A Dream of Desire (18 page)

Talia stopped that thought before it went any farther, even as her blood warmed with the ever-present memory of James’s kiss. She bit down on her lip with frustration. Perhaps all this talk of Lord Ridley was to her benefit. Perhaps if she were to turn her attention to him, she could finally smother these lingering thoughts of James Forester.

Though sorrow filled Talia at the idea of eradicating any part of James from her life, she knew she had no choice. Not if she wanted to keep her heart intact.

P
eter grabbed a greasy rag and wiped his hands, pleased with the fact that he’d fixed the engine. A piece of coal had gotten jammed under the snifting valve, allowing air to pass into the condenser and destroying the vacuum. He’d managed to clear the valve and prevent far more serious damage to the engine by stopping the flow of air. After telling the captain what he’d done, the man asked him to return the following day to see if he could determine the problem with another steam engine.

Peter had promised to return at dawn, thinking he had a far better chance at success with another broken engine than he did by agreeing to Forester’s proposal to return to Brick Street. Fixing machines made Peter feel good, like he could actually
do
something. Like he had abilities, could solve problems, and make things right for people.

The sun was starting to set over the basin, reddish light reflecting off the high masts and gently rocking boats. At times like this, the place almost seemed peaceful—water shimmering like diamonds, the noise lessening as workers trudged home.

Peter went to collect his meager pay from the foreman, then stopped at a water barrel to splash cold water on his dirty face and hair. He swiped his forehead with his sleeve. His stomach growled again, an ache he’d tried to ignore all day. Likely the boys at Brick Street were having supper now.

He went toward the gates. Crowds of weary workers were going through. The clatter of wagons and cabs rose from Ratcliffe Highway. Peter joined the queue leaving the docks. He touched the pennies in his pocket and tried to calculate what he could buy with them. At least he’d no trouble figuring numbers in his head, only when they were spread on paper in front of him.

“Hungry, Peter?” A man stepped into his path.

Peter looked up, expecting to see Forester. Instead William Lawford peered down at him, his expression friendly beneath the brim of his hat. Peter suppressed a surge of fear, hating that Lawford could still make him afraid. He reminded himself that, by law, Lawford had no control over him anymore.

Though given the look in the man’s eyes, Lawford didn’t care about the decree of the law.

“Hungry?” Lawford repeated.

“Maybe.”

Lawford tilted his head toward the highway. “Come on, then. Fancy a meat pie?”

Peter’s stomach rumbled in response. He rubbed two pennies together in his pocket. If Lawford bought him something to eat, he’d have enough to pay McGinty to let him sleep in the tavern kitchen that night. He tried to shove aside the memory of his own bed at his father’s house.

He nodded his assent to Lawford. Followed him toward a pieman’s stand and accepted a steaming, fragrant pie. Trying not to appear starving, he bit through the flaky crust as the hot mutton filling dripped down his arm.

“On your way back to Brick Street?” Lawford asked pleasantly.

Peter took another bite of the pie and spoke around the mouthful. “Why d’you care?”

“I’m merely curious since Lady Talia went to rather great lengths to defend you and ensure your well-being after Newhall,” Lawford remarked. “Yet you don’t seem grateful for her kindness or even willing to take advantage of it. Why is that?”

Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t owe Lawford any explanation.

“Your sister is still concerned about you,” Lawford went on.

Peter jerked his gaze to the other man. Unease filled him along with the ever-present shame.

He’d never live up to his father’s hopes, but Alice had never demanded anything of him other than he do the right thing. She’d tried hard to take their mother’s place for him. He’d failed her too, when he’d started filching. When he couldn’t
learn
anything.

“I’ll take you back, if you’ll come with me,” Lawford suggested, nodding to a cab at the edge of the street. “You’ll be doing what your sister wants.”

“How’d you know what my sister wants?” Peter snapped.

“I’ve spoken with her, Peter, of course. Your father wanted nothing to do with you when you were released from Newhall. Do you not remember that your sister came alone to pick you up…well, her companions notwithstanding? Alice asked…no, she
begged
me for help.”

Peter stepped back, dropping the remainder of the pie crust to the street. He hated hearing Alice’s name in Lawford’s voice.

