“No,” Ash answered sharply. “My wife resembles her, yes. But I am sorry to disappoint. My dear, shall we return to the carriage? I fear the crowds have grown too thick for Felicia.”
He extended his arm to Lady Stone. She hesitated only a moment.
“Yes,” she replied.
She dropped her veil, and leaned down to whisper something in her companion’s ear. The companion nodded in silence.
Then, Lady Stone placed her fingers against his arm. A heady effect, one that stirred places he dared not name. Visceral desire joined his extraordinary response to her pain.
He struggled to master his need as he followed the course she chose. Anyone looking would have assumed he led, but he’d known men with less determined strides, less mettle, less pride. She did not speak. Oddly enough, it did not matter. Remaining close was his only concern. Close enough for her scent to permeate less alluring smells. Close enough to feel the rise and fall her shoulders.
When they reached the corner just beyond her street, she stopped.
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness.” She released his arm, and bowed her head. “We will make our way from here.”
Chev’s warning wrangled with Ash’s ferocious need until, reluctantly, he agreed. If he were to spirit her away, what then? He had nothing to give. Nothing that would staunch the flow of her pain.
“I will wait here until you are safely inside,” he said.
Her companion turned away. She nodded before following. As they rounded the corner, she glanced back.
That gesture was his undoing.
Intentionally or not, she’d opened a window into her soul, and he’d seen a mirror of his own.
She’d left the country of her youth, she’d been cast off, heartbroken, and yet, she retained an unnatural sincerity, purer than anything he’d ever known.
He did not, in fact, have anything to give. And she was, as warned, embroiled in scandal enough without him.
It did not matter. They must meet again, and soon. His life depended on a closer acquaintance. Amuchcloser acquaintance.
Chapter Four
Ash’s fortnight of planning had finally met its moment of truth. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of the alleyway. No sign marked the entrance of the small establishment known as Marie’s, but rare was a hot-blooded male unaware of its existence. Marie and her women stitched sinfully silky concoctions, chiefly for the celebrated members of London’s demi-monde, the half-strata of society occupied by mistresses and actors, divorced wives, and poets.
A buffed-brass shop bell trilled as Ash entered.
This wasn’t Ash’s first visit. Madame Bianci wouldn’t have been caught dead in undergarments made from anyone else. Ash esteemed Marie as a talented tradeswoman—discreet, with an ingenious understanding of texture and design. However, when he’d hired a man to uncover places he might ‘accidentally’ discover Lady Stone, Marie’s had been the last place he expected to find his mark.
His man paid a shop girl for answers. The answers provided Ash his opportunity.
For years, idle Tuesdays had strung together, providing no change but the ever-deepening wrinkles in his skin. For a time, idle days had been a comfort. However, on this idle Tuesday—at around quarter-past six—his life would transform once again.
Provided she agreed to his proposition, of course.
He’d crafted his impending offer with great intention. A liaison, brief enough to ensure he did not bring harm to Lady Stone, and long enough for him to absorb the light she had to offer.
He was alive with anticipation.
Marie arrived in the elegantly appointed sitting area. Her reserved expression broke into a genuine smile when she recognized Ash.
“Ah. Your Grace.”
“Marie.” He took her hands in his, leaned down and kissed her on each cheek.
A curtsey from her would have been appropriate, but no one stood on ceremony here. Marie’s concoctions might as well have been stitched with the scandalous secrets of half the peerage.
“What brings you today?” Her sly eyes met his. “Has Madame Bianci grown tired of her last dressing gown so soon?”
