Chapter 4
UNEXPECTEDLY MARRIED
The grave digger sat beside Victor on the front bench of the brougham in a high-necked blue gown. It was frayed and faded and had seen better days years ago. But she looked fresh. Innocent. Sweet.
But the body beneath that thin muslin was a beautiful sin.
And his hands itched to do some sinning.
Why not? She was a widow, and he’d been too long without a woman. If she was amenable…
“Do stop staring at me like that,” she said without looking at him. She’d been looking straight ahead since they’d taken off, little nose pointing up like a compass toward truth.
“Like what?”
“Do not pretend,” she snapped. “I know when a man is using his eyeballs to undress a woman. I’m not a green girl.”
Her eyes were green, though. So very. “How old are you?”
“One and thirty.”
“I’m three years your senior.”
“And that is significant because?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I need you to know I’m superior to you in every conceivable way.”
“Not morally.”
“You’ve promised to help me rob graves, so I’m not sure your moral high ground remains.”
Her hands clenched in her lap.
“I was looking at you,” he said, “because you’re pretty.”
A flush of red flashed across her cheeks.
“When you meet a woman covered in mud and wearing britches, you don’t expect she’s a beauty. But you’ve surprised me. I thought I’d have to glamour your appearance to be seen with you in public. But you clean up nicely.”
“Good God, you can’t help it can you? Insulting and rude around every corner. Do you go to school for it? Or do dukes like you inherit such hubris with your magic?”
“Comes before the magic. We’re born with it.”
She scowled then studied his profile, finally looking at him instead of the horse’s rear end. “You look different.”
“I’ve glamoured my face. Just a bit. So no one recognizes me.”
“You’re ridiculous. The whole lot of you are ridiculous.”
“The whole lot of us?”
“You transcendents. Nothing is real about you. Nothing is solid. It’s all sleight of hand and distraction. Pretty illusions hiding a rotten core.”
“You’re right.” He’d been so excited to inherit his father’s talent, the magic that was his by birthright but only his through death. His father’s last exhalation had entered him, set his blood ablaze. Anything, he’d thought, I can do anything now.
What a lie.
“That easy?” she said. “I tear down your people, the class that rules England, and you simply agree with me?”
He shrugged and maneuvered the brougham through a space in the traffic. He’d be glad when the crowds of London gave way to the open road.
“You’re very good, though,” she said. “With the glamours. I’ve seen some that appear entirely fake, sparkly and flat, and when you try to touch them, they don’t even waver.
But yesterday, when you fiddled with your clothes, it appeared as if you were truly touching the finery.
I thought it was a trick, and I know you cannot touch the glamours, not really.
I felt your hands last night though it appeared as if you were wearing gloves. ”
“I am good. Better than most. It takes an ungodly amount of energy to produce an illusion that appears to be impacted by touch.”
“I’ve already complimented you. Do you want me to fawn further?”
“No. I say it more for myself. Consider it an admittance of exhaustion, of weakness.” God, he sounded maudlin. He needed sleep. “You should go inside the brougham and sleep.”
“I don’t trust you enough to sleep around you.”
“Still afraid I’ll cut off your hand?”
She sniffed.
“Very well, then. Perhaps you can drive, and I can sleep.”
“No thank you. I don’t trust horses.”
“You don’t trust me. You don’t trust horses. What do you trust?”
“No one. Nothing. Not even myself.”
“That’s not true.” He’d seen her trust just that morning. “Your neighbor. You offered her the use of some jar beneath a bed? Though I’m not confident there’s anything under your bed but an infestation.”
“A little bit of savings. Though I shouldn’t tell you because no doubt you’ll steal it.” She yawned.
“I won’t.” Likely it wouldn’t be enough, not nearly as much as he needed. Even still… she shouldn’t trust him. Not that she ever would.
He was about to say more, but her head dropped to one side and her eyelids drooped, and as quietly and quickly as he’d fallen into a freshly dug grave last night, she fell asleep sitting upright.
He hadn’t smiled in so long, it felt tight and awkward. But she was swaying and sleeping, and he couldn’t help himself. “Sleep while you can, Miss… Shit.” He didn’t even know her name.
Not that her name mattered. She was a grave digger he’d use for his own purposes then never see again. Meant less than a hunting dog he might keep in the stables.
Still… what had her neighbor called her?
“Sephy.”
She stirred in her sleep and listed toward the outer side of the brougham.
