How could one go about even suggesting it without sounding…arrogant? Society had called him that before he’d left, the Arrogant Earl, they had said and if he had heard it then she would have, too.
Attraction had its limitations but it also had its strengths, though he would need to be careful in his approach, for he did not want her to flee. It would take time, this courtship of the flesh. Smiling, he poured his sixth glass, the room swimming when he looked up, the rocking making everything unsteady under the glow of chandeliers attached to ornate coffered ceilings.
Was he drunk enough or too drunk? He replaced the cap on the bottle and sat back, reorganising his thoughts. It had been a long time since he had felt the full thrust of truly good whisky and it was having an effect.
‘Is there something else you might require, my lord?’ The same attendant was back a few moments later, his eyes taking in the empty glass and the capped bottle. ‘Some food perhaps?’
‘No. I am just leaving.’
‘Have you a carriage in the vicinity, my lord? I could hail it if you would like?’
‘I do not but it is fine.’
A deep frown marred the man’s forehead. ‘I should not advise walking alone, Lord Elmsworth, for there have been some nasty incidents in the last few months in this vicinity with footpads and the like.’
America had cured him forever of worrying about danger, and besides, the skills he had acquired from his solo travels were varied and many.
‘I will keep that in mind but thank you for the warning.’ Bringing a substantial sum from his pocket, he placed it on thetable by the whisky. ‘If you could find my hat and coat I would be grateful.’
‘Certainly, my lord.’
Outside on St James Street Phillip breathed in the night air, enjoying the darkness and the silence. His town house was an easy walk away and he needed the exercise after so many sedentary days in London.
The first sign of trouble came five minutes later when two shadows passed in front of him at speed. The stick that was brought down hard upon his head surprised him, though, for a third person he had not noticed before must have been hanging back. The whisky was making him careless, and he swore.
Balancing on his heels, he crouched low, his hat crushed on the street and the darkness more complete than he had expected it to be here in the city.
A good place for an ambush. No lights on in the buildings, no traffic on the road either. He caught the first assailant with a hard fist to the side of the head and he went down. The second one was faster, and a blow caught his own nose before he could trip him up and make sure that he stayed quiet. Two dealt with, then, and one to go. The third man held some sort of knife, for he saw the glint of the blade just before he felt the sharp cut of flesh on the rise of his cheek. When the miscreant came forward again Phillip ducked to one side and grabbed his hair, cracking his skull hard against the side of the brick building. The dropped knife turned and spun on the cobbles before stopping in the drain and then silence resumed.
Picking up his hat and rearranging his coat, Phillip walked on, glad for the lamp posts and the light as he turned a corner. There were people here now going home and the late-night street sellers still stood at their places.
‘Spiced gingerbread to buy, milord, or hot baked apples?’
When he shook his head his nose ached and he touched it, seeing the blood on his fingers. He didn’t think it was broken. In America he’d had his wrist and two of his fingers broken and they had hurt a hell of a lot more than this. His cheek would need stitches though, the skin gaping in a two-inch cut. But it was a comforting thought that the appearing street names were only minutes from his town house and the area he was in now was far more salubrious than the street he had just left.
There was an energy in a fight that banished all ennui, something he remembered from his months of anger on the road after Gretel had taken her last breath. Lifting his hand to wipe the hair back from his face, he saw that he was shaking badly and he swallowed the need to throw up on the side of the road.
A headache was building, too, and he felt cold, but he was nearly home and he could deal with these things when he was.
Willa hated him. She did. She hated the way he had kissed her so absolutely and then held her at bay, telling her all they had done was wrong and that he was sorry for it.
Sorry.Even the word made her livid. Lionel had said sorry after each and every lash-out with either his body or his words and then he had done the same again and again and again. A pattern of abuse. A reminder of her place. An easy way of keeping her in check and in line.
Well, she was free and would not ever be tied again to the poor manners of men who wanted one thing and then said another.
Phillip had disappointed her and that was the worst of it. She had turned into a harlot in a matter of seconds as soon as his mouth had slanted across hers, unstoppable and desperate. Even now her heart was beginning to beat faster at just the thought of his hand on her breast and his mouth at her throat.
She walked closer to the mirror to look again at the redness he’d left on her skin. The marks of ownership and possession. The tip of her index finger trailed across her lips and she leant back to try to bring again the feeling of his being there. Intimate and private, his tongue running over her skin as he finished, rough and warm and then cool against the air.
She hoped the heightened colour would not be able to be seen tomorrow above the edge of her gown, for it was such a particular thing. Everybody would know how it had got there, a lover’s stain.
After so many years of her being numb.
She shook her head and walked to the window, looking out over the night. Two carriages were moving into the square and a young couple were meandering along the path by the park, caught up in each other’s glance, oblivious to the whole world around them, their clothing meagre but their love grand.
She envied them and would have watched them further save for her maid coming into the room to help her undress and get ready for bed. Being careful to turn in a direction which would not lead to any discovery of the evidence of Phillip’s ardour, Willa slipped her gown and petticoats off and then put her lawn nightdress on, glad for its volume and covering as the maid loosened her hair and brushed it out.
When she was finally alone she reached for the diary she kept by her bedside and sat on the chair at her small desk. Dipping the quill in a new bottle of ink, she began to write.
