Chapter 13 Pesky Relatives
PESKY RELATIVES
Eleven days later
The rhythm of Victor’s heart beneath Persephone’s ear was music.
Her favorite thing to wake to, and she’d woken to it eleven mornings in a row now.
Another rhythm she’d become to adore? The one that brought her from the alchemist cemetery to West London every night, straight into her tub then directly into his bed where he fed her whatever he could scrounge up.
She never asked where he got the money for provisions.
He never asked her about the graves she dug or about her parents.
They did not talk about the past in those heartrending kind of ways, when you dissect yourself to show your every scar, to reveal just how your heart works, hoping all the while the person you’re trusting won’t use those fragile secrets to hurt you.
They’d already done that in those first three hectic days. A road trip could make confidants of strangers. And eleven days outside of time could make lovers of confidants.
There she went—getting philosophical again. She chuckled, loving how the skin of her cheek slipped against the dusting of hair on his chest.
She knew exactly when he woke up. He rolled and stretched as he wrapped himself around her—one hand in her hair, the other on her hip, his long, heavy leg slung over hers, his nose rooting out the way to her lips with his eyes closed.
This too a now familiar and beloved rhythm. The gentle way he brought them both to climax as he woke, as if to wake were to need release in her body, a natural mechanism of living.
He held her close when they were done, but he went all…
playful, tickling her ribs and caging her between his big body and the mattress, kissing her as she laughed, pressing the muscle of his thigh into the apex of her legs, making her squirm.
And ache. Finally, he dropped down on top of her, his eyes dark and dancing.
“Get off me, you giant.” She tickled his ribs. It barely moved him.
“I don’t want to leave.”
“You must. You’ll soon compress my lungs entirely.” She loved the weight of him. Loved it. Loved it. So few days left.
She’d begun to hope he might… But he’d never said those three words. Did a man like him have it in him?
Yes. She rather thought he did, but… perhaps not for her. An alchemist’s daughter who dug graves.
An heiress.
She could tell him.
But she didn’t want a marriage for money. She wanted something else entirely.
“I have to leave,” he groaned. “Today is a busy day. I have to—”
She silenced him with a finger across his lips. “We don’t talk of those things.”
He rolled off her and stared, glowered, at the ceiling. Then he rolled off the bed and began to dress. She watched him—muscles rippling, movements jerky, a scowl so fierce bringing a storm cloud into the room.
Fake rain began to pelt her.
She laughed. One thing she’d learned in the last eleven days—sometimes he produced glamours without thought. Whatever he was feeling or thinking about or imagining so fiercely would simply pop up into the world.
He turned around to see the gathering clouds on the ceiling, the raindrops that spliced over Persephone’s head, leaving her dry. They disappeared.
“Apologies,” he grumbled. “I never used to do this. Lose control of the glamours. You’ve ruined me a bit.”
She gathered the blankets over her nakedness and pulled herself up against the headboard. “I like it. I can see what you’re thinking when it happens. Like right now. You’re angry.”
“I don’t know why you’d think that.” A bolt of lightning struck behind him.
She pulled the edge of the blanket up over her mouth to hide her smile.
“Damn.” He swung back around, continued to dress. When he’d done, he strode to the bed, raking his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it. “Stay here today. I want you home when I return.”
“But—”
He kissed her, one knee on the bed, his entire body engulfing her as his lips, his tongue, swept away every cogent thought.
“Stay here,” he breathed against her lips. “We need to talk.”
“We don’t talk. That’s not—”
“There will be a new deal. Starting today.” His eyes went hazy. “Everything changes today one way or another. I need you here when I return.”
This was the end of it, then. Very well. She nodded and sank down beneath the covers until only her eyes were visible to watch him saunter out of their chamber.
Theirs.
She rolled onto her belly and allowed herself a good wallow, complete with screaming into the pillow and thrashing limbs for good measure.
Eventually, she rose and began to dress. Nothing else to do. She was struggling with her hair when there was a knock on the door.
There was a knock on the door? Not the downstairs door, either. The bedchamber door.
And then another!
“Y-yes?” she ventured. No one was ever in this house but for her and Victor.
“Are you Mrs. Persephone Graves?” a woman asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I’m Jane Bowen, Morington’s sister, and I’d like to meet you.”
Oh. Oh! Jane Bowen! The sister! This rattled Persephone’s brains right out of her head.
