Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 (7 page)

Halfway through his task, he glanced up at her, consternation in his eyes. “My fault, this was entirely my fault.” Cupping her face with both hands, he wiped away her tears with his thumbs. When she would have closed her eyes, so she did not have to look at him, he shook his head slightly. “No, don’t hide away. Face this. Face it with me.”

Even this close, he was so beautiful she could hardly bear it. Beautiful in a hard-edged, masculine way. He moved with grace, but it was the grace of a man used to wielding a sword. He dressed well, but was not a slave to his clothes. He had a bright, quick intelligence that few people could match. All these things she knew, the surety sinking into her mind with a certainty that would not be denied.

She gazed back and swallowed. “I have never done anything like this before. That is, I don’t know why…”

He nodded, a short jerk of his chin. “I know. I meant to share a few kisses with you, that’s all. Not this. You set a fire in me, one I can’t resist, and I’m guessing it’s the same with you. Now, do we act on this, or do we stay apart?”

“Will it go away?” She was making it sound like some kind of disease.

“I can’t promise that, but it will subside to bearable.” He smoothed his thumb over her cheeks. His mouth flattened, the lines tightening. “I will not take you in a frenzy. I will not allow you to say that it’s all me, that I forced you to it. And I will not do anything you do not want me to do.”

“How do I know what I want? I’m not experienced, I don’t know what is expected, or what happens!”

“If you dislike something, or if you don’t want to do it, say so. Or I can read your body.” Groaning, he got to his feet. “Forgive me. I should not even be speaking to you this way.” He crossed the room to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and smoothed his hair back. Plucking a comb from his pocket, he plied it vigorously. Too vigorously, perhaps, as his hair crackled and strands rose, sparked by the friction.

He spoke to her while he was putting himself to rights. “You’re a respectable woman, I can see that. My only excuse is that I want you too much. You’ve unbalanced me. I never imagined that I could become so carried away by a few kisses.”

Deftly, he smoothed his hair back and tied it. The bow was not quite as perfect as before, but then, she had crumpled it when she’d tugged it free. Next he turned to his neckcloth.

Joanna had never known anyone quite as devastating as this man. Her blood ran cold when she thought what he could have done to her. No, what they could have done. He was right. She wanted it too.

He turned, but did not move towards her. “When we do this, it will be in full knowledge of what and why.” He touched his finger to his chin. She studied his long, lean length, allowing herself the luxury of admiring his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and powerful thighs. And this glorious man wanted her?

“Why me?”

“Ah.” He took his time, as if working out what to say. “That is a question I cannot answer, except to say you are lovely, and clever, and nimble.”

“How can you tell all that?” That was not the way she usually thought of herself. Resourceful, maybe, and attractive and cunning. She’d had to be. With a father like hers, she had to make do and keep a roof over their heads.

“I have a gift for detecting human nature.” He stayed where he was and folded his arms over his chest. The fine ruffles at his cuffs cascaded down, creating a contrast with his long, lean hands.

“And of course I’m your servant.”

The expression in his eyes hardened. “
Never
say that. I do not prey on maids, whether they be mine or anyone else’s. In any case, you are not just a servant, are you?”

A sudden lump solidified in her stomach. A heavy one that sank and took her spirits with it. “What do you mean?” It took all her courage to shape the words. The implications hit her hard. She could never come back here after today.

“You do other things, do you not?”

She couldn’t look at him any longer. Joanna hung her head and closed her eyes against the inevitable tears. “I have no excuse.”

“For what?”

He deserved his pound of flesh, but he would leave her bleeding and raw. A few minutes ago they’d been wrapped around each other, and now? She’d been ready to tell him anything, to pour out her heart and her life to this man.

He’d kissed her to weaken her, or to punish her, to seduce the truth out of her. She looked up, seeing him through a mist of tears, but inside she was blazing with anger. “Why did you stop? Did you want to show me what I was missing?”

His brows went up, and his mouth quirked. “Explain.”

“You called me in here and kissed me because you wanted to complete my humiliation.” Bracing her hand against the arm of the chair, she pushed herself to her feet. At this rate she’d wrench her wrist as well as her ankle.

“Why would I want to humiliate you?” He watched her, silver eyes sharp. This man missed nothing. He was clever and devious and he knew exactly what he’d been doing.

Unlike her. “Because of what I was doing.”

“You haven’t told me what you were doing yet.”

Ah yes, this was where she confessed her sins. She folded her hands before her in a simulation of an obedient maid and looked him in the eyes. Her tears wet her face, but they were drying fast. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her wipe them away. Tears came altogether too easily when she was with Lord d’Argento. Perhaps one day she would show him her mettle—but no, she would not be seeing him again, unless at a distance in the theatre or another public place.

She gazed at the floor, the epitome of a humble petitioner. She should know, because she’d practised it before the mirror. The pose had proved especially useful when she had to admit she and her father could not pay the rent. She’d used it a lot in recent years. At least she could leave the Pantheon Club cleanly, knowing she had told him the truth.

Sucking in a deep breath, she began her confession. “My father owns a journal, the
Argus
. There are many such in London. We thought we could find a place by promising that all our stories were true, but—” She cut herself off. “We pick up stories in the clubs and coffeehouses, so when you opened the Pantheon, I—”

He cut her off. “Why did you not come here when we first opened last year?”

“I do not like this kind of work.” Nothing but the truth.

“You don’t like hard work?”

“Not that part. The listening part.