He dove for her, pulling her back to the center before she could fall out. Only he yanked her too hard, and she landed against his shoulder. He froze. She snorted, a grating sound that morphed into a soft snore and then melted into silence.
“You can stay there for now,” he said as she nestled into his side. Better this than she fall out of the brougham and break her neck. He couldn’t afford to lose her little alchemist’s hands and all the riches they would unlock for him.
* * *
The grave digger slept the entire damned way to the first inn, and when the brougham rolled to a stop in the coaching yard, Victor slipped the ring on her finger.
Somehow, she still did not wake. He almost hated to wake her.
But that little sign of weakness, that almost, propelled his elbow into her ribs.
She squeaked, lifted her head, and opened her sleep-hazed eyes as he passed the reins to the groom who’d approached.
Then he gathered her up and jumped with her to the ground.
She squeaked and clung to him, her soft arms tight around his neck.
“What’s happening?” she cried into his chest.
“You sleep like the dead, that’s what’s happening.”
She looked up, eyes blinking so fast, he imagined a slight breeze coming from them. “Put me down.”
“Yes, dear. Stay close.”
“Dear?” She scowled. “Where are we?”
“Seven or so hours from London. We’ll stop here for the night.”
She rubbed her eyes with her fist as he unloaded the brougham. Then she froze. “What is this?” She held her hand in front of her face, perfectly flat like a blade. Her eyes almost crossed as she inspected the gold band he’d put around her finger.
“Your wedding ring, dear. Don’t you remember?” Hefting his valise in one arm, he kissed her temple and wrapped his other arm around her waist. “We were married just this morning.”
“What are you doing?” she hissed, her eyes shooting daggers.
He leaned low and whispered in her ear, “Ensuring you’re always within my sight. You’re my key, Sephy, and I’m not going to let you get away.”
“I ha—”
“Hate me. Yes, I know. Ah, innkeeper!” He raised an arm and snapped his fingers. “My wife and I need a place to rest our heads tonight. We’re on the way to Manchester to visit with her family.”
“My name is Mr. Trembly. I’m the owner of this establishment. And we have plenty of room. Plenty of room.” The innkeeper, a bald man with a voluminous mustache inspected them from top to bottom. “What kind of room are you looking for?”
“Private, innkeeper,” Victor barked. “I do not like to share my wife with anyone.”
The man’s lips thinned, and he barely hid his annoyance when he said, “Understandable. Right this way.”
“You could be nice to Mr. Trembly,” his pretend wife hissed.
“Why?”
She sighed. “Take note: I tried to poke you in the direction of generally decent human behavior.”
He did not laugh. But he wanted to.
Ten minutes later, they were locked into a small room that overlooked the coaching yard, and Victor’s hand was burning.
He might be allergic to whatever metal composed the ring he’d pilfered last night.
But other things were burning, too. His heart had become a drum in his chest, and his veins were pumping all available blood south.
His body appeared to be working up the most magnificent and insistent cockstand he’d ever managed.
And every time he looked at his traveling companion… it got worse.
He shrugged out of his greatcoat as she shrugged out of her threadbare mantle. She shook her hand. Her cheeks were red as apples. She peeked at him with shy little glances.
Fuck.
He wanted to drive into her hard and fast.
He found the washbasin and splashed water on his face, though it did nothing to cool him off. He dropped the glamour hiding his identity as he stood, flicking away droplets of water from his fingertips.
“What is your name?” he asked.
She blinked. “You don’t know my name? Oh…
yes, of course you don’t know. I never told you.
” Her gaze settled on his lips. She licked her own lips.
Then she pushed him out of the way to splash her face with water.
She shook droplets everywhere then paced across the room to stand as far from him as possible. “Persephone Graves.”
“Persephone Graves?” Sephy. “That can’t be your name. You’re bamming me.”
“I’m not!”
“Graves is a bit too on the nose, isn’t it?”
“You’re not the first to notice, and you will not be the last. It’s very unoriginal of you.”
“Is it also unoriginal of me to say I want to strip you bare and lap your nipples into my mouth.”
“What?” she squeaked.
“I’ve thought of nothing else since we entered this cursed room. It must be cursed. Why else do I want to drag my teeth along the skin of your belly until I get to your sweet cunny, where I’ll begin to use my tongue instead and—”
“Can you afford this room?” She barked the question, so loud and clear their neighbors likely heard.
“I’ve some emergency funds tucked away. And I’m not entirely without means. If we need funds, I’ll perform some glamour work for someone in town, earn a coin or two.”
She took two hesitant steps toward him. “Glamour work?”