Fanny liked to harp on his appearance. But what was the point of dandying himself up when half his face was a mangled, burned mess? Besides, mudlarks valued function over fashion, and Cull liked the comfort of his well-worn clothes. He would toss his shirt when it developed holes…maybe.
“I have everything I need,” he said.
As he spoke the words, Pippa filled his mind’s eye…and all of his senses. He recalled the silken fall of her hair, her soft yet sleek curves draped atop him, her lily-and-sunshine scent making his mouth pool. Her charms were far more than physical. He was drawn to her feistiness—her fire and the vulnerability he sensed beneath. She’d invaded his dreams last night, and he’d woken up, hard and aching. He’d had to take matters into his own hands…twice.
She was an itch under his skin. One he could never assuage and maybe didn’t want to. By nature, he was a realist. Harboring a fantasy about Pippa was about the only impractical thing he’d done, and he felt possessive over it. Over having something just for himself, even if it was futile.
“Needs and wants are two different things.” Fanny downed the rest of her Scotch, placing her glass down with a precise click. “It is high time you got yourself a woman.”
Cull choked on a mouthful of whisky. He coughed before answering.
“You’ve laid eyes on this mug o’ mine, haven’t you?” He angled the damaged side of his face toward Fanny, not that she could miss the swirling ridges of melted skin. “I ain’t exactly bait for a treacle tart.”
“First of all, there’s more to you than your face. Many a female would consider you a man in your prime…and don’t you roll your eyes at me, Timothy Cullen. I am not deaf; I hear what my wenches say about your stamina.”
Cull’s face heated. Jesus wept. The last thing he wished to discuss with Fanny was what her whores said about his sexual prowess. He didn’t make use of the club’s services often; when he did, he mostly watched in the public rooms. Observing from the shadows had become a habit for him. Only when his craving for physical contact grew too great did he participate. During the deed, he kept his mask on. Call him vain, but he found bed sport more pleasant when his partner wasn’t staring at him in horror.
“We’re not talking about this,” he muttered.
“We can leave the wenches’ praises out of this,” Fanny said. “But onto my second point: it’s not just a sweetheart you ought to be after, but a wife.”
At that, Cull barked out a laugh. “Now Iknowyou’re pulling my leg. There ain’t ever been a Princess of Larks, and you know it. The curse of solitude comes with the job.”
It was a tradition that the Prince of Larks ruled alone. Whether it was because his demanding duties made it impossible to look for a bride or because no woman with good sense wanted to take on a man who was responsible for hundreds of street urchins, Cull didn’t know. All he knew was that a century of history backed up this fact. And he, with his wrecked mug, wasn’t about to be the one to end the curse.
For folk like us, there’ll be no lucky stars lightin’ our way. He could hear his mam’s voice, drenched in sorrow and gin. To last in this world, Timothy,you ’ave to learn to survive in the dark.
“You could be the first to wed,” Fanny argued.
“Aye. And pigs could fly.”
Fanny’s gaze slitted. “Don’t be smart with me. You aren’t getting any younger. And there’s more to life than looking after mudlarks and those injured birds of yours.”
Soon after Cull’s injury in the fire, a mudlark had brought in an injured sparrow. Figuring it was an omen of some sort, Cull had nursed the bird back to health. Somehow fixing up hurt birds had become a hobby, and he’d built an enclosure atop the Nest, where his feathered charges recovered until they were strong enough to fly away.
“You need someone to look after you for a change,” Fanny insisted.
Luckily, the opening door relieved Cull of the necessity of a reply. Fanny’s husband entered. Horace Grier was a large Scot with a grizzled beard and gruff manner. Cull rose to shake hands with him before the latter ambled over to Fanny.
“Supper ain’t ready yet, love?” Grier asked.
Fanny huffed, her arms akimbo. “Is food all you men can think about?”
Grier transferred his gaze to Cull. “What bee got into her bonnet?”
“Marriage,” Cull said succinctly.
“Ah.” Bravely but unwisely, Grier said, “We talked about this, lass. I thought we agreed you weren’t going to pester our friend ’ere about ’is marital plans.”
“You said to leave off the subject,” Fanny retorted. “Idid not agree to anything.”
Grier lifted his bushy grey brows. “Now you ken why the lad ain’t keen on getting leg-shackled?”
Cull had to swallow a laugh at Fanny’s annoyed expression. Arguing was the pair’s way of showing affection. Sure enough, when Fanny slapped her husband’s arm, Grier snatched her hand and kissed it.
“Surrounded by nodcocks, I am. The pair of you keep this up, and neither of you are getting any supper,” Fanny muttered.
“Ain’t a chance I’m missing out on Monsieur Georges’s fancy cooking,” Horace returned. “It’s the least I deserve for putting up with that temperamental Frenchman.”
