Delilah Marvelle - Forever a Lady

He thought he owed her. After he’d rescued her.

Her throat tightened. Even worse, he was staying at Limmer’s. ’Twas a cheap hotel for the sporting crowd, known for being incredibly dirty and hosting all things dangerous. Even whores didn’t like going in there, as they usually didn’t come back out. She couldn’t let a man like this, who had just rescued whatever was left of her face, stay there. “Might I offer you better lodgings, sir? Given what you did for me?”

He lifted a dark brow. “Define better.”

She would have invited him to stay at her leased house off Piccadilly, seeing Georgia was residing with Mrs. Astor over on Park Lane, but she didn’t want the man thinking her invitation was permanent. “I recommend the St. James Royal Hotel. ’Tis premier and the best London has to offer. I will ensure your room and board is paid for. Gladly.”

He stared at her, his jaw tight. After a long moment, he set his broad shoulders. “Let me think on it.”

By God, she admired that pride. He wore it so well.

Glancing over at her understudy, he clicked his tongue. “Georgia, Georgia. We never seem to be able to get rid of each other, do we? Much to our own dismay.” He scanned the length of Georgia’s Vienna blue riding gown, lowering his chin in a way that caused that windblown hair to fall across his forehead. He snorted. “You look like Niblo’s Garden on a stick.”

Georgia regally set her chin. “And proud of it. Don’t you wish you looked this good.”

“Ah, you look all right, I suppose.”

“All right?” Georgia circled a gloved finger over her face and gown. “It took me ten months to look like this. And look. No freckles. They’re there, but they’re cleverly hidden. The toiletries these days are unbelievable.”

He swiped his jaw. “A waste of ten months, I say.” Dropping his hand to his thigh, he huffed out a breath. “Since we’re catching up on gossip, I’m sure you’d like to know that your John Andrew Malloy not only went out West, but married. Thanks to you, we’re now damn well known as the Thirty-Nine Thieves.”

Georgia’s eyes widened. “John married Agnes Meehan?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Georgia let out a laugh. “Well, good for him. And Agnes.”

“Good for him, yes. Not so good for Agnes. He’s not exactly what I call the marrying sort.” The Pirate King huffed out another breath. “So. Where are you staying? Coleman and I need to get ourselves out of Town. They bloody stone you like crows out here. Expensive as hell.”

Georgia snorted. “It doesn’t help that you went and bought yourself horses.”

The Pirate King and his menacingly quiet friend paused. They eyed each other, to which the Pirate King adjusted his great coat and drawled, “We didn’t exactly buy them.”

Bernadette blinked.

Georgia gasped. “You stole them?”

He pointed at her. “Ey. A hackney costs a shilling just to roll halfway down the goddamn street. I’m not paying that. And we didn’t steal the horses. We’re borrowing them for a few days and will give them both back once we’re done.”

Georgia glared. “’Tis no different than stealing, Matthew, to which I say you and Coleman get yourselves jobs as sweepers, because I’m not giving either of you spit.”

Matthew. Bernadette almost uttered his name aloud in adoration and reverence. Despite that “borrowed” horse, he seemed so...genuine. And divine. So breathtakingly divine.

Without thinking, she hurriedly dug into her reticule slung on her wrist and pulled out a Bristol calling card, holding it out to him. “I would be honored to provide you with the money and lodgings you need. ’Tis the least I can do after your noble rescue. Call on me. I insist.”

Slowly drawing his horse closer to her own until they were side by side, he leaned over. Slipping the card from her gloved fingers, he held her gaze for a long moment. “Thank you, luv.”

That gruff, yet equally gentle voice made her want to throw her arms around him and never let go.

He wordlessly fingered the card she’d given him, still heatedly holding her gaze. He molded and remolded the card against the curve of that large hand, as if trying to feel her.

Bernadette drew in a breath, wishing that card was her.

“Milton,” his friend called out. “Instead of playing Casanova with the card, give the woman’s generous offer a day and the hour you intend to call.”

The Pirate King tucked the card into his boot and recaptured her gaze. “This Thursday. I’m thinking midnight.”

Bernadette quirked a brow. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Midnight is my version of noon,” he added, still holding her gaze.

He was clearly interested only in linen ripping. And who was she to deny over six feet of brawn? “Midnight it is.”

His mouth quirked. “I’ll see you then.” Rounding his stolen stallion, he glanced back at her one last time, then he and his friend galloped off down the path.

Georgia tsked. “You have no self-control. None whatsoever.”

Bernadette smirked. “Coming from you, Miss Tormey, I will take that to be a compliment.”

CHAPTER FOUR

M. Falret, a doctor of medicine, has prepared from the official records of the police, a curious memoir on the suicides in Paris, from 1794 to 1822. Of those, some were attributed to:

Crossed in love: Number of men, 97. Women, 157.

Calumny and loss of reputation: Number of men, 97. Women, 28.

Gaming: Number of men, 141. Women, 14.

Reverse of fortune: Number of men, 283. Women, 39.

Let the numbers speak for themselves.

—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

Limmer’s, 12:54 a.m.

THE GLOW FROM THE SINGLE cracked lantern set on the floor beside him illuminated the unevenly nailed wooden planks that lined the slanted ceiling. Stripping his leather patch from his eye and tossing it, Matthew fell onto the sunken straw tick on the floor. Rolling onto his back and stretching out, he held up the expensive ivory card that had been given to him that afternoon. Disregarding the address, he stared at her name: Lady Burton.

Holy day. Holy, holy day. The way those dark eyes had held his, the way those lips had curved around her words every time she spoke, and the way that sultry voice had dripped with elegance and refinement about punched the last of his rational senses out. Something about her awoke an awareness he’d thought long dead and whispered of endless possibilities he wanted to roll around in.

Though he couldn’t help but wonder about the association she had with Lord Arsehole. That heated argument on the riding path, which had resulted in her getting cropped, hinted at far more than he cared to admit.

Skimming his thumb across that printed name, he drew the card closer. Was it conceivable for a woman like her to want a man like him? And could a woman like her, who appeared to have everything, give a man like him, who had nothing...everything he wanted?

The door to his small room opened. There was a pause.

He didn’t have to look up from the card to know who it was. “What do you want? I’m trying to sleep here.”

“Sure you are.” Coleman snickered. “Shall I leave you two alone?” he said, looking pointedly at the card.

Matthew sat up on the straw mattress, molding the card against his palm. “A touch jealous, are we?”

“Hardly. Women are a waste of breath, man. They’re only good for one thing. And I wish I could say it was fucking.”

Ah, yes. The man, who’d been married at sixteen to a woman crazier than him, thought he knew it all.

Matthew pointed the card at him. “Ey. Just because you’re bitter doesn’t mean I have to be. The difference between you and me is that I’ve been patiently waiting for the right one to come along. And this—” He held up the card, wagging it. “This here is about as right as they come. Not only did she agree to meet me at midnight—in her home—which means she damn well wants what I want, did you see the way she looked at me when she gave me this card? We’re talking more than a night here.”