“Um, yes, well…” Her toilette was not complete, but that wouldn’t change anytime soon.
And my, she was shabby too. She’d gotten so used to Victor glamouring her gowns when they were here.
It was easy to forget. But nothing to do about that either.
Nor about the hair streaming down her back. “Coming!”
She opened the door with her chin high.
Jane Bowen, the illegitimate daughter of the deceased Duke of Morington looked so much like her brother it made Persephone’s heart ache—honey-blond hair and high cheekbones.
But she had a no-nonsense way about her that appealed to Persephone.
She’d already discovered the sibling who made trouble.
Now she was meeting the one who likely cleaned it up.
Persephone dropped a curtsy. “Lady Bowen, a delight to meet you.
“Oh, no, no. None of that. I’m not anyone you curtsy to. I’m a bastard and a toymaker’s wife.”
“Those are good enough for a curtsy.”
“I think so, but there are proper protocols that make the world go round, and since my brother and husband seem to have no desire to uphold them, someone must.”
“Come now, brave beauty, I’m not that naughty,” a man said.
She couldn’t see him, so she peeped around the doorframe.
The man was tall and trim and leaning one shoulder against the wall, his ankles crossed.
His auburn hair was a shock of color in that dusty place, and his face the most infectiously jolly face she’d ever seen.
He nodded. “Sir Nicholas Bowen, at your service.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Lady Bowen warned. “You’ll end up in more trouble than you began.”
Her husband pretended to pout.
“May we speak?” Lady Bowen peeked into the bedchamber, gaze darting to and then away from the rumpled bed. “Perhaps downstairs in the drawing room?”
“Yes.” Not at all awkward to walk downstairs with her lover’s sister and brother-in-law. What did they know about her? Obviously something. They didn’t seem surprised to find her there. In fact, it seemed like they’d come purposefully to find her.
In the drawing room, Lady Bowen sat in a dusty chair, and her husband took up sentry behind her, one hand settled on her shoulder. Persephone sat across from them, feeling stiff and precarious, balancing on the very edge of her chair.
“We came to speak with you,” Lady Bowen said. “And I am terribly glad we caught you before you left. This is my fourth attempt to see you, after all. You’re quick in the mornings, Mrs. Graves.”
“I’m a busy woman.” And she didn’t like staying in this house without Victor.
When he wasn’t here, she felt like an interloper.
And she also felt like… tidying up. She had money.
She could simply… replace those curtains, for instance.
And add a few more pieces of furniture to this room.
A new rug. All for a house she’d never live in.
She shook her head, focused on her guests.
“I hope you’ll have time to come somewhere with me,” Lady Bowen said.
Ah, that’s what was happening. Lady Bowen, though she seemed friendly, was eager to get her out of the duke’s residence. Of course. She was an interloper.
“I was just leaving,” Persephone said, “You don’t have to forcefully kick me out.”
“No! That’s not it at all!” Lady Bowen shared a worried look with her husband. “We are misunderstanding each other. Let us start over.”
“How do you know about me?” Persephone clenched her hands to keep from fidgeting with the loose threads of her skirt. “Did Vic—His Grace tell you about me?” That seemed unlikely.
“No, of course not,” Sir Nicholas said. “He’s more tight-lipped than Felix.”
“Oh, that’s hardly a fair comparison,” Lady Bowen said. “Felix is much more expressive than Victor.”
“True.”
“Who is Felix?” Persephone asked.
“A fox,” the Bowens said together.
“Ah.”
“Morington didn’t tell us,” Sir Nicholas said, “but there were signs.”
“The most convincing of which”—Lady Bowen grinned—“was that we saw you kissing on the doorstep last week.”
“Ah.” Apparently these two kept watch on Victor’s street at all hours, waiting for reasons to ambush him. And now her. She’d not feel embarrassed. She’d put that away when she’d decided to stay with him.
“And”—Sir Nicholas slipped his hand into his pocket—“he gave me a bit of jewelry. Asked me to make some modifications. He even showed up at the forge in my toyshop to help.”
“What kind of jewelry?” Persephone asked. And where had Victor stolen it? She’d have to find whoever he’d taken it from and give it back, even with the modifications.
“I will not tell you that.” Sir Nicholas looked pleased, though.
“Wait.” Persephone put a hand to her temple. It was throbbing. “If he has not spoken of me, how do you know my name?”
Lady Bowen groaned.