Winterblaze (5 page)

London, 1869—Courting

W
inston was taking the object of his affection for a stroll in Hyde Park. Having never courted a woman, Winston did not know much about the business, but he knew that there ought to be a chaperone involved. However, Poppy Ellis had been the one to greet him in the parlor after he’d given his card to the footman. Indeed, she appeared to be the one responsible for her two younger sisters—a little one, no older than ten with golden-red hair and a curious stare, and a young lady nearing her fifteenth year with curling blond hair and an altogether too-knowing smile. That one had given him a saucy look beneath the fan of her golden lashes, as if she knew exactly what he was about and was glad of it. They’d been introduced as Miranda and Daisy before Poppy shooed them off with orders for Daisy to watch after “Panda.”

The girls complied but not before he heard Miranda
whisper, quite loudly, “What does the man want with Poppy?”

Daisy answered
sotto voce
, “I suspect he wants to play with her.”

“Like capture the pirate and such?”

Daisy had given him one last sidelong glance as he felt his face heat. “Something like that, dearest.”

He needn’t have looked at Poppy to know she was just as red-faced as he, and Winston ushered her out of the town home with haste.

Walking alongside her now, Winston did not feel discomfort so much as a stirring anticipation to know her better. He glanced at her strong, clean profile, and his heart beat faster. As if feeling his gaze, a small smile curved her soft lips, but she kept her eyes on the path before them.

“Daisy takes any chance she can to needle me.”

“That is the way of siblings, I fear,” he said.

“When my mother died a few years ago,” she said, “the role of mothering went to me. Daisy had a hard time adjusting.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She inclined her head. “It is hard. My father isn’t the most attentive parent. But life goes on.”

“I lost my mother five years ago. Influenza. I suspect it is not the same, as she treated me more as a…” He trailed off, his insides twisting.

“As?” Poppy prompted.

“As her pet, truth be told.” He grimaced. What man wanted to admit being treated as a precious thing by his mother? “She doted on me, but whenever I opened my mouth to express an opinion, she closed her ears. The idea of me was far preferable to her than the actual man.”

He’d never told a soul about his mother, but it hadn’t occurred to him to keep it from Poppy. He knew her on some fundamental level that put him at ease and yet filled him with a gripping sense of anticipation.

They were silent for a few steps, and then she did something that had him nearly faltering. She laid her hand upon his arm. The gesture was what any young lady might do when being escorted, but he felt it as though she’d stroked her fingers along the whole of him. Pleasure rippled through him like a shockwave.

Aside from the brusque care of his nanny and occasional pats on the back from his brother, he’d never been touched. Not deliberately, not from someone seeking any meaningful connection. His mother might have bussed his cheek now and then, but she’d never laid a finger on him. As for his father? The very idea of a tender touch from him was laughable. Oddly, he hadn’t realized this lack of touch until he’d received Poppy’s. Now he wanted to purr, demand she touch his chest, anywhere and everywhere.

Poppy appeared oblivious to his struggle. “From the moment I was born, my mother had expectations of who I should be and how I should act.”

Winston cleared his throat and focused on their conversation. “Did you object to those expectations?”

Her thin shoulders lifted. “How should I know? I’ve only now begun to live my own life. Nor were they necessarily bad expectations. They were simply…” She shrugged again. “Hers.”

He needed to tell her everything.
Damn. Damn. Damn.

Winston took a breath and pressed his arm closer to his side, trapping her hand there. Not very gentlemanly, but he didn’t release her. “The other night, when we met, I did not give you my full name. I don’t know why…” Her
eyes were on him now, boring into him in that direct way of hers, and he forged on. “That isn’t correct. I do know.”
Damn
. “My father is the Duke of Marchland.”

She walked on for a beat before speaking. “As in Marchland, cousin to the queen and one of the oldest titles in England?”

“Yes.” His collar felt too tight. “I am his second son. Winston Hamon Belenus Lane, to be exact.”

The hand at his arm gripped harder for one moment before slipping away. He felt the loss acutely.

“Mmm.” She kept walking, not altering her pace, but not looking at him either. She glanced at the distant waters of the Serpentine where small canoes were out in droves as people took in the pleasant spring weather. Light danced off the water, and she squinted. “My father was born in the East End. Bethnal Green, to be exact.” He winced at the way she mimicked his speech and the meaning behind it. “My mother was the seventh daughter of the Earl of Lister. But he disowned her when she chose to marry my father.”

“Did she regret the decision?” A sinking feeling labored his steps.

“Yes.” Again her eyes scanned the park, looking everywhere but at him. “Eventually, she realized that their worlds were too far apart.”

“Perhaps it was not their worlds but their temperaments that were at odds.” He was grasping at straws but he did not like the expression on her face nor the hard set of her shoulders.

Finally, she turned to him. “My lord—”

“Winston.”

“
Lord
Winston. What is it you hope to accomplish by walking with me?”

Unable to take the cold way in which she spoke, he caught hold of her hand and tugged her beneath the canopy of a willow tree. Quiet surrounded them, and her bright hair turned bronze in the shadows. She glanced pointedly at his hand clutching hers, but he did not let go. “I want to get to know you.”

Beneath her straight red brows, her brown eyes studied his face. “What is the point of getting to know someone whom you could never…” She sucked in a sharp breath, and her jaw went tight. “With whom you could never have a relationship?”

“Says who?”

Her brows snapped together. “Do not be obtuse. A duke’s son and a merchant’s daughter live in separate spheres. They do not commingle.”

“To my knowledge, there is no law against it.”

Her gaze was direct and snapped with impatience and intelligence. It made him hot and breathless. She glared. “There is a social law, and you well know it.”

