Ways to Be Wicked (23 page)

Perhaps a better question was: How could such a short time seem like forever?

And yet Tom Shaughnessy had nothing at all to do with the life she wanted and needed. She had taken him, and he had taken her. And perhaps that was all this could be.

A moment later she inched toward him, wrapped her arms around his back, pressed her body against him, held him loosely. Little by little, she felt the tension leave him as he relaxed into her. And oddly, nothing had ever made her feel more powerful than the knowledge that she could give comfort as well as pleasure to this man.

“Come to sleep,” she murmured.

He turned and looked at her over his shoulder. “Stay with me?”

She nodded. He turned and slid into bed, lifting the blanket for her, and she slid next to him.

He wrapped an arm around her. She waited for him to sleep before she allowed herself to do so.

Tom was awakened the following morning in what he was certain was the very best way any man on the planet could hope to wake:

A soft hand was sliding down his thigh, and silky hair was dragging behind the hand.

“Sylvie?” he murmured sleepily.

He opened one eye; he didn’t see her on the pillow next to him. He fumbled a hand down beneath the blankets and found his hand tangling in her soft hair. “Good morni—
God.
Oh God.”

Her tongue had just slid down his shaft, which was immediately more than alert.

She paused. “Good morning to you,” she said politely, somewhat muffled from beneath the blanket. And then giggled.

“
Unh,
” he gasped in response.

She laughed again, a low rumble against his sensitive flesh, and the sound was painfully arousing.

She took the length of him into her mouth, slowly, gently at first, and he sucked in breath, and stirred, opened his legs wider. And then he slid his fingers from her hair to pull the blanket back, because he wanted to watch.

He surrendered languidly to the skills of her mouth and hands, hot and delicate on the insides of his thighs, clever and insistent over the length of his shaft, and in so doing she took him from lazy, floating bliss to the gasping, knife-edge of release.

He grasped her hair in his hands to stop her.

“Sylvie.” He gasped out the word. “I want you.”

She looked up, saw his face, and came into his arms, because she knew that’s what he meant.

He rolled her over so he could slip inside her. Gently he tipped the two of them so they were lying side by side. So he could kiss her mouth, and watch her eyes as he moved in her, feel her breasts chafe against his chest. Beautiful eyes. Her eyelids heavy with pleasure, slit with it; her dark lashes quivering; he watched the flush rush over her cheeks and throat as they clung and rocked together, slowly this time. His hands brushing over the silk of her lithe back, of her legs, tangling in her hair. Their lips brushed against each other, taking small kisses, murmuring unintelligible things, endearments, sensual requests.

“Je t’aime,”
he thought he heard her sigh against his lips.

“Say it again,” he demanded in a whisper.

She didn’t. But she did say his name when she came shuddering in his arms, and she’d made it sound very nearly the same.

Chapter Fifteen

S
YLVIE THREW HER DRESS
on over her head, smoothed her riotous hair out, with Tom’s help, and got it twisted into a more decorous knot, and then sat on the edge of his bed and watched him get into his clothes. She studied every move of it—the buttoning of trousers, the tying of the cravat—fascinated, for some reason, as if the very act of dressing was something wondrous and new.

It was only because
he
was doing the dressing, she knew.

And when he caught her watching, he froze and smiled, and then sat down next to her. Her breath hitched. And this, this sharp thing inside her chest, sharp and brilliant, felt quite a bit like joy.

He cradled the back of her head in one hand, and his fingers, briefly, tangled in her hair, touched, lightly, the nape of her neck. He looked down at her for a moment, his silver eyes looking every bit as bemused as she felt. And then, kissed her, and it was warm and lingering and thorough.

And this was how their day began—with no conversation, just a kiss. She preceded him out of the attic room, and he followed her, and with a smile over her shoulder, she went to her rehearsal, and he went to his library, or to wherever he needed to be. She didn’t ask.

