Chapter Seven #2
“What does “we’re a bunch of butcher’s dogs” mean?” she asked. Neville would likely know.
“Pardon?”
She rolled her eyes. “Just tell me. If you don’t, Asquith will. He collects books about cant.”
He hesitated. Then, he sighed harshly. “It’s a crass phrase.”
“That much, I’ve already deduced. Please just explain.”
“To lie by the beef without touching it is a simile.” He sounded wearied. Embarrassed. “The phrase usually refers to men long married, whose wives don’t permit…marital activities.”
Neville was uncomfortable in a way that crude young man had not been.
“A butcher’s dog is a man who can look at a lady but not touch her, you mean?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I thought as much!” Millie frowned. “And “dairy” and “heavers” are words for breasts, aren’t they?”
“Millicent!”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Must you sound so shocked?”
“Where did you hear such things?”
She ignored Neville’s question. If Willard had not truly intended to marry her and brought her purposely among such men…
She placed her hand over her stomach and let out a whimper.
“Millie—oh, Millie.” She felt Neville move closer. “Please tell me what happened. I swear I will do everything I can to make things right.”
“You haven’t that power.” But she wished he had. Angry tears stung in her eyes. “I feel faint.”
“At least let me hold you, then—”
Hold her? Her first instinct was a resounding no.
But, just a few moments ago, being in his arms had been a great comfort. A consoling repetition, an echo, almost, of an earlier, simpler time.
“—You’ve clearly suffered a terrible shock.”
His soft, almost sponge-like tone made her feel as if he could absorb some of her stupefaction.
“Do you wish to hold me just because I said I was dizzy?” she asked, not wanting to go from Willard’s frying pan into Neville’s fire.
“Yes! Of course.” He paused. “Right now, I could have no other reason.”
She discerned nothing lecherous in his voice. Nothing lustful or obscene. But he wouldn’t subject her to lewdness, would he? This was Neville.
She believed him.
“Very well, then.” Before she could change her mind, she stepped back into the warm circle of his arms. “I am just…just a little bit tired.”
“I know, Millie. I know.”
She rested against his wide shoulders, so firm and real. He reassured her that her ordeal was over and that she would never have to worry about Willard again in dozens of different phrases.
Happy thoughts.
Happy, false thoughts. Men like Willard were not inconveniences that could simply be left behind. At present, however, she did feel secure.
Neville was as compellingly solid as she remembered. And he enveloped her in comfortable warmth. She lost herself, lulled by his list of comforts, litany that had become lullaby. Then, gradually, in her embrace, she warmed, and her curiosity returned.
“How did you come to be here tonight?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
“I don’t remember seeing you in any of the boxes.” She would have noticed him, too. She always instinctively knew exactly where to find Neville, no matter how large or how crowded the room.
“The reasons don’t matter right now.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “All that matters is that you rest. Rest and recover, and then we will decide what to do.”
Rest sounded nice.
Though the room was too dark to make any difference, she closed her eyes. Heat. Vigor. Leather. Hints of bergamot and clove. She’d been here, in this very position, sometime long ago. Last time, however, the fabric beneath her cheek had been soft.
She moved her cheek.
The wool Neville wore tonight was rough. And his coat had a wide lapel not at all in his usual style. Tentatively, she smoothed her hands up his arms before dragging them down over his chest. Was that a cape?
God in heaven! She had found him in the crowd!
She pulled back. “You’re one to talk!” She mimicked his phrasing. “I did see you, didn’t I?” She gripped the fabric’s folds and shook him as hard as she could. “Down in the pit. With your—with your—” She forced herself to say the word. “—harlot!”
“No, Millie, no! Not my—! Not even…” He sounded desperate. “For God’s sake, stop shaking me.”
“No!”
“But I can’t think!”
She stopped. She hadn’t been able to think in Willard’s presence, and she’d hated the feeling. She pursed her lips. She would not release Neville, though.
He might need shaking again.
“I should have known,” she said bitterly. “The most sanctimonious men are always the ones with the most to hide. Don’t bother to deny you were flirting with the woman. I saw you!”
“I haven’t denied anything. I was in the pit. But the woman you saw me with is not, nor has ever been, my—” He paused. “I have never paid for a woman’s company, Millie! Nor do I have a mistress of any kind.”
“Ugh.” She groaned. “She was draped over you.”
“She was whispering an answer to a question I asked—a very important question. She came with me to identify—” He stopped short. “Millie, there are things about…” His voice trailed. “Hold on a moment. How did you recognize me?”
