met Lady Ormonde.”
Tessa liked to help out when she was in London—and in between bearing offspring for the marquess.
“Not that lady.”
“Is it Lady Bea, then?”
Molly shook her head. “The lady what was here a few weeks back.”
It was only now that Blaze’s ear picked up the faint, feminine murmurings echoing down the corridor. And through those faint, feminine murmurings threaded a voice he would know anywhere. Then came a sudden, breath-held pause, followed by a quick burst of laughter.
Of course.
Viveca would bring smiles and laughter, probably with no small amount of shock, too.
It was her way.
Of their own accord, Blaze’s feet were already moving toward the back of the building…toward that voice.
He reached the storeroom where the various foods and sundries were sorted, but didn’t enter. He stopped at the threshold.
Immediately, his gaze found her, as surely as the eye was drawn to the brightest star in the firmament on a black winter’s night, and he understood at once exactly how wretched he’d been these last few weeks.
It was in the contrast.
There was life from twenty seconds ago, before he’d seen her, and life now—joy, pure and unfettered, winging through him, encouraging his heart to lift out of his chest. His blood singing through his veins, when only seconds ago it was a slow and resentful slog.
Viveca’s gaze shifted, and her eyes met his.
The world around them faded into irrelevance in a snap.
Blaze couldn’t be sure how long they stood so, but the silence that descended on the room did stand out, as did the snickering women sidling past him as they exited the storeroom.
Which left only him and Viveca.
In some small corner of his mind, he experienced a ruffling of umbrage. She couldn’t go on doing this—entering his world when the whim took hold of her. He couldn’t go on having his heart ripped from his chest every so often and without warning.
Once was enough.
But this other part of him—the bigger part—continued to be flooded with that joy.
And he knew a shameful fact with absolute certainty: If she chose to drop into his life unannounced whenever the whim struck her, he would take those crumbs and starve himself on them, just to be with her, all past resolutions—and pride—in shreds.
It was only when she tipped her head that he saw it—the determined glint in her eye.
He attempted to brace himself…to harden himself…not to feel—and failed.
He felt as if the very universe were expanding in his chest.
Oh, he was a wretch, wasn’t he?
You’re not about to ask me to marry you again, are you?
All those weeks ago, he’d spoken those words to get her to leave.
But today, in this moment, if she asked, he wasn’t certain he would have the strength to speak that no a second time.
“Lady Viveca.” He didn’t trust himself to say anything else.
“Blaze.” She glanced around. “This is quite an impressive operation you have here.”
“Think so?”
“Everyone has nothing but good things to say about it.” She hesitated. “And you.”
He propped a shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest—and waited.
She had something to say.
All right.
Let her say it.
Then she would leave and the clock would start all over and life would again become a slow and resentful slog.
“The first time I ever saw you wasn’t at Sirens.”
Unexpected, that.
“That so?”
“It was two years ago at The Race of the Century,” she said, nodding. “What really caught my eye was the diamond stud in your ear.”
He snorted. “You wouldn’t be the first lady it had that effect upon.”
The words were true enough, but that wasn’t why he’d spoken them.
They were distancing words…necessary words.
Her head tipped to the side, and she took a step—closer. He tried not to tense and kept his stance loose.
“I found it interesting,” she said. “I found you interesting.”
He sucked his teeth. “An interesting bit of rough?”
More necessary, distancing words.
She shook her head and took another step, bringing her around the room’s large central table.
Now, nothing stood between them.
Just a few feet of air.
It was getting harder to brace himself against her.
An onslaught, that was what this was.
And if he didn’t put a stop to it, he would soon be overwhelmed.
Yet, when he dug deep, all he found was an utter lack of will to resist.
She was shaking her head. “The man I love would be more than that.”
Blaze’s lungs forgot how to breathe.
His ears needed checking, too, for there were some words in that sentence—and one, in particular—that were naught more than wishful hearing.
She took another step, and he caught her scent—and, oh, the ache and longing it inspired. He’d read some more of that Byron poet lord. The fellow sure knew how to catch this feeling and commit it to paper, didn’t he?
“The man I love would be brilliant and exciting,” she said. “Funny…fun. And caring, and, oh, so handsome. He would have just the right amount of rogue in him, too.”
“Sounds like a verifiable paragon.” Blaze should leave it at that. But when did he ever listen to should? Still… He shouldn’t say the next words that were perched on the tip of his tongue… “You should marry that rogue.”
Viveca was so close now, he could reach out and touch her.
And this air that surrounded them… It was rich with a magical feeling of surprise and…possibility.
Her gaze didn’t falter as she said, “If he will have me.”
Blaze considered the idea that he could draw this out. He could play his usual games.
But this was Viveca.
He wouldn’t play games with her.
Not those kind, anyway.
“Yes,” he said.
Her eyes shone like blue glass with unshed tears. “Yes?”
“Yes, I will marry you,” he said, reaching out and slipping a hand around the indent of her waist, drawing her close.
“But I won’t marry you for your beauty or intelligence or the fact that you’re the most interesting person I have met in my entire life or the other fact that you’re also the best tup I’ve ever had in my life. ”
“Thank you?” she said on a laugh and instantly sobered. “But, Blaze, you don’t have to marry me for noble reasons, either. Society doesn’t know about us. I’m not ruined.”
“’Tis I who am ruined, Viveca,” he uttered into the scant space between their mouths. “Utterly and completely ruined for you. I’ll be marrying you for love and only love.”
A smile tipped about her mouth. “Despite my beauty, intelligence, and bedsport proficiency?”
“Yes,” he said. “I mean, no. Blast it, woman. I love you, and you love me.”
“I do love you,” she said, that truth shining in her fervent eyes. “With all my heart and soul.”
“There’s folk who won’t like it.”
“I don’t belong to those folk.” That determined glint he knew so well shone in her eyes. “I belong to you, Blaze Jagger. You are my folk. We share a spirit.” She pressed her palm to his chest. “We share a heart.”
And when he angled down and pressed his mouth to hers, he poured every bit of his spirit and heart and soul into it—and met hers there.