Did it show, she wondered, as she arrived in the dressing room? The night she’d spent in the arms of Tom Shaughnessy? Not a single girl in this room was a virgin, not by far. Could they tell from the faint traces of blue fatigue beneath her eyes, by her kiss-swollen lips, by her eyes that looked at all of them but somehow saw only last night before them, like a waking dream?

Regardless, everyone chattered just the same, and stripped out of their day dresses to get dressed as water nymphs, and no one seemed to notice that she didn’t say a word, unless it was Molly, who always seemed peripherally aware of her, regardless.

“ ’Ello, everyone.”

The voice was soft, but the laughter and chatter in the dressing room stopped as abruptly as if someone had struck a gong. They swiveled as one toward the entrance.

The girl standing there was beautiful even by the White Lily’s standards. Fine silvery blond hair coiled up off her face, a few spirals of it touching her cheeks and forehead; a sprinkle of pale freckles across her nose and delicate cheekbones. Brandy gold eyes, doe-sized and luminous. Her clothes were well made, even expensive, suited to her coloring; a walking dress in sarcenet, a bonnet lined in a rich red-brown, matching ribbons tied beneath her chin.

But it wasn’t the girl that riveted everyone’s attention. It was the small bundle she held in her arms.

Tiny reddish fists popped out of it. And then it made a mewling sound.

The air in the dressing room immediately all but combusted with the collective rabid curiosity.

“Does it ’ave ginger ’air?” one of the girls whispered.

Sylvie felt faint.
Kitty.
This was Kitty, Tom’s favorite, ostensibly. The mysterious disappearing girl. Right here in the doorway.

And there was a baby in her arms.

“Kitty!” Rose was the one who rose to kiss the girl on the cheek. “H’it’s a
looovely
babe! And ye’re in splendid looks. Ye’ve been missed.”

“ ’E’s a boy,” Kitty said proudly, not to the room, but gazing down at the bundle. “Strong an’ loud. I’m right lucky ’e’s sleepin’ now. Must be all of these women. ’E’s playin’ possum, like. ’E knows we rule the world.”

She smiled softly at the baby and made little clucking sounds.

“D’yer name ’im Tom—
Ow!
” Rose was elbowed by the girl next to her.

Kitt looked up dreamily. “I should ’ave done.” She looked down again with a soft smile.

An excruciatingly
enigmatic
smile to just about everyone in the room.

Rose peered into the bundle. “ ’E’s got
no
’air,” she announced meaningfully to the room.

Kitty seemed oblivious to the silent turmoil she’d caused. She was protected by a bubble of new motherhood, and nothing that didn’t directly affect her infant could touch her now.

“Then what
d’yer
name ’im?” Rose asked.

Kitty looked up and smiled impishly then. “The General.”

And at the collective dropping of jaws, Kitty laughed merrily, which made her little son protest with baby noises. And the laughter lit her face and eyes, and made it clear that she was more than beautiful, she was unique.

Sylvie felt the fear sink through her.
Tom’s favorite.

And Sylvie remembered the toy horse on his shelf: there and then gone.

“I just wanted to see all of ye. I thought ye might ’ave worried over me. But we’re doing wonderfully well.”

It almost sounded defiant; it felt rather like a final good-bye, and no doubt it was. Kitty had perhaps come to take a look at her old life, perhaps to prove something to everyone in that room, perhaps to prove something to herself.

She turned and left.

“Someone go an’ ask ’er.”

“She willna tell, that one. Mum’s the word, ’er.”

“Ask ’er if she lives in Kent. Go, go!”

“
You
go.”

And more such whispers rustled.

Sylvie noticed how strangely pale Molly had become. Silent, too.

Sex,
Tom Shaughnessy had said. What the White Lily was about, what it celebrated. What she and Tom had celebrated together last night, this morning. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known all along, she told herself. It wasn’t as though he’d betrayed her in any sense, or promised her a thing. She’d taken her pleasure, and pleasure had been taken from her, and this must be the cost: the plummeting feeling in her stomach, the ice that settled in there, and she couldn’t begin to explain why this would be.

