Chapter Eighteen #2
The Pimpernel was a delight. He talked to me for over an hour.
He let me ask him everything about BDSM and kink, and how he got involved, and what he enjoyed.
He asked me about my fantasies and what I was hoping to get out of the experience.
I never told him my name, and I never told him I was engaged.
We had a fun evening together and I went home with a lot to think about.
I looked up the Pimpernel, found out where he would be attending another party a couple of weeks later, and went there to see him again.
It cemented that I wanted kink to be a part of my life.
He gave me advice about talking to my partner and finding common ground.
Maggie kept reading as the train slowed at the first stop, then lurched back into motion.
For the next few months, I tried to get Arnold on the same page as me, but he wasn’t interested.
He was happy with our sex life and didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t.
Finally, I admitted to Arnold that I had gone to kink events without him.
He was furious, as you’d expect. I’d thought from the beginning that this might end the relationship, and it did.
Maybe I was a coward not to end it earlier.
He insisted that I was leaving him for this Scarlet Pimpernel.
He couldn’t understand that I was leaving him for me.
I gave him back the ring and tried never to see him again.
He kept seeking me out. One time he ambushed me at a restaurant to beg me to come back to him.
It wasn’t pretty. He admitted to tracking my phone.
I tried to press charges, but nothing came of it.
He continued to be a nuisance for several months, and now, I guess, he’s trying to go after the Scarlet Pimpernel.
I don’t think he ever believed me that I wasn’t leaving him for the Pimpernel.
In his mind, I think, a woman can only leave a man for another man, not for herself.
Another stop. The doors opened, closed, and the train continued. Maggie raced through the end of the long email.
I’m doing well now. I’ve never put all this down in writing before, but I’m past the point of caring who knows things about me.
The Pimpernel isn’t harmful, at least not as far as I’ve seen.
He’s a kind guy. He was a great listener, too.
Not to mention his skill with the flogger.
If you’re wondering if you should pursue something with him, I say go for it.
Just a word from a stranger who’s been there.
As for Arnold, I can’t say much in writing, but I’m confident he’s going to get what’s coming to him. He can’t get away with everything forever. Stay tuned.
—Giselda
Maggie closed the email and stared out the window until the train finally surfaced, coming into an above-ground station. Her thoughts raced, but her body felt settled. Giselda had confirmed her best thoughts about the Pimpernel and her worst thoughts about Chauvel.
Now all she had to do was actually go to dinner.
The Docksider was a medium-sized restaurant on the harbor, with a charming “old Boston” feel, nothing intimidating about it.
Still, it felt like it was looming over Maggie as she approached, her breath shallow and her heart pounding.
How would she recognize him? You’ll know, he’d said, and maybe he’d do something silly like wear a Zorro mask or carry a giant bouquet of roses, something ridiculous and obvious to put her at ease.
The heavy door closed behind her, and she scanned the restaurant. It was busy for a Monday, many tables full, no Zorro masks or bouquets in sight … and then her gaze fell on a familiar face.
Maggie stared at Blake across the restaurant, her mind suddenly filled with static. She went cold, and hot, and cold again, and she put a hand on the wall to steady herself, not wanting to pass out, her mind tripping over itself now to put the pieces together even though nothing made sense.
Because somehow, Blake Peabody was the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Blake was such a nice guy. Such a nice guy.
And the Pimpernel was … what? Well, he wasn’t nice.
He was kind, and flirtatious, and funny, and a bit dorky, with his emojis and his puns …
just like Blake, of course, of course … but he was also wicked, and merciless, and he’d done terrible and wonderful things to her—and he’d been right down the hall for all of it.
Oh god. A rush of embarrassment replaced the shock. She’d told him her filthiest fantasies. He’d had her do some kinky, submissive shit and she’d loved it, and she’d never have done any of that if she’d known it was him.
Right?
She couldn’t imagine saying or doing anything like that in front of Blake.
Yes, they’d slept together, and yes, it had been incredible, but he made her feel safe.
Blake made her feel safe, and the Pimpernel made her feel like she was on a rickety bridge over a chasm, and somehow they were the same fucking person.
She had no idea how to process that, and now she was processing it from across the restaurant, watching him watch her have this moment of realization.
He wasn’t freaking out, so he must have figured it out at some point.
But when? Things had been normal between them, until after they’d had sex …
after they’d had sex, when he’d looked in her drawer of sex toys …
Of course. He’d seen the sex toys, and he’d put two and two together, and he’d figured out that she was Curious Rose.
Then he’d practically run from the house.
And he’d come back and said they were OK, but were they?
He’d had a chance to admit the truth to her since then, multiple chances, and he hadn’t done so.
He’d kept the date tonight. Why, so she’d show up and look like a fool?
Did he even want it to be her?
Still standing frozen right inside the doorway, she looked at Blake again.
He wore his argyle sweater and dark jeans, his expression calm and—and no, not calm.
She took in the rigidity of his shoulders, his hands clasped tightly together, his visible nervousness.
With his mouth set in a thin line, eyes wide behind those horn-rimmed glasses, he looked vulnerable.
He sat waiting for her to decide what came next, waiting even though it was probably killing him to wait.
She wasn’t going to run away. She’d been a coward about too many things. They were going to talk like grown-ups and figure out what to do next. There had to be some path forward.
She desperately wanted a path forward.
Maggie straightened, unsteady but determined, and locked eyes with Blake. No way out but through.
Blake had never been this nervous before a dinner in his entire life.
He was early, because he couldn’t not be early, and he’d requested a table with a direct line of sight to the door.
He wanted to see Maggie when she walked in.
He wanted to see the moment she figured it out.
She would walk in, and she’d put the pieces together, and either she’d stay or she would leave. But at least he would know.
The door opened, and Maggie entered the restaurant.
Blake’s breath left his lungs. He’d told her to wear the yellow sweater dress and she’d done it, paired with leggings and knee-high black boots, and her hair was wavy and loose around her shoulders.
Her gaze landed on him. They stared at each other.
A series of emotions flicked rapid-fire over her face: confusion, surprise, embarrassment, and hurt, that last one landing on his sternum like a blow.
He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, ever. He tangled his fingers together, desperate to rush over to her and explain everything, but forcing himself to give her time.
She might leave, and he would let her. This was entirely in her hands right now, and for once, he had to be the one to give up all control.
After an endless frozen moment, Maggie straightened and strode over to him. Whatever was next, she wasn’t running from it, or from him. He got to his feet as she reached the table, and her lips curled in the tiniest of smiles.
“Hi.” She extended a hand. “I’m Curious Rose.”
Blake took her hand, holding it, his eyes locked with hers. “Hello, Rose,” he said, and just like that, all his nervousness faded away. “I’m the Scarlet Pimpernel.”