“You leave Alice alone,” he said, well aware of the hollow futility of the command. He had to tell Alice the truth about Newhall. But then she would tell Lady Talia, and they’d both want him to stand before a House of Commons committee and relive the torture.

Peter knew he didn’t have the courage for that.

He turned, shoving his hands in his pockets and hurrying away from Lawford. Before he’d gotten halfway down the street, another man stepped in his path. He looked up at a constable.

Dread swamped Peter’s chest in a wave. He turned to find Lawford standing with another constable who must have been waiting nearby. The man lifted his head like a bloodhound on the scent, then started toward him.

Fear bolted through Peter. He stumbled backward. The constable made a grab for him, but he managed to evade the grasp. He turned and ran. He didn’t dare look behind him, but he sensed both authorities gaining. He darted around a stack of crates, a wheelbarrow filled with fish, a cart loaded with rubbish. His breath became short and choppy, his leg muscles failing to move fast enough.

He gritted his teeth and pushed forward. One of the constables shouted his name. Before he could put on another burst of speed, a barrel-chested butcher stepped in front of him, clamping a large hand around his arm and yanking him to a halt.

“Let go!” Panicked, Peter tried to pull himself away but the man held fast until the police officers approached.

“Peter Colston.” The constable grabbed his other arm. “You’re under arrest.”

Three days after coming up with the idea of a dinner party, James walked into a disaster. He stopped in the foyer of his town house, his hat dangling from his fingers, and stared at the carnage surrounding him. The faded paper had been torn from the walls, the furniture was overturned, the rugs pushed aside, the curtains gone. Voices rose from the drawing room, and a skinny boy of about fourteen years of age darted past with a flower vase clutched in his arms.

“Stop!” James broke from his shock and chased the boy into the dining room. He had few possessions of true value, but he certainly didn’t want to be the victim of theft.

“Perfect. Put it right on the sideboard, please, Daniel.”

James skidded to a halt. Talia stood in the dining room wearing a dusty apron with her hair tucked beneath a cap. The boy put the vase on the sideboard next to her and returned to the foyer.

Pushing a lock of hair away from her forehead, Talia gave James an apologetic smile. “Good afternoon, James.”

“What on earth—”

“I’d
only
intended to have the curtains and rugs cleaned,” she explained hastily. “But the wallpaper was already peeling off, and the furniture was in desperate need of a good polish. Not to mention the
dust
, James, really…”

“You’re…you’re doing this all for the dinner party?”

“Well, it needed doing anyway, so I thought we might as well take care of it beforehand, yes.” Talia put her hands on her hips and looked around. “I’ve arranged for my father’s staff to do the cooking and serving Friday night. If you’ve time later, I’d like to discuss the menu with you.”

“I’m sure whatever you plan will be fine.” James frowned as another boy trotted through the room with a pile of sofa pillows. “What—”

“I asked a few of the boys from the school to help me this afternoon.”

Of course she did. James was painfully aware that he was fighting a losing battle with this woman. And worse, he was beginning to want to surrender.

Talia turned away to direct two maids into hanging the curtains, effectively dismissing James. He suppressed a surge of impatience and stalked to his study. He locked the door behind him, sat at his desk, and ignored the bustling activity through the house until the rumble of his stomach told him it was teatime.

Wary, he stepped back into the corridor. A faint hush lay over the house. He went to the drawing room and stopped. He blinked. New velvet curtains draped the sparkling clean windows, and the rug patterns and oil paintings shone bright without the layer of dust. The mahogany furniture was polished to a shine, the upholstery tears repaired, the mirrors and hearth gleaming. Fresh-cut flowers bloomed from vases, perfuming the air with fragrance. Even the chipped edge of the side table had been repaired.

Pleasure and gratitude filled his chest. A home. Talia had swept out the detritus of his house and turned it into a place of welcoming light and order. James knew without a doubt that Talia could do the same for him, if only he could give her all that she deserved in return.

“Is it all right?” Her voice sounded anxiously behind him.

He turned. She was holding a tea tray, her expression worried.

“I’m sorry,” she said hastily. “I went a bit pell-mell, but if you intend to host a party you really must—”

James shook his head to stop her apology. “It’s fine, Talia. More than…I mean, it’s quite lovely. I’m…thank you.”