She waited an interval, silent. And then moved out of the dressing room, with the thought of perhaps blindly seeking refuge, perhaps in her little room. To breathe through the pain, or walk it off, as though she’d simply twisted an ankle.

And camouflaged by the chatter, she made her way out of the room, still in her day dress.

Tom had his gloves and hat and walking stick in hand and was hurriedly moving toward the door from his office.

“Sylvie.” He stopped when he saw her. She saw the memory of last night in his eyes and in his smile, and she was suddenly warm everywhere from it, even as uncertainty and her own pride made her cool to him.

“You are off to visit your family, then?”

He looked shocked. “My...family?”

“To Kent?” Sylvie said. Perhaps he was shocked that she knew.

“My family.” He repeated. Staring at her oddly. And then he made a little sound of wondering incredulity. “Well, I suppose I am. But...how do you...”

“And so you take them with you now . . . Kitty and the baby?”

“With Kitty and the—” And now he seemed utterly baffled. “What on earth are you running on about? What do you know of Kitty? Does—”

“Kitty was here with the baby,” she said flatly.

“Kitty was here?” He sounded mildly surprised. “Is she still here? Is she well? And the baby? I imagine Poe or Stark must have let her into the building.”

How could he be so cavalier about this? Unless. . . “They are both well,” she said cautiously.

“Good, then.” He smiled at her.

She couldn’t return the smile. She frowned slightly, looked up at him, and said nothing, utterly tangled in this conversation, not to mention her own thoughts and emotions.

And then she turned to leave.

He closed a quick hand around her arm, stopping her. “Sylvie, what the bloody hell is troubling you?”

She saw the rest of the girls filing out of the dressing room; a few heads turned, then paused, lowering their voices to talk as they saw them.

She wasn’t certain Tom saw the other dancers. For he gently, slowly, released her arm. Made the release somehow a caress.

She had no right to say it, to think it, to demand any sort of clarification from him. She had no right or reason to expect he was anything other than what he appeared to be.

“They say...” She paused. “The girls say...” She cleared her throat. “They say you...They say Kitty...”

He frowned a little. And then his head went back slightly as understanding dawned, came down in a short nod of comprehension.

“Do ‘they’ now?” Ironically drawled.

She lifted her eyes up swiftly, tried looking into his eyes, but found it difficult somehow. So she looked down at his boots instead. Shiny. She could see her face in them, and what she saw chafed her pride, for she could see that she was feeling hurt, and that meant he could see it, too.

“Tell me truthfully, Sylvie: Would it trouble you if the things ‘they’ say are true?” His expression was careful now.

It should not trouble her. It should not even surprise her. She certainly hadn’t a right to feel any particular way about it at all.

She did look up then.

He was fussing uncomfortably with his walking stick, twisting and twisting it in one gloved hand. Using it to help him think, perhaps. Watching her, his own face tense.

Still, she said nothing.

And then he breathed in deeply, exhaled deeply, either in resignation or like someone gathering courage.

“I would be pleased if you would accompany me to Kent, Sylvie. Will you come?”

The invitation sounded awkward, nearly formal.

“With Kitty and the—”

“No.”

She frowned a little, confused, and feeling stubborn now. “The sewing—”

“Will wait.”

“Rehearsal—”

“Sylvie.” The impatient word stopped her. “I employ everyone here.”

Meaning: If he chose, he could order her to accompany him.

A man like Tom Shaughnessy.
She remembered thinking that the night she arrived. What he seemed to be warring with, what she felt him to be.

She sensed something waited in Kent that would finally, definitively tell her what this truly meant.

“I will come with you.”

