Chapter 6 #2
“Ye’re certain it’s her?” he murmured, ducking his head slightly, hating that he needed to rely on Rosie for this. “Did she notice us?”
Because in that moment, Bull didn’t give two shites about the case, or charming Madam Desiree into allowing them early access to the auction items, the way he’d explained in his letter to her.
Suddenly, all that mattered was Rosie’s reputation.
If one of Society’s granddames somehow recognized the two of them…
“She is not in costume and is sitting along the windows.” Rosie stepped closer, pretending to brush something from his shoulder as she peered over his shoulder. “She looks even less healthy than she did at the Gallery—so frail.”
“Why in the hell would she be here?” Bull growled, ducking his head to make his hair and height less obvious.
“Perhaps she is interested in the ruby-necklace portrait, after that one was stolen in front of her at the Gallery?” She was close enough that he could smell her light citrus scent.
“I dinnae ken,” he murmured, trying to ignore how fooking good she smelled. “We have to get ye out of here.”
“Me?” Bright green eyes blinked up at him. “But we are so close to examining Madam Desiree’s collection and—what was it Marcia once said? Cracking the case?”
“It doesnae matter anymore,” he muttered, his gaze darting from side to side, looking for an escape and wishing he could turn about and see how far away Eliza was.
“Bull?” her hand rose to cup his cheek, her tone a little panicky.
In a flash, his focus was on her once more, wondering how to calm her. “What is it? Just maintain the role, Rosie, I’ll get ye out of—”
“Bull, Lady Mistree is staring at the back of your head.” Her other hand snaked around his waist—his almost bare waist, sending a forbidden shudder through him—and she stepped closer as she tipped her head back, exposing the delectable column of her throat. “I think we need to allay suspicion.”
His brain had stopped working. That was the only explanation as to why there was nothing but silence in his head.
Rosie Hayle’s hands were on his skin, her tits were pushing up over the top of that gown he’d designed explicitly for this scandalous look, and she was looking up at him expectantly. And thus every single bit of Bull’s blood had abandoned his brain and drifted southward.
Allay suspicion? What the hell did that—
Rosie pushed herself up on her toes. “Bull, kiss me.”
He was obeying her order before he could think otherwise.
Rosie’s lips…
Rosie’s lips?
Good Christ, Rosie’s lips.
She should be an inexperienced kisser, and Bull had never had any interest in the hesitant dance of approval around virgins. Rosie might not have a clear idea of what she was supposed to be doing, but by God, she was doing it enthusiastically.
Bull felt his lips curl over hers—completely unbidden—as his hands rose to cup her cheeks, holding her in place as he took control of the kiss.
Gently, slowly, his tongue showed hers how to play, how to tease, and when she moaned against his lips, he swallowed her cry down and deepened the kiss until he could feel her heartbeat pulsing frantically against his fingertips.
It matched his own.
Her fingers curled into the material of the not-quite-a-waistcoat he’d designed, clutching him, trying to hold him close, and the realization made him want to crow. He’d given up on trying to hide his erection and now his cock throbbed against the stomach of her bejeweled gown.
She was the one to pull away, lowering herself back to the slippers he’d chosen. Was she shaking? Was he?
Bull stared down at her, wide-eyed, trying to process what had just happened, and noted that Rosie was breathing as heavily as he was.
What…?
Why had they…?
Och, aye. “Is—” Bull croaked. He swallowed and tried again. “Is Eliza—Lady Mistree still looking at us?”
Rosie blinked once, twice, as if trying to remember herself why they’d kissed. Then her green gaze flicked over his shoulder, and she shook her head just slightly. “She is speaking to her parrot friend again. Do you think she is here for the auction?”
They could speculate all they wanted, but at that moment, Bull just knew he had to get her away from this. Away from this depravity, where a half-naked bastard like him could paw at her. Could sink into her sweet taste, could tease her tongue, could…
Bull closed his eyes briefly, trying to swallow his groan.
“Well…” She exhaled, then loosened her hold on him to smooth his waistcoat. “I have said it before, but no one doubts I am your mistress now, Baron.”
He opened his mouth to throw blame, to explain, to excuse, to beg forgiveness—when a new, bored-sounding voice interrupted them. “Baron von Trapped?”
Bull didn’t do anything so crass as startle, but he did curse himself—yet again—for his inattentiveness. Why the hell was he finding it so hard to concentrate?
Och, aye. The hardness between his legs.
