Eleven
Once Phaedra was put to bed, Madame Renauld returned to the sitting room. But she was far from easy. She paced and checked the window and paced more. She’d poured tea for Modesty and herself, but she hadn’t touched her own cup. Modesty had drunk hers, mainly to keep warm until the room heated up after Madame Renauld built up the fire again.
Somewhere in the house a clock chimed one, and Modesty heard a squawk. “Was that a bird?” she asked, desperate to say something to end the tense silence.
“Oui. Bleuette, my parrot. Her cage ees covered, but she likes to echo the chimes.”
“I didn’t realize you had a parrot. I’ve never seen one.”
Madame Renauld sat on the edge of a chair upholstered in amethyst and lifted her teacup. “You should come to my shop. You can meet her and be fitted for a dress that will leave men unable to look away from you.”
Modesty raised her brows. “I’m not sure I want men unable to look away from me.”
“Ah,” Madame said. “You are like me. I must blend in lest I upstage my customers.”
Modesty looked at this woman and wondered how she ever blended in. She was so beautiful.
“But surely there ees some man you want to look at you,” Madame Renauld said, sipping what must by now be cold tea.
Modesty didn’t speak, but she could feel her cheeks heating.
“Perhaps the fighter. Payne,” Madame said, eyeing Modesty over the rim of her cup. “Phaedra said he would come to fetch you.”
“He’s been very kind,” Modesty said. “I think he must feel sorry for me.”
“Perhaps,” Madame said, but she looked unconvinced.
“In any case, I won’t trouble him again after tonight. He has done quite enough for me.”
“I see.”
Modesty heard the sound of a coach approaching, and she and Madame Renauld rose and went to the window overlooking the street. When Mr. Payne alighted from the conveyance, her heart beat a little faster, but she noticed the modiste slumped slightly. She wondered who the other woman was expecting but did not ask.
A moment later a knock sounded at the door, and Madame went to answer it then ushered Mr. Payne into the chamber. The sitting room, which had looked so spacious and cozy before, now seemed too small and cramped. Mr. Payne seemed to fill it, and when he came into the light, she spotted the dark bruise on his cheek.
“Did you win?” Madame Renauld asked, after introductions were made.
He grinned then winced and touched his cheek. Clearly the bruise pained him. “Of course.” He jiggled his coat, which jingled from the weight of the purse holding the coins in his pocket. Then his expression grew more serious. “How is your assistant?”
“She ees sleeping. I gave her some tea laced with brandy.”
“The best thing for the swelling is a cold compress. If she can stand it, apply ice wrapped in cloth for a quarter hour.” He glanced at the window. “It should be cold enough to turn water to ice tonight if you put out a pan.”
“I’ll do that. Merci.” She glanced at the window. “Ees Mr. Okoro not with you?”
Mr. Payne’s brow drew down. “No. He had...” He glanced at Modesty. “Some other business. I thought he would have finished by now, but his errand took him to the docks, and it might take some time to drive back. I can wait with you—”
“No, monsieur. This poor lady ees weary. You must take her home and see to your own injuries.”
He nodded but pulled a card out of his waistcoat, which he wore unbuttoned under his coat. “Send for me if you need anything.”
“Merci. You are very kind.” She gave Modesty a pointed look. “And you, chérie. You must come to the shop. Bring her, monsieur. I will make her a dress you will not soon forget.”
Mr. Payne bowed and looked at Modesty. “Miss Brown, are you ready?”
She nodded and took his arm. He led her out of the flat and into the street, where the hackney still waited. Once in the vehicle, she missed the warmth of his body pressed against hers as it had been in the narrow passageway. She burrowed deep into Lady Lorraine’s cloak and tried not to think about how this was the last time she might ever see him. But if it were, she needed to apologize to him.
“I am sorry about this evening,” she said. He’d been looking out the window, but he moved to face her.
“I won. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“No. I am sorry for what I said. About your wife. I didn’t know, and it was careless to—”
He held up a hand. “She died a long time ago.”
Modesty nodded. “I understand, but that is no excuse for my carelessness.” She looked out the window. “And time does not always dull the pain.”
She didn’t know why she’d said that. She hadn’t meant to say anything of the sort, but she was thinking of her own mother so much these last few days. Mr. Payne hadn’t replied, and she thought he might allow the comment to pass unacknowledged.
“You speak as from experience,” he said.
Apparently, the comment would not go unacknowledged.
“My mother died when I was five. I miss her still, though some would say I hardly knew her.” After reading the letters and discovering her mother had known of her father’s unfaithfulness, Modesty did feel she hadn’t known her mother. “And perhaps I didn’t.”
“Was there something in the letters that troubled you?”
Modesty was sorely tempted to tell him that, yes, something in the letters had troubled her very much. But she was not ready to reveal her father’s sins to Rowden Payne.
“They mentioned my mother only in passing. There was nothing about my aunt.”
“What happened to your black clothing and that awful hat you usually wear?”
