“Perhaps I’m the fool for seeking to marry one.”
“You are probably the least foolish woman I’ve ever met.” After kissing her breast once more, he tucked it back beneath cloth. Rolling off her, he stood, reached down, and brought her to her feet. “I should be off now.”
Placing his finger beneath her chin, he tilted up her face and bussed his lips over hers. Something that should have been innocent, and yet she felt the touch clear down to her toes. It was as though her entire body was now attuned to his, that with his actions he had created a stronger connection between them.
Reaching over, he patted Dickens on the head. “Good kitty.”
“I’ll reward him with another tin of sardines.”
Matthew didn’t object when she slipped her hand into his and walked down the stairs with him. “I’ll go out the back. Less chance of anyone seeing me.”
At this time of night, few people would still be up, but she appreciated that he was taking such care to see her not ruined. When they reached the storage room, he unbolted the door, opened it, and stepped out. The thick heavy fog fairly enveloped him. He glanced back. “Sleep well.”
She doubted she’d sleep at all, almost asked him to stay. He quickly became lost as he disappeared into the gray.
Shutting the door, she pressed her ear against it, striving to hear his footsteps, but they were muffled, distant. Before long, she heard no sound at all. Forever changed, she would always hold the memory of him doing deliciously wicked things to her. Why had he? Why had she let him?
Yet, always it seemed, there had been some pull between them, something deep within each of them that called to the other. She’d felt it the moment he walked into her shop—
She heard a scrape, a clatter. A muted footstep, followed by another. Her entire body felt as though it were smiling. He’d returned. Swinging open the door, she froze at the sight of the man standing there.
Not Matthew Sommersby.
Thick, chapped lips spread to reveal blackened teeth. “’Ello, daughter.”
Chapter 19
Fancy stared at the rumpled man with his crumpled top hat pulled low, his greasy hair hanging in matted ropy strands down to his shoulders, his scraggly beard possibly serving as a home to lice or fleas. The fingers of his gloves were naught but frayed remnants, leaving his actual fingers—dirty and grimy—exposed. His tattered, worn clothing hung off his skeletal-like frame.
Swiftly, she moved to slam the door closed, but he stuck his booted foot over the threshold, stopping her from reaching her goal. He gave a hard shove on the door that caused her to loosen her hold and stagger back. Squaring her shoulders, she straightened and glared at him. “You’re not my father. My father’s dead.”
“Is that what your mum told you, gel? Bless her. She never did seem to favor me.”
Then how in God’s name could he possibly be her father? It made her skin crawl to think of this man touching her mum. Her mother wouldn’t have borne it. She wouldn’t have allowed him anywhere near her. “You’re lying. My mother never would have let you touch her.”
“Ye’d be surprised what a woman will do to keep a roof over ’er ’ead and that of ’er brood.”
She was going to be ill, bring up her dinner all over his scuffed boots. “I would appreciate it if you’d take your leave now.”
“Caw, gel, not so fast. I ain’t got wot I come fer yet. Thought I’d ’ave to jimmy the lock, I did, but ye so kindly opened the door fer me. Imagine ye thought I was that bloke what just left. How would yer mum feel knowin’ ye was entertainin’ blokes late at night?”
She would be ashamed and devastated. Disappointed. Her entire family would be disappointed. “Sir—”
“Dibble is the name. She should ’ave told you that, at least.”
Her father’s name was Sutherland. David Sutherland. He’d been a soldier. A hero. He wasn’t this vile, dirty creature standing before her. “You need to leave.”
“Yer mum’s been boastin’, telling all and sundry, anyone what’ll listen, about yer little shop ’ere. That ’n’ yer introduction to the nobs.” He smirked as his sneering gaze traveled the length of her, what little bit of her there was. Oh, how she wanted to smack that odious expression right off his face. “Says ’er little gel is gonna marry a lord. Wot she’s been sayin’ got back to me, it did. And I started thinkin’ yer my little gel, too. Since ye ’ave such a posh life, I reckon ye can spare a bit of blunt fer yer father. Fifty quid tonight should do it. Ye wouldn’t want me showin’ up at one of your posh balls, would ye? Introducing meself around?”
At least he seemed to recognize that he was not someone with whom anyone would take pride in being associated. But surely it was all a bluff. How would he even know where she was going to be? And no servant in his right mind would allow someone so grubby to be allowed into the home of an aristocrat. “You’re mad if you think I’ll give you so much as a ha’penny.”
“Ah, gel, don’t be like ’at.” His hand came up fast, before she could react, tightening around her jaw, lifting her head, threatening her ability to breathe because his foul stench was causing her to gag to the point of retching. “Don’t force me to teach ye manners like I did yer mum. Ain’t pleasant schoolin—”
“Get your bloody hands off her.”
The growled words were feral, frightening, even to her. Dibble reacted instantly, snapping his head back in surprise, his eyes going wide, his grip loosening as he lurched around—
Matthew pounded a tightly balled fist into Dibble’s face that caused blood to spurt from his nose as he staggered back and landed hard on the floor. Matthew was nearly a blur as he straddled the prone man, grabbed a handful of his shirt, lifted him slightly, and hit him again. Dibble grunted. Another blow and he went limp.
