Chapter 7 #2
“Three days until the day, mate. Gonna cost you. But I control half of the shipping channels in London, so anything can be bought. And I do mean damn near anything.” He slipped a cheroot from his waistcoat pocket and wiggled it between his lips.
“As your friend, because blunt is tight, I suppose it’s gonna cost me .
For the girl, I’m guessing? I can secure any toy you wish to put your hands on. ”
Chance rubbed the glass back and forth across his lips.
He could ask Macauley for this favor when he wouldn’t ask Tobias Streeter.
Because Hildy’s husband was in love and at the stage where he wanted everyone else to be.
Macauley didn’t believe in love. In fact, he often compared the emotion to an infection.
He’d never suspect Chance was doing anything aside from trying to get into a chit’s drawers.
“Her presents are hidden at the bottom of my wardrobe. Doll, new clothes, sweets. Even a puzzle of a duck in a lake or some such. She’s swimming in gifts. What I need is for the governess.”
Macauley grunted, the unlit cheroot bobbing between his lips. “Ah, there it lies. This entire city is collapsing around me. Love, marriage, children. It’s ghastly. I may have to move to the continent.”
“This is nothing romantic. Just art supplies. I can give you a small list.”
Macauley blew a breath though his teeth, removed the cheroot, and tossed his scotch back. “Hildy will bash you over the head with her umbrella should she find out. The Shaw chit is one of hers now, you know that. The bloody Duchess Society. The American is in knee deep, God help her.”
Chance couldn’t stop himself from asking, a blunder he blamed on the scotch, “Have you ever felt something you didn’t want to, Mac? Even once? Like you stumbled across a treasure in the most unexpected place?”
“Under someone’s skirt, you mean? Sure, lots of treasure to be found there.
” But his gaze immediately skipped across the ballroom, defying his indifference.
Chance followed it only to find the Duke of Leighton’s sister, Lady Philippa, standing by the window, plotting her escape.
Blond, beautiful, and animated in a way that drew a man’s attention, she was dangerous.
A reckless chit who pretended not to be.
The worst kind. Too everything for Xander Macauley, a blackguard who would never be allowed near her.
It would be irony of a sort if that was the chit who brought him down.
Leighton and Macauley were friends, of sorts.
If you counted being thrown in the Thames as friendship, which had happened last year.
Leighton the one doused, Macauley the one standing on the riverside laughing.
But Macauley going after Lady Philippa would ruin everything. The man couldn’t be that foolish.
Chance peered into his glass, wishing for more alcohol. “I guess your silence means no.”
“Send me the list of supplies you need,” Macauley growled and strode away, headed to the drink cart in the corner .
Leaving Chance to watch his bogus governess twirl in the arms of her betrothed.
Franny was starving. Lightheaded, her stomach growling incessantly.
She wasn’t used to going hours without a bite to eat.
But she’d followed the modiste’s advice, and her borrowed gown had held.
After being escorted back to Rose Hill by Tobias Streeter and his contingent, she headed directly for the kitchen—and the plate of lemon scones she’d spied before leaving.
Shrugging from her coat only to find Chance Allerton sprawled on the bottom step of his grand staircase like an expectant father.
He’d been at the ball, studying her from the perimeter of the dance floor much like he was now.
Emotion she couldn’t discern lighting his vivid blue eyes.
She’d heard the whispers about him. He’d refused to waltz, angering every ravenous mother in attendance, then rudely disappeared.
There were numerous theories about where he’d gotten off to.
A new mistress, a card game in a back parlor, a brawl with his hoodlum friends, but near the truth of possibly being sick of occupying a room swarming with sycophants.
Franny hated to admit it, but she’d felt a burst of relief at seeing Lady Chapman-Holmes in the crowd after Remington left. He wasn’t with his old mistress. However, he could have been attending a new one.
She was jealous… but no one needed to know.
He glanced up as she halted at the staircase.
Close enough to catch the scent of bergamot clinging to his skin, the faint hint of scotch riding the air.
His hair was a gorgeous disaster, disheveled from handling.
His cravat untied, the ends dangling down his chest. His jacket tossed over the banister, shirt undone enough to expose his collarbone.
Sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing muscular forearms that almost no man in the ton could claim.