Modesty shrugged, a gesture she had never been allowed to make before. Her father considered it the height of rudeness. But what did she care what he thought now? She’d wanted to be a woman like her mother, a woman he would respect and love. But he hadn’t respected her mother at all. “I don’t see the point of dressing in black.”
Payne’s brows went up. “I thought your church dictated it?”
“They dictate modest dress, but it does not have to be black. My father and mother always dressed in black and dressed me thus as well. But I don’t see the point in adhering to those strictures anymore.”
He sat back. “Whatever was in those letters must have shocked you.”
She looked out the window again. “I don’t wish to discuss them.” And that pledge lasted all of three heartbeats. “But have you ever believed one thing about someone and then it turned out that you were wrong? They were not the person you thought at all?”
She felt ridiculous for saying such a thing. How could anyone possibly understand what it was like to feel as though she had lived with a stranger her entire life? Her father was not who she thought. He had another family!
“Yes. I can understand that. My own father turned out to be very different from the man I always supposed him to be.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” she said.
He waved a hand. “You have probably heard the duke disowned me. No doubt you think I did something to deserve it.”
She shook her head. “On the contrary, I heard you were a war hero.”
He gave her a faint smile. “That might be overstating it somewhat. But I fought in the war after I was cut off. And all the accolades heaped on me in the prevailing years did nothing to sway my father.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Again, it is not your doing, and there is nothing to apologize for.” The hackney stopped, and the jarvey called down that there was some sort of obstacle ahead.
“I’ll see if I can find a way around, guv.”
“If I may?” Payne said and moved across the conveyance to sit beside her and peer out the window. As he had occupied the rear-facing seat, he hadn’t been able to see ahead of them. Now he lowered the window, peering out and frowning. The conveyance bounced, and she fell against him, righting herself quickly, but not so quickly that she didn’t feel the warmth of his body or catch the scent of him.
She did not know what a warrior might smell like, but if she had to guess, she would have said it was the scent of Mr. Payne that evening. She detected a mixture of sweat, blood, wool, and—strangely—oranges. The scent wasn’t unpleasant, as she might have expected. In fact, it drew her closer. The voice that always arose in her mind bubbled up again, telling her she should sit back and move away.
But Modesty pushed it away instead. Following all the rules had not kept her mother alive or made her father a faithful husband. Following the rules had not kept Modesty from being abandoned and becoming, essentially, homeless and penniless. What did it matter now if she moved away from him or allowed herself to soak up the heat and scent of him a moment longer?
He sat back and looked at her. “An overturned cart. They are already clearing it.”
She nodded, unable to speak. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes in the dim light, but she knew they were a lovely shade of green. She also knew he had a bruise forming on his cheek, but she couldn’t see that either. Right now all she could see was his strong jaw and mostly straight nose. He was warm, his big body taking up more than half the seat, one of his thighs pressing against hers through layers of linen and wool.
He looked at her for a long moment then cleared his throat. “I should move back.” But he didn’t move, and she didn’t speak. The hackney lurched to a start, and he caught her shoulders with both hands before she could tumble to the floor. Then the vehicle stopped again, and she was only cushioned by the fact that he held on to her. It took a moment before she realized she could feel his hands on her arms, and she looked down to see her cloak had come loose and fallen off her shoulders.
“Allow me,” he said. He pulled the cloak up and over her shoulders then crossed the ribbons that had come loose at her neck. But instead of making a bow, his hands stayed where they were and one finger trailed along the bare skin just below her neck. Modesty gasped, but she did not pull away. Payne’s gaze met hers. “I neglected to tell you how well you looked in this dress tonight.”
She couldn’t reply. She didn’t know what to say, and even if she had, she didn’t think she could have produced the sound. She wanted him to kiss her. She knew she shouldn’t want that, and she had never wanted something like that before, but he was so close and so warm, and that one finger left a trail of fire over her bare skin. And then both his hands slid back, letting the cloak fall away again, and he leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss at the base of her throat. His soft lips pressed against her bare skin, causing her to tremble. She couldn’t say why she should tremble. She was not cold—in fact, she was very, very warm—and she was not afraid. He would stop if she gave the slightest indication that she disapproved. So why should she tremble?
He looked up at her. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m not myself. After a fight, I always find it hard to be a gentleman.”
“Your blood is stirred?” she said, her voice low and husky. She hardly recognized it as her own.
“Agitated,” he murmured.
Had he gone home to his wife after boxing matches years ago and found a release for that excess passion in their bed? Was he looking for that same release now?
She reached up and touched his bruise, very lightly. He did not flinch, did not move as her hands slid down his cheek and over his jaw and then up to press two fingers over his lips, tugging the lower one down as she moved away again.
“You’re trembling,” he said, still holding her.
“I’ve never been kissed,” she admitted.
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t be the man to—”
She swallowed and dropped her hand. “I didn’t mean to suggest—I would never ask you to do something you don’t want—”
“Oh, I want,” he said, and the tone of his voice left no question as to that fact.
“Then why do you hesitate?”
