Page 48

“Enter,” he called irritably.

The door creaked open, and the very woman he had been imagining stepped inside. She stood hesitantly on the threshold, hands clasped before her, looking exactly as she always did—proper, composed, and entirely respectable.

Damn and blast. The universe was conspiring against him today.

Caldwell grabbed the jacket off his chair and held it in front of him, hiding the bulge in his breeches.

“Pardon, my lord,” she said softly. “May I have a moment of your time?”

His cock twitched in response, and he was glad he’d had the foresight to shield it from her innocent gaze. Heat crawled up his neck and face. Control yourself, you brute. She is your employee.

But her sweet voice reminded him of the one from last night—the voice which had begged him not to stop, the voice that had cried out in pleasure and had haunted him since the previous night.

She looked at him with polite concern, but all he could see was hunger behind her brown eyes. Hunger he might have imagined but couldn’t unsee.

This was madness. Complete and utter madness.

He couldn’t think clearly in her presence. His collar suddenly felt too tight; the room was too warm despite the morning chill.

What a cad he was. Despicable, truly, to think of her this way.

If she knew his thoughts, she’d run from him screaming.

What was wrong with him? Why had he been able to control his need for years, only to be overtaken by this desire now? Had one night of passion awakened some dormant beast inside him?

He cleared his throat. “Actually, I need to go. Can it wait?” he asked, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears.

She faltered, her lips parting in surprise. “Of course, my lord, but I—”

He brushed past her, unable to bear even standing too close, the scent of her threatening to overwhelm his already fragile composure. “We shall speak later,” he promised, not meeting her gaze.

What a wretch he was. He needed to do something about this… need.

He called for his valet, changed his clothing, and asked for his horse to be saddled. Perhaps, he had an answer to his troubles. He hopped onto his horse and galloped away, a destination clear in his mind.

In a few minutes, breathless and winded, he arrived at the dark, unassuming building. Leaping off his horse before it even came to a halt, he quickly approached the iron door.

As he raised a hand to knock, it opened, and Viscount Thornton nearly barreled into him.

“Apologies,” Thornton said over his shoulder as he hurried off.

“Thornton,” Caldwell acknowledged with a tip of his hat, then slipped inside as the door closed behind him.

A large man with arms crossed over his chest stepped forward immediately. “Hades’ Hell is closed, sir,” he stated flatly, his bulky frame blocking the entry.

“Did I not just see Viscount Thornton exit? Why isn’t it closed to him?” Caldwell demanded.

“It was,” the guard replied impassively. “He had a brief, urgent matter.”

“Well, my matter is also urgent,” Caldwell insisted.

“Let him in,” a tired, but commanding female voice sounded from beyond the guard. A woman, no, not just any woman, Melissande Monroe, the proprietress of the hell herself, appeared before him, dressed in a simple dark gown and a white apron. “Follow me,” she instructed with a crook of her finger.

He followed her through the main hall, acutely aware of the difference between the raucous celebration of last night and the mundane reality of morning. All around them, workers were merrily cleaning out the debris from last night’s masquerade, sweeping floors and righting furniture.

“What can I do for you?” Miss Monroe asked once they reached her study.

She leaned against her desk, with arms crossed. Her shrewd eyes seemed to penetrate his very thoughts.