He’d gone from masterfully attired to lord of a country manor in a blink.
She didn’t have to try hard to imagine him with no clothing whatsoever. Another of her secrets. She had a vibrant imagination where he was concerned.
“Katherine is asleep in the nursery. Your companion is with her, on a settee that looks to be barely holding her. I think, despite her frightening demeanor, she’s actually good with children.”
“She’s very good with children. She’s simply not good with men.”
Chance’s brow rose, waiting for her to say more, so she didn’t.
Finally, he scrubbed his hand over his mouth, tilting his head, thinking. “You’re going to marry him, then. It looked quite official on the ballroom floor. Hillsdale had a look of complete ownership on his face. Should I offer congratulations?”
A wave of lightheadedness hit her, and Franny swayed, reaching for the newel post. Her bonnet tumbled to the floor.
Chance was on his feet instantly, grasping her shoulders.
She shook her head, embarrassed, trying to sidestep his bruising hold.
Yanking her coat from her arms, he tossed it over the banister alongside his.
“I haven’t eaten. This dress. It’s Hildy’s, and the modiste implied my ample curves would bust the seams if I consumed so much as even one biscuit.”
With a harsh oath, his hand trailed down her arm, leaving fire in its wake.
Clasping her fingers, he led her down the hallway, thankfully toward the kitchen.
He linked his with hers, the first time she’d held hands with a man in her life.
“Your body is a bloody fantasy, don’t let anyone tell you differently. ”
She stumbled along behind him, her breath caught in her chest. Fantasy . She’d never been anyone’s fantasy.
Well past midnight, the kitchen was deserted when they entered it.
Only the scent of grilled meat and stewed cabbage remained.
Lighting a candle, then a wall sconce, Chance pulled out a chair from a scuffed table the scullery staff used for meals.
“Turn,” he ordered after she sat. Too hungry to argue, she swiveled, presenting her back.
From the first touch, she couldn’t have said a rational word had her life depended on it.
He was efficient. Obviously well acquainted with the intricacies of women’s attire. Easily undoing the top two buttons of her gown, allowing her to breathe without constraint. He wore no gloves, and his calloused fingertips sent trails of heat whispering through her.
The man worked with his hands, and it showed.
He paused, a sigh slipping free, his body towering over her.
She was thankful she couldn’t gaze into his face from this position.
“If you were truly my governess, I wouldn’t be this familiar.
Not that I should, in any case. But we’re friends more than the other, I suppose.
Employer and such. I wanted you to know.
” Stepping back, he swore beneath his breath, his hands dropping from her.
“I’m not, that is, I’ve never taken advantage of someone vulnerable. ”
Her heart skipped a beat because a man had once taken advantage of her vulnerability. “You’ve never had to. They come to you.” She glanced over her shoulder, letting him know she appreciated his honesty. And that she was teasing.
Startled, he blinked and stepped back, bumping into the cupboard.
Lips curving in self-mockery, he began assembling the items to make tea.
Tea . Her fascination blossomed in the cozy confines of his decaying estate’s kitchen—as she watched an honorable viscount trying desperately to prove he was honorable.
No one had believed him before, she guessed.
In less than a minute, he delivered a plate piled high with cheese, ham, and the lemon scones she’d spied earlier, followed soon by a cup of tea, steam lifting free to tickle her nose.
Then he sprawled in the opposite chair, his own cup cradled in his broad palms. The tip of his boot edged her ankle, and they shifted in their seats to adjust, gazes downcast.
She took a sip of excellently brewed tea and dug into the ham. “You’re quite handy in the kitchen, my lord,” she murmured, chewing as delicately as a ravenous person could.
“Destitution requires a man to prepare his own meals. My funds only allow for service at breakfast and lunch.” He sipped, his cobalt gaze striking hers over the rim of his cup. “You’ve never had a viscount wait on you before? Is that what I’m hearing?”
“I’ve never had any man wait on me.”
Her words registered in a way she hadn’t intended. The chemical charge that traveled between them whenever they were in the same space crackled like lightning. His pupils expanded, a muscle in his jaw starting to tick. Seconds passed while they breathed softly in the winter twilight.
Finally, in tense silence, he reached for a scone. Then turned it in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it.