If she’d expected a spoken answer, it didn’t come. He lowered his head to hers, his lips almost brushing hers. “Do you want, Miss Brown?”
“Yes,” she whispered. And then she did something that would have shocked her but a week ago. She took his face between her hands and kissed him.
* * *
ROWDEN’S BELLY TIGHTENED, and his cock hardened. These were familiar sensations—arousal and desire. But his heart clenched in his chest, and that was unfamiliar. That he had not felt in a very long time. He knew why he felt it now. The way she kissed him was so sweet, so innocent.
Her lips pressed against his as tenderly as a child might kiss the cheek of her parent.
And it moved him. It moved him that she would give him this part of herself, this sweet, untouched part of herself. Her first kiss. It felt like his first kiss, the way her lips almost baptized him of his previous sins.
The kiss might have stayed chaste if the arousal wasn’t flowing through his veins along with the hot blood from the fights earlier that night. He needed more than this, and he was curious what her reaction would be if he opened the door, just a little, to the passion and pleasure beyond.
He pulled back, and her brow pulled in. Her hands dropped. “Was that not right?”
“It was...” He didn’t have the words. “It was perfect,” he said, allowing his hands to slide down her slim shoulders. She’d almost stopped trembling. “May I kiss you now?”
She nodded.
“The words, Miss Brown. Tell me yes.”
“Yes.” The word was a whisper, and her eyelids fluttered closed as she waited. He slid his hands up her back then bent to kiss her neck again. Her pulse beat so hard he could feel it against his lips. Her breath came quickly, so quickly that if he’d pulled her just a bit closer, her breasts would have heaved against him. He tried to remember he was a gentleman, despite his cock’s best efforts to convince him otherwise. Rowden trailed his lips up the column of her neck, and she let out a little gasp of pleasure. Rowden paused just under her chin at that rapidly beating pulse point. And then his hand was in her hair and his mouth found hers, and it was as though he had been kissing her for years. Their mouths fit perfectly, and her lips parted to receive him without him even having to nudge for entrance. She didn’t kiss him back at first, but he showed her what to do, and when he paused, she imitated the press of his lips and the pressure he’d used.
God how he wanted. He wanted to sweep his tongue inside her mouth and taste her. He wanted to pull her onto his lap and run his hands under her skirts. He wanted to touch her in that hot, wet place he knew must be aching right now.
She was so sweet, so delicate, so innocent—and he was not the man who should be taking any part of that innocence. He’d done enough. Even as kisses went, this was only one step away from chaste, but it was more than he should be allowed. He pulled away, pressing his lips to her temple and then her forehead because he couldn’t stop touching her quite yet, and he didn’t trust himself to move his lips lower. That straining bodice was all too tempting.
He looked down at her and wished, with everything he had, that he had a lamp. Her face was flushed and her hair slightly mussed, and he could sense how beautiful she would look in warm candlelight.
“That is kissing?” she asked, her voice sounding low and raw as though she’d just awakened. He wanted to kiss her again just hearing it.
“More or less,” he answered.
At some point, perhaps when they were kissing, the carriage had begun to move again. Now he looked past her and out the window and saw they were close to Ewan’s home. “We’re almost there.” He pulled her cloak up and tied the ribbons efficiently then reached to smooth her hair before thinking better of it. The less he touched her, the better. Instead, he drew the hood of the cloak over her head. Her hair would seem mussed from the fabric rubbing against it rather than his hands.
“Is this good-bye?” she asked, sitting up and starting to resemble the prim and proper young miss he’d seen that first night.
“I think that’s for the best,” he said because he didn’t want it to be good-bye any more than she. “Lady Lorraine will help you find your aunt, and I have to prepare for the mill in Hungerford.”
“Hungerford?” She sat up as though she’d just sat on a pin.
“Yes. I’m to fight the German there. There are other renowned pugilists slated to fight, and since it’s likely to draw enough Fancy to attract the attention of the magistrates in London, it’s being held in Hungerford.”
The coach slowed and the jarvey banged on the top. “Here ye are, guv!”
Rowden opened the coach door and helped her out. At the Mostyn’s door, he rapped quietly, and a manservant answered immediately. He had obviously been instructed to wait for Miss Brown to return. He stepped back to give them privacy.
She turned to go in then hesitated. “I can’t thank you and your friends enough for what you’ve done for me. I...” She looked down. “I admit I misjudged you.”
“You thought I was a criminal,” he said, smiling.
She started to shake her head. “Well, yes. But you must admit, boxing is illegal, so technically, you are a criminal.”
Rowden bowed. “And so we end as we began. Good night, Miss Brown.”
“Good night.”
Rowden went back to the hackney and ordered the jarvey to take him to his flat. Normally, he might go to his club or a tavern and celebrate his victory. He could never sleep right after a fight. The thrill often did not wear off for days.
But tonight Rowden didn’t want crowds and drink and buxom women on his lap. He couldn’t imagine kissing another woman after that kiss with Modesty Brown.
Rowden could only hope that thrill would wear off eventually as well.