Still, years in this business, years of playing characters other than himself, had given him good instincts.
One blink, and he slid into the role of Baron von Trapped.
Bull took his time turning to face the man—the servant who was, in fact, dressed as a penguin. “Ja?” he murmured in irritation. “Vat is it zat you vish?”
The penguin gave an abbreviated little bow. “My mistress will see you now, Baron. You and your…ahem, lady are to come with me.”
As he turned on his heel and waddled away, Rosie slid her arm through his. “Told you no one would think you my uncle,” she murmured under her breath.
Who would, after that kiss?
“For fook’s sake, Rosie, I need to focus.”
She chuckled, likely at what she considered his weak cursing ability.
He should have been focused on the job, on protecting Allison and Rupert and solving the puzzle, but her laughter made him feel…lighter. As if they were in this together. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, as he hustled her after the penguin-man and away from any prying eyes.
Ahead of them, the penguin-man ducked behind a curtain and they followed. Bull breathed a sigh of relief when it swung down behind them, blocking them from outside eyes. He needed to focus on the game, the role…not on the people behind him. Not on that kiss.
That life-shattering kiss.
He’d spent two decades playing roles, but even before then…He’d been playing a role most of his life, hadn’t he? Who even was Bull Lindsay anymore?
Was he the child delinquent desperately afraid of being left behind and ignored, who’d perfected the art of sleight-of-hand and general indispendibility in order to hide the doubt of his own self-worth?
Or was he the young man who knew he would never amount to anything, and thus pushed himself harder to be louder, more charming, more friendly than those around him, trying to hide that worry beneath a veneer of bright colors?
Or was he the man he’d become this last decade, the man who had grown tired of pretending to be someone he wasn’t? The man who, even now, wrapped himself in the haughty iciness of a foreign baron in a strange world, wanting to be more than he was?
Aye, keep a hold of that uncertainty, it’ll make ye haughtier, which will fit the role.
Baron von Trapped had a place in this world, knew his place in this world…unlike Bull. The Baron knew his worth, unlike Bull.
Baron von Trapped would not show uncertainty in the home of a famous courtesan, and Bull had to be the baron right now.
The tap-tapping of the servant’s cane drew them toward what appeared to be a long gallery.
Rosie hummed softly. “Why do you think he is wearing that monocle and top hat? And carrying a cane?”
“Because he’s a penguin, obviously,” Bull muttered distractedly, his gaze flicking over the hundreds of paintings lining the walls. “Fook,” he muttered, overwhelmed by the number of artworks they’d have to search. “Excuse my French.”
This time her giggle was more of a snort. “That is not French. Va te faire foutre is French.”
Was this funny to her? He frowned down at her.
Rosie’s smile grew. “Moldy wankbiscuits, Bull. Remember that I am not the child you seem to recall me being.”
Nay.
Nay, there was nothing childish about the woman on his arm, the woman who had so recently been in his arms. The woman who had kissed him. The woman he had kissed back.
Ye’re ancient, compared to her.
Except…
Moments ago, he hadn’t felt ancient. He’d felt alive, and it had little to do with the role he was playing…
And everything to do with her.
“My dear baron!” An older woman was sweeping toward them, dressed in the incongruous gown of a milkmaid, with long blonde pigtails passing her shoulders. “How kind of you to accept my invitation!”
Bull eyed the plunging neckline, acknowledging silently that the costume was well-made to hold her in, even if she was about thirty years past ‘maid’ status.
Heh. A well-made milkmaid.
She was clutching a—was that a baby sheep? Yes, it was, an actual baby sheep. Why would a milkmaid need a sheep? Och, was she supposed to be a shepherdess? Aye, perhaps that’s what the crook was for.
If that bodice fails, we’re going to get more than a peek of Little Bo Peep.
The wee animal was either asleep or sedated, to look so peaceful curled in her arm like that, while the other clutched the beribboned crook.
Madam Desiree turned to her servant, the penguin, and thrust the accoutrements at him. “Here, Oswald, take Pretty out for some fresh air.”
The man slid his gloved hands under the lamb’s forelegs and held the thing out at arms’ length. As the animal’s head flopped to one side, the servant intoned, “I doubt fresh air will help, Madam.”
She waved him away with a frown. “Go away, Oswald.”
The man managed to bow while holding a baby sheep, then waddled away. Bull watched him retreat from the corner of his eye and briefly wondered if he was devoted to the costume, or if the penguin costume had been chosen because he naturally moved like that…