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Authors: Susanna Ives
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fault? She couldn’t let an innocent man—well, somewhat innocent man—perish on account of her reckless actions.
“Wait here,” she ordered Garth as she wrapped his leash around a lamp pole. Then she swung open the brothel door. Dashiell stood at the threshold. He had a red circle on his jaw and three parallel scrapes that looked as if fingernails had been slashed across his cheek. Rose-scented white powder covered his clothes. Behind him, all was silent inside the brothel.
The crowd broke out in applause, as if Dashiell were a champion pugilist.
“I’m so, so, so sorry,” Vivienne cried.
He ran his hands down his chest, straightening his coat, and then stretched his neck to the left, then the right. “Don’t talk to me,” he growled.
Four
Dashiell stalked through the streets back to Wickerly Square, keeping his hand tight on Vivienne’s wrist to keep her from scurrying to some other squalid rookery and getting him killed. She hurried alongside, trying to keep up with his stride, as she held traumatized Garth. The hound pleaded to Dashiell with his round buggy eyes as if to say, “Don’t leave me with this mad lady!”
Dashiell found a narrow alley running beside a wine merchant’s shop and pulled her inside. The lane was empty except for a bony black cat pawing at something small and dead in the gutter. Garth leapt from Vivienne’s arms and the cat shot off, disappearing into a small opening at the bottom of a rotting door, leaving Garth to sniff and then roll on the deceased creature.
“You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on,” Dashiell ordered.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was… was… a brothel. You should have told me.”
He flung up his arms. “And how was I supposed to know that?”
Her head jerked back, confused. “But… but y-you’re a rake.”
He let out an exasperated sigh and clamped his hands on her shoulders, drawing her so close to him that her subtle vanilla and jasmine scent filled his nose. “My dear Miss Taylor, I would have trembled to say this before, but clearly you are no longer a little girl.” He leaned down until his lips just touched her little shell-shaped ear. “I do not have to pay for pleasure, my little sugar muffin,” he whispered.
She was all too much. Her smell, her feel clouded his brain. His pulse, still wild from the fight, surged even higher and he took a small nibble of her lobe, letting his tongue glide along its edge. He heard her gasp, and her breasts brushed against his chest, unleashing a low animal desire in his body. In his mind flashed an image of her against the alley wall, her legs around him, as he took her in a wild frenzy of pent-up desire. His secret little sister. Oh God, she had become so dangerous to him. He let out a long, ragged breath and withdrew.
The pink edge of her tongue showed through her parted lips. Her green eyes were large and lush, like a Scottish landscape after rain.
“Why did you follow this man with the blue coat?”
She leaned against the brick and rubbed her lips together. “I shouldn’t tell you.”
He took a curl of her hair and wound it on his finger. “But you want to tell me,” he said. “You can trust me. Remember the Bazulo vow.”
A smile flickered momentarily on her lips, and then her features tensed back to that tight worried expression. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“Of course I won’t. You know that.”
She related a story about coming home from the Royal Academy to see the man in the blue coat leaving her house, her aunt in hysterics, and her suspicions of blackmail. “So I followed him to see where he went,” she concluded.
“Why didn’t you go to your fiancé for help—or to me, for that matter?”
“I couldn’t tell John. He would…” She gazed down. “He wouldn’t approve.”
“Hell, I don’t approve. You could have gotten really hurt.”
She flashed him a hot eye. “Don’t patronize me. I knew what I was doing. I had all I needed to
“Wait here,” she ordered Garth as she wrapped his leash around a lamp pole. Then she swung open the brothel door. Dashiell stood at the threshold. He had a red circle on his jaw and three parallel scrapes that looked as if fingernails had been slashed across his cheek. Rose-scented white powder covered his clothes. Behind him, all was silent inside the brothel.
The crowd broke out in applause, as if Dashiell were a champion pugilist.
“I’m so, so, so sorry,” Vivienne cried.
He ran his hands down his chest, straightening his coat, and then stretched his neck to the left, then the right. “Don’t talk to me,” he growled.
Four
Dashiell stalked through the streets back to Wickerly Square, keeping his hand tight on Vivienne’s wrist to keep her from scurrying to some other squalid rookery and getting him killed. She hurried alongside, trying to keep up with his stride, as she held traumatized Garth. The hound pleaded to Dashiell with his round buggy eyes as if to say, “Don’t leave me with this mad lady!”
Dashiell found a narrow alley running beside a wine merchant’s shop and pulled her inside. The lane was empty except for a bony black cat pawing at something small and dead in the gutter. Garth leapt from Vivienne’s arms and the cat shot off, disappearing into a small opening at the bottom of a rotting door, leaving Garth to sniff and then roll on the deceased creature.
“You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on,” Dashiell ordered.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was… was… a brothel. You should have told me.”
He flung up his arms. “And how was I supposed to know that?”
Her head jerked back, confused. “But… but y-you’re a rake.”
He let out an exasperated sigh and clamped his hands on her shoulders, drawing her so close to him that her subtle vanilla and jasmine scent filled his nose. “My dear Miss Taylor, I would have trembled to say this before, but clearly you are no longer a little girl.” He leaned down until his lips just touched her little shell-shaped ear. “I do not have to pay for pleasure, my little sugar muffin,” he whispered.
She was all too much. Her smell, her feel clouded his brain. His pulse, still wild from the fight, surged even higher and he took a small nibble of her lobe, letting his tongue glide along its edge. He heard her gasp, and her breasts brushed against his chest, unleashing a low animal desire in his body. In his mind flashed an image of her against the alley wall, her legs around him, as he took her in a wild frenzy of pent-up desire. His secret little sister. Oh God, she had become so dangerous to him. He let out a long, ragged breath and withdrew.
The pink edge of her tongue showed through her parted lips. Her green eyes were large and lush, like a Scottish landscape after rain.
“Why did you follow this man with the blue coat?”
She leaned against the brick and rubbed her lips together. “I shouldn’t tell you.”
He took a curl of her hair and wound it on his finger. “But you want to tell me,” he said. “You can trust me. Remember the Bazulo vow.”
A smile flickered momentarily on her lips, and then her features tensed back to that tight worried expression. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“Of course I won’t. You know that.”
She related a story about coming home from the Royal Academy to see the man in the blue coat leaving her house, her aunt in hysterics, and her suspicions of blackmail. “So I followed him to see where he went,” she concluded.
“Why didn’t you go to your fiancé for help—or to me, for that matter?”
“I couldn’t tell John. He would…” She gazed down. “He wouldn’t approve.”
“Hell, I don’t approve. You could have gotten really hurt.”
She flashed him a hot eye. “Don’t patronize me. I knew what I was doing. I had all I needed to
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