“Your shoulders, dunce.” She shook him once more time.
Then, a terrible emotion that felt suspiciously like jealousy choked her into silence and stillness. Not his mistress. She had to remind herself.
She believed him about that, too.
Her harsh breathing shifted, their breath mingling in the small space between them.
She tried but could not make herself let him go.
She should. She must. In fact, she should demand he leave, too.
But no argument she could think of would pry her hands from his coat, not even the recollection of that awful shade of green.
She had Neville. And she refused to free him. Not until…
Not until…
Until what?
“Did you just say,” he spoke very slowly, “you recognized me by my shoulders?”
“They are distinctive,” she said defensively. Obviously.
“Distinctive.” He sounded dumfounded. “My God—”
She scowled. In their short conversation, Neville had broken the first commandment too many times for her to remember. He must be out of his mind tonight. He, who was always so controlled….
“You find my shoulders distinctive?” he asked.
What was wrong with him? Couldn’t he properly hear?
“Impossible…” His voice trailed. “Absolutely impossible. You’re—”
“Don’t bother to finish,” she interrupted him. “I already know what you’re going to say. I always know what you’re going to say.”
“Then what do you think I am about to say now?” His grip on her waist tightened.
A thrill passed through her body. But not, this time, anger…nor fear, but something closer to the invigorating feeling she’d felt in the maze. And the dazed sense she’d had with Willard? She no longer felt even a whiff.
Yes, Neville’s hold had firmed. But she had a solid clasp on him, too.
If she wanted, she could bring up her knee and slam him hard where he would hurt most. Then, if she wanted, she could shove him clear across the room.
Did she want to do either?
No. No, she didn’t. Not while she was still quite enjoying his heat.
“See?” he challenged. “You have no idea, do you?”
“You were going to say,” she answered with confidence she no longer felt, “that I am trouble.”
He sighed harshly. “You, Millicent Wainwright, are not just trouble. You’re… Oh, God help me.”
As he turned his head away, his cheek scraped against hers.
Heat cascaded through her body. She was fully alert. Again, not with fear, but with an unfamiliar sense of excited anticipation.
“Next, you’ll be telling me I am”—she altered her voice and mimicked Willard’s cadence—“en-tire-ly un-a-ware of the ef-fect I have on men.”
“What the devil, Millie? I would never imply—” He stopped himself. “You know I have never said any such thing!”
“You didn’t.”
Neville’s fingers bit into her hips. “Did Willard say that to you?”
He was breathing even harder now. She thought ignoring the question wise. “Yes.”
“I will kill him.”
Well, murder seemed an overreaction. She hadn’t even told Neville the worst part yet.
Perhaps Willard had been right about one thing. She had been unaware. Not of the effect she had on men. Of men in general, she couldn’t care less. As a matter of fact, she would prefer to remain unnoticed by the entire sex.
All, it seemed, except one.
And, right now, from the way he was holding her, she knew she had that one’s full attention. She’d been unaware of the effect she had on Neville, other than to anger and infuriate him. But she was not unaware anymore.
Neville cared for her, she was sure. He wanted her, too.
Not in the same predatory way Willard had expressed his “passion,” but in a way that had left Neville frantic when he thought she might be harmed. She’d watched him push through the crowd, hadn’t she? That haste—that rude, thoughtless urgency so out of character—must have been on her account.
Neville cared. About her…
Against his own will, perhaps, but he cared. Not out of some sense of superiority, as she’d once assumed. Nor because he’d thought her pretty and docile, as when they’d first met. But for some other, deeper reason. A reason that left him panting, almost wild with fear.
Should she be scared, too?
She wasn’t. Not any longer, at least.
“Let me go,” she demanded, testing him. Just to be sure. Because she’d been wrong about him before.
He released her immediately. But he didn’t step away.
Nor did she release him. “Be honest, Neville.”
“Of course.”
“Do you really find me morally reprehensible?”
His chest expanded and fell with each not-so-silent breath. “No,” he said finally. “I never have. But you… You frustrate me.”
She smiled in the darkness. The small win gave her an outsized thrill. Though at an equal physical disadvantage as she’d been with Willard, she was not entirely without power.
“Do you think you are morally reprehensible?” she asked.
“No…” He uttered an oath beneath his breath. “Well, yes. Maybe. Sometimes. I have thoughts I shouldn’t have. I act in ways that I don’t want to act.”
Millie wrinkled her nose, remembering blonde curls. “Like with that woman?”
“No! Not her. Never.”
His vehemence gave her a start.