Eliza rose from her chair to wrap him in a welcoming hug. “I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy.”
She pressed her lips to his cheek, feeling glad that he was home. He was warmth, security, and friendship to her. He was love and desire, too. Sir Mark van Bergen was the perfect package, and his presence in her life meant everything.
“Never complain about being busy, Eliza,” he replied. “You ought to have your own occupation. It doesn’t suit you to sit at home and pine for me—otherwise, you’ll grow bored and start pinching the silver.”
They both laughed, and he continued, “Pearson also warned me that Hilda Prevost called. It seems you’re not only busy but popular, as well. Have you won a new friend?”
“Yeah, she came to thank me for saving her bracelet. I like her awfully. She didn’t even bat an eye when she discovered that I’d been living here. I think I’ll ask her to come and paint in the garden sometime.”
He shrugged as he observed the green space that he so often took for granted. “It’s not the beaches of Italy, but it’ll do.”
It was nice having a private place where one didn’t have to worry about menfolk interrupting one’s work. Here, Eliza could read, write, and ready her thoughts. Miss Prevost could paint, dream, and talk rebelliously without censure. Ann could bring her son to play on the soft grass. Even Mark, she hoped, could relax within these sheltering brick walls.
She drew him into a canvas chair and then perched upon his knee. In her hand, she clutched an envelope, and she thrust the contents at him with excited, trembling hands. “It wasn’t only Hilda who distracted me. I’ve been so giddy I could scarcely stand up to greet you. Look what came in the afternoon post!”
Mark flipped open the sheet of stationery and scanned it. His dark eyes brightened and became very dear, for pride shone in the depths—something she’d never known since her mother’s death—as he read the typewritten response. “You’ve received a reply to your piece. It seems your persistence has not gone unnoticed.The Spherewill publish your latest letter in its entirety! Why, Eliza, that is a great deal of valuable print space given over toyouropinion! Congratulations!”
The editors believed that they corresponded with Mr. Ellis Smith, a servant in the home of a gentleman. But Mr. Smith held passionate views as to the state of poverty and patriotism in London, and the men in charge of the magazine liked a good fight.
Dissenting voices drew readers, and it seemed many who picked up a copy ofThe Sphereon their weekly commute were growing dissatisfied with the state of things in South Africa. If they spared a thought—or better yet, a shilling—for the wives, children, and war-wounded left abandoned to the streets, Eliza’s work had been done.
Mark seemed to agree. “You’ve come a long way since that wild-eyed, half-starved creature I first met. You have done this yourself.” He had corrected her grammar and spelling, but the words and thoughts were her own. She had labored through her letters with scarcely an elementary education, determined to be a voice for ordinary folk who didn’t want a war and would never profit from its gains.
“Nobody ever accomplishes anything completely alone,” she reminded him, but Mark wouldn’t hear of it.
“You’ll be penning pamphlets in no time!”
She’d rather have a column in one of those big, grey broadsheets that had served as her bedding and blankets over the years. “I enjoy writing almost as much as I enjoy reading,” she explained. “Putting my thoughts to the page is a luxury I’ve never fathomed. I feel useful, even if I’m only ever ‘shouting into the void’ as Hilda called it.”
“Damn the void, you deserve to be heard.” He tucked his fingertips beneath her chin and lifted her lips to his.
He had opened her mouth, her eyes, her world. He’d given her a home and a garden in which to thrive. He bravely perpetuated the lie that he harbored a rogue servant in his household so that she could write protest pieces that could get him into hot water with the British establishment.
He wasn’t the sort of bloke toallowa woman freedom—freedom of friends, freedom of occupation; freedom of her body, and her mind, and her money. He never sought to fetter her in the first place.
Their lips tangled in full view of anybody who might be watching. Eliza angled on his lap to feel his erection prodding at her thighs. He shifted and tugged at his sober black trousers, but he didn’t try to tup her, though he knew that she was willing.
She had wanted him from the first night they’d met. Like a true gentleman, he’d declined her advances, yet a heady desire thrummed in his veins as he held her. Eliza felt that same current skipping over her nerves. She could never erase the memory of that embrace they’d shared in his landau after leavingFloradora.The feel of him between her lips was seared into her soul.
“You are marvelous, Eliza,” he murmured into her slackened, kiss-swollen mouth. “Fresh and unique, worldly and wanton. I’ve never known anyone like you, but I hope I meet a million of your brazen successors someday. You’re an inspiration.”
It was high praise, though there were hundreds of girls on the streets exactly like her, with their own stories, troubles, and opinions. Any one of them would be lucky to meet a man like Mark.
Butthisparticular man…
He was all for her, and she wasn’t sharing.
She pressed her hand over his beating heart. She fondled the wool of his frock coat, which he wore to the office each day, like every other banker in the City. She traced her palms up his lapels and leaned into the solid warmth of his chest.
She twined her arms around his neck, feeling the starchiness of his shirt collar against her skin. On the surface, her lover was so deliciously buttoned up and serious, yet she remembered the heat in his eyes as he’d come undone. She knew the huskiness in his voice as he moaned her name—Eliza!—and treasured the ardent, sensitive, thoughtful person he was beneath that prim and proper façade.
Deepening their embrace, she winced as a hard little square in his pocket dug into her ribs. Eliza had made her living lifting the contents of gentlemen’s coats. She covertly explored the size of the case. Her clever fingers tested the shape and the weight of it without Mark sensing he was being picked.
She knew a ring box when she felt one.
For weeks, she’d dreaded the day when she must leave him. She loved him, and never wanted to lose him, but she’d believed that respectable men like Sir Mark van Bergen only kept girls like her as dollymops and doxies. She’d feared that she was only fit for the pleasure of landlords, butchers, and coppers, yet Mark had never treated her as anything less than a lady.
He had obviously given serious thought to their future together.