Her smile hit him right in the middle of the chest. He watched as she moved past him to set the tray on the table and pour the tea. A lock of dark hair fell across the curve of her cheek. Her movements were unconsciously elegant and graceful, yet as familiar to James as his own. The rhythm of Talia’s body was like a song he’d heard countless times before. And yet still he thought he could simply gaze at her forever and be happy.

Talia added sugar to a cup of tea and passed it to him. His fingers brushed hers as he took the saucer, and it was as if currents of electricity traveled through skin and into his blood. Revitalizing every part of him. He sat back, letting her pleasant chattering fill his ears.

“I’ve requested a menu of soup…Cook makes a delightful consommé…salmon in a vol-au-vent, and lamb cutlets with asparagus and beet root,” Talia said. “Followed by duckling, and I’m hoping to order some plovers’ eggs, because they’re lovely in aspic. I’m also considering a shrimp salad for those who prefer a cold dish. Dessert will be lemon and cherry ice, candied nuts, and chocolate cream, of course.”

She shot him another smile. This time, it twined right around James’s heart like a bright green ribbon.
Chocolate cream, of course
. She knew it was his favorite. She hadn’t forgotten. Just as she hadn’t forgotten his fondness for almond toffee.

He took a sip of tea, which was strong and sweetened with at least two sugars. Exactly the way he liked it.

The knot in his chest loosened. She remembered so much about him, all the little details of his likes and dislikes. She paid attention, cared for him in the exact manner of a loving…wife.

For a moment, an instant, James could not resist the dream of him and Talia together. Days of shared laughter, quiet companionship, easy conversation. Nights of heated passion. Everything they already had, but magnified a thousandfold and untainted by secrets and mistrust.

He forced his attention back to Talia, the pleasing lilt of her voice. She was talking about the seating arrangements of the guests. She handed him a plate with a slice of pound cake and a cranberry muffin. James looked at the platter on the tray, which was near overflowing with cakes and breads.

“Did Polly make all that?” he asked. If so, a miracle had been wrought.

“No, I brought them from home,” Talia said. “I know how much you like Cook’s pound cake. There’s a whole loaf in the kitchen for you.”

She poured her own tea and settled against the sofa cushion. She’d removed her apron and cap, and she looked entirely at her ease seated in his drawing room with her chestnut hair curling around her neck, her eyes bright as she discussed their upcoming dinner party.

Their
party. The word speared into James, breaking apart all the pleasure he’d just felt. Dammit. He couldn’t think like this. Couldn’t enjoy Talia’s presence or, worse, become accustomed to it. He couldn’t appreciate the fact that she remembered how sweet he liked his tea.

He was leaving in two weeks. Before his departure, he had to ensure Talia’s engagement to another man and convince her to stop her work with the reformatory school.

If he didn’t, he’d have to tell Northwood about it.

He put the cup down with a clatter, cursing inwardly. None of this was going as he’d planned. It should have been easy—all he had to do was report to her eldest brother, and his duty was done. So why hadn’t James done that yet?

Because of her.

He pushed to his feet with an abrupt movement. Talia looked up at him.

“Are you all right, James?”

“No.” He dragged a hand through his hair and paced to the window. “No, Talia, I am bloody well
not
all right.”

“What’s the matter?”

“You.” He spun to face her, angry at himself for feeling so conflicted and divided in his loyalties, angry at her for making him feel this way. “You are the matter, Talia.”

She blinked, a flare of hurt darkening her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

His fists clenched. An image burned in his brain of the dreams he’d had about her—dreams in which she lay naked and panting beneath him, her hair tangled over the pillows and her hands gripping his shoulders.

James forced in a breath. Such lusty dreams had permeated his nights in the outback, but at least those he could attribute to loneliness, the rigors of travel, the sheer isolation of the expedition. But this…Christ, he’d had that dream just
last night
.

“You are the reason I’m incapable of fulfilling a promise,” he snapped. “You are the only reason I want to return to London again. You are the reason I can’t look at another woman without seeing you. The reason I promised Northwood I would ensure your safety.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why were you in Constantinople in the first place, James? Why did you visit Alexander?”

“I needed his help securing passage to the Amur Valley. The Russian vice admiral had rejected our expedition proposal, and I asked North to intervene. He agreed, with the condition that upon my return to London—”