He was witty and entertaining on the ride there. He taught her another bawdy song having to do with pirates, one deemed far too risqué for the White Lily’s show. But he didn’t touch her, or kiss her, or speak of the previous evening, and a hired closed carriage seemed the
ideal
environment in which to dally. Certainly, Etienne had taken liberties in closed carriages.

“We’re visiting the May family of Little Swathing,” is all he told her. “And you’re my cousin,” he said to her, as they reached their destination.

This made her snap her head around.

He was laughing silently. “For the sake of Mrs. May. She already finds me scandalous, so you’re my cousin for the afternoon. I doubt she’ll be fooled, but it’s a lie she can be comfortable pretending to believe, I think.”

The Mays’ cottage was small and worn and comfortable looking from the outside, wrapped around by a flower-and-vine-tangled picket fence. Mrs. May, a solemn-faced woman, greeted them at the door, and even before introductions had been exchanged, a little boy toddled from behind her and flung his arms up toward Tom.

“
Tah!
”

Tom bent down and scooped the boy up and plopped him down on his shoulders, which made the little boy giggle and curl his hands into Tom’s hair.

“Owwww!” Tom’s howl was especially for the child’s benefit, and it worked a treat, as Jamie laughed. Tom reached up and gently loosened ten little fingers from his hair. “Not so tightly, thank you, my good man.”

And then Tom turned and met Sylvie’s eyes, and her heart nearly stopped. Two faces looked back at her:

Tom and a little twin of Tom. One pair of eyes wide and wondering and innocent; the other pair searching, a little guarded. Decidedly not innocent.

And unapologetic.

“He says that now, Mr. Shaughnessy,” Mrs. May said. “I think he’s saying ‘Tom.’ He asks for you.”

And when Mrs. May said that, a confluence of emotions raced over Tom’s face. Startled pleasure, Sylvie would have said. Or startled pain. It was difficult to know the difference, for the moment was fleeting.

Mrs. May had all but completely succumbed to Tom Shaughnessy’s charm, and had over the past few weeks become something approximating warm, which had some to do with the fiscal contributions Tom made to their household, and much to do with Tom himself.

Or so Tom flattered himself into thinking.

“Clever boy,” Tom said, lowering his son to the ground. “What else does he say now?”

“Ball!”
Jamie hollered, as if in answer, and squirmed to be lowered to the ground. His father obliged him. And then Jamie reached for his ball, and he toddled over to Sylvie and offered it to her.

Sylvie couldn’t speak. Little James was a walking, miniature imprint of his father. Not a shy child, either, she could see; he was all joy and curiosity and restless energy. She supposed the Mays were in part responsible for the joy. But she wondered if Tom saw those qualities in Jamie, and whether he recognized them as his own.

She leaned forward to take the ball from him. Jamie dropped it in favor of seizing her nose in one small hand and squeezing it hard.

“Nose!” Jamie bellowed gaily.

“Unnnh...”
Sylvie’s eyes began to water with the effort not to scream in pain.

“He says ‘nose’ now, too,” Mrs. May said.

Tom was laughing helplessly, if silently, the bloody man. He knelt and gently removed the pincers of his little boy’s fingers from Sylvie’s nose.

Sylvie reached up to feel if her nose was still in place. It was on fire.

She had very little experience with children. She knew they made loud noises, emitted noxious smells, and were often effortlessly enchanting. Even as her nose burned, Jamie’s face split into that smile that took up nearly his entire face, and she was moved.

“I’ve often been tempted to do that, myself,” Tom said this half to Sylvie, half to Jamie, mostly for his own amusement. “It’s a fine nose.”

And then he swooped Jamie up and bounced him back up onto his shoulders.

“What word of Maribeth?” Tom asked of Mrs. May, quietly.

“None, I fear.”

And they began to talk of Jamie, while Sylvie watched and listened—his words, how tall he was getting, what he was eating and refusing to eat. What else he might need in a few weeks time—clothes, shoes. As matter-of-factly as Tom discussed costumes and bawdy songs.