A gust of wind rushed over the grass and whipped about them, and a long strand of her vibrant hair broke free from her practical bun to tickle his nose. Gently, he tucked it back behind her ear, not quite touching her, but wanting to. “Social laws are broken all the time.”

“To ill effect.”

He smiled then. “It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it?”

She scowled. “What is?”

“You picking away at my logic, and me finding new ways to prove you wrong.” And he could not wait.

She blushed beautifully. “You talk as if we’re to have a future.”

“Because we will.”

She frowned. “It won’t… I’m…”

“You’re what?”

She huffed out a breath. Most unladylike. Most refreshing. “My life is complicated. I have responsibilities.”

He moved just a bit closer. “I would not ask you to forgo them. I simply want…” So many things. He touched her cheek, a fleeting caress. “When I’m with you, I have no name,” he whispered. “No title. It’s just me. Just you. I want to keep that feeling, to keep you with me.”

There. He’d said it. And her nose wrinkled. “I don’t…” She paused, appearing utterly confounded by him. Confusion, he gathered, was a new thing for Poppy Ellis. And though the flush in her cheeks grew redder still, she spoke plainly. “Men don’t usually fancy me.”

He knew what it cost her to say it, and instinctively, he knew she was trying to scare him away by her admission. London society maintained a pack mentality; the undesirables were culled. What she did not know was that her brutal honesty made him admire her all the more.

He held her gaze with his. “This man does.”

J
ack Talent was going to be a problem. Mary had known this as soon as she’d seen him sneering at her from the deck above when she had embarked with Mrs. Lane. He always looked at her as if he knew something about her that others did not. As if he saw inside of her soul and found her lacking. It rankled. Who was he to pass judgment upon her without so much as a by-your-leave? Or scowl at her when she knew he was guilty of his own crimes? Worse still, he was now at Inspector Lane’s side. No doubt he would soon be whispering vitriol in his ear, much as he’d done with Ian Ranulf.

She would not let him. Not with so much at stake. Thus when she spied the arrogant tilt of Talent’s dark head weaving through the crowd, she followed. It was an easy task; the man held little regard for those around him and simply cut through the slower-moving people like a scythe through dead grass. Mary moved just as quickly, but delicately, having long ago learned to slip and twist through a crowd without gaining any more notice than one would give a gentle breeze.

Talent turned a corner, headed, if she could believe it, toward the shuffleboard deck. Laughter and the sandy scratch of disks over wood lifted and faded in the wind. Talent touched the brim of his hat and nodded to a pretty young lady who looked quite fetching in a white polonaise with sea blue ribbons. The golden-haired girl smiled coyly back, and Mary almost rolled her eyes.
Yes, dear girl, engage with the devil. See how that works out for you.

Coattails fluttering in the breeze, Talent moved on, circling a massive smokestack and heading to the windward side of the ship. On cautious feet, she followed, her senses alert—

He slammed into her without warning, taking her back against the wooden hull of a lifeboat. The craft creaked in protest, but then he was against her, stilling it. His big hand covered her mouth. As though she would scream. The fool.

His accusing eyes narrowed. “Following me, Miss Chase? Might want to be a little less obvious about it.” He cocked his head. “Your scent is all over the wind.” He leaned in for a sniff. “Cinnamon and spices. And here I thought you were supposed to be a proficient spy.”

She merely stared back.

A smarmy snort left his lips. “What? Nothing to say?”

Oh, was she to talk with his brutish hand over her mouth?

Something in her expression must have conveyed this, for he let her go, stepping back two wide paces. She knew better than to believe the action was out of respect or even fear. No, he was simply giving himself enough space to fight should she attack. Mary almost laughed.

“Why are you here?” She wouldn’t bother with indignation; it would only please him.

Talent crossed his arms over his chest. “Now that’s my question, merrily.”

“Do not call me that.”

He laughed, if one could call the ugly sound a laugh. “What? Do you not flit through London, making certain everyone sees you as a merry bit of fluff?”

She hated him. Truly. Her spirit stretched along the walls of her flesh, yearning to escape and show this man how “frivolous” she could be. But she’d worked too hard to fail now.

“What I am is a Regulator in training.” Satisfaction rose at the flash of shock that went through Talent’s eyes. Mary moved closer to him. “While you are nothing more than The Ranulf’s valet. A common lickspittle who never leaves his master’s side. Until now. Which makes me wonder—”

He moved in a flash, crashing her back against the lifeboats with his body. His eyes shone a brilliant, violent green. “Do not…” He sucked in a breath through his bared teeth. “You will keep your sticky GIM fingers out of my business, Chase, or learn to regret it.”

She could have him begging in an instant. And the funny thing was, he had no idea. None of the others knew what a GIM could truly do. Calmed by the thought, she held his gaze. “What are you doing here, bounder?” When he didn’t move, she craned forward until their noses almost touched. “Whatever it is, think long and hard about getting in my way.” She was not going back to her old life. No matter what she had to do.

Poppy did not take Winston’s arm as they traversed the ship. In truth, he hadn’t offered, but kept a steady, yet silent, clip down the first class deck, which was surprisingly
wide and fitted with reclining chairs that were nestled against the ship walls. Varnished teak boards shone golden in the noon light. Archer had given Winston use of the owner’s suite and all the trappings that went with it. It was a refined world that they had never been a part of as a couple. Poppy had lived it for a brief time and knew that Winston had too. But his family had cut him off because he’d insisted on being a detective. She wondered if he missed this life.

He set a brisk pace, knowing somehow it was what she craved. For a moment, she reveled in the simple feeling of walking with him. Often, when he had been on a particularly vexing case, they would take long walks through the city and talk his theories through. She’d loved those walks, loved being his sounding board. They were in the same business, after all, even if he never knew it. She too strove to weed out the dregs of society. And she felt the same stress and worry when she failed to hunt down the criminals of her world.