And with alarming frequency in the past three days.
For reasons she could not entirely comprehend, the encounter with the blasted policeman had thrown her off-balance. Ambrose Kent did not possess good looks, at least not in the traditional sense. He was her social inferior. While these two facts did not bother her over much, the next one did: he had dared to interfere in her business and to question her judgment. He, who knew nothing about her—about the life-or-death plight of her daughter—had presumed tojudgeher?
Anger welled. She lived by her own rules, and no man would govern her again. Turning onto her side, she yanked a pillow into position beneath her neck.
Kent deserved what I dished out. Let him experience what it is like to lose control. Let him know how it feels to be subject to another's whims.
Yet despite her livid state, she could not stop the image from forming in her head. Of Kent stripping before her, undressing with the ease of a man who didn't use the services of a valet. There could be no other explanation for the rumpled state of Kent's waistcoat and his hopeless excuse for a cravat. Yet she had to admit that those drab, ignominious garments had concealed a bit of a surprise.
Ambrose Kent's physique was… splendid.
Her pulse quickened at the memory of his lean, sinewy body. Though somewhat undernourished, Kent's shape had been undoubtedly virile: the body of a man whose strength had come from necessity rather than vanity. From chasing criminals and rowing policing lighters rather than a fancy fencing or boxing saloon. Subtle power had emanated from the hard curve of his biceps and the rigid paving of his chest. The only softness had come from the dark hair dusted across his upper torso and narrowing into a line between the taut bands of his belly.
She swallowed, remembering how that line had circled his navel before arrowing south. Her eyes had followed the delicious trail until it disappeared beneath his waistband. And there, between his thighs, had been a prominent bulge that not even the poor cut of his trousers could hide.
Kent had looked to be a large man ineveryrespect.
Perturbed, she realized that her musings were fanning rather than dimming her arousal. Her stiffened nipples chafed against her satin chemise. Between her legs, the flesh had grown damp and throbbing, the coil at her core wound tight. She shut her eyes and tried to dispel Kent's image. Instead, he seemed to expand in her mind's eye. Her breath quickened as she pictured the proud policeman losing control. The moment his will lost to desire, his mouth twisting in a sensual smile, his amber eyes blazing as his big hands reached for her…
Her resolve began to melt. She'd been under so much tension as of late. Surely, a quick release couldn't hurt… The rap on the door stilled the downward path of her hand. Her eyes opened. Blowing out a breath, she fought off the simmering frustration.
You ought to be glad for the interruption. Because no matter how you rationalize it, fantasizing about Kent just won't do.
She sat up as Tilda bustled into the chamber. As ever, the lady's maid was the image of competence. Tilda's starched cap sat upright upon her tamed brown curls, and nary a wrinkle could be found on the black bombazine that covered her voluptuous figure from neck to ankle. With the exception of the scar below her right ear and her accent (rapidly improving under the tutelage of the elocution master), there was nothing to betray the fact that Tilda Collier had once made her living in the alleyways of St. Giles.
"Good mornin', milady. Brought your breakfast," Tilda said, sliding the tray onto the table next to the bed. "You've got a busy day ahead o' you."
Marianne sat up straighter. "There's news?"
"No, milady." A look of understanding shadowed the other's blue-grey eyes as Marianne's heart plummeted. "But I'm sure there will be soon. That fellow Corbett said 'e'd call, didn't 'e?"
"And I am to trust the word of a male prostitute?" Marianne said bitterly. "To hinge my daughter's future upon his ill-begotten promise?"
"A whore's word is no different than anyone else's." Shoulders hunched, the maid turned and poured the chocolate.
Shame stabbed Marianne at her own carelessness. She was reminded that hers was not the only tragedy that lived in this house. "Forgive me, Tilda," she said quietly. "That is not what I meant."
Tilda handed her a steaming porcelain cup. "I know," she said with such simplicity that Marianne felt even smaller. "After what you've done for me an' my boy, I wouldn't take the words to 'eart."
Three years ago, returning home from a night's futile search for Rosie, Marianne had seen a commotion in the street: a prostitute being brutalized by her pimp. Though such sights were not uncommon in the stews, something in the whore's eyes had made Marianne stop her carriage. She knew that look: had seen it on her own face as she'd stared blindly into the looking glass after Draven's nightly degradations. She'd paid off the pimp and brought Tilda and Tilda's young son home with her.
'Twas a situation that had ended up benefitting them all. Bereft of her own family, Marianne had come to depend upon Tilda's loyalty and good sense; she trusted this woman who had known as much pain as she had. For Tilda, too, had been abandoned by a young lover only to find herself increasing and alone in the world. With no other option, Tilda had turned to prostitution; Marianne had chosen marriage. In the end, they'd both sold their bodies, and Marianne could not say which of them had suffered more.
"You've a lot on your mind, milady, what with findin' Corbett and… other events."
Marianne recognized the lines of disapproval etched around Tilda's mouth. "By other events, you are referring to Mr. Kent?"
"I don't trust 'is sort," Tilda said grimly. "'E's a constable, ain't 'e? 'Ad my fair share o' them on my old walk. If they didn't expect a tumble free o' charge, they wanted a cut o' your earnings. Cursed wretches, the lot o' them."
"I don't think Mr. Kent is that sort of man." The words slipped out, and Marianne frowned at herself. Why was she defending him? "That is to say, he did come to my assistance. He fought off those cutthroats."
"What do you know o' 'is intentions? I saw the way 'e was lookin' at you." Tilda shook her head. "Mark my words: a man don't do somethin' for nothin'. Look what 'appened with that bastard Skinner. Warned you not to trust a Runner, didn't I?"
Unease prickled Marianne's nape. She could not argue with the other's wisdom. "Since I don't plan on seeing Mr. Kent again, it shan't be a problem."
"See that it isn't," Tilda said dourly.
As Tilda laid out the morning ensemble, Marianne sipped her chocolate. The creamy concoction dissolved some of the chill within, and she idly browsed the society pages ofThe Times. She knew the power of information and collected gossip the way a numismatist did rare coins. Her lips curved as she saw the entry concerning the Hartefords' anticipated return from their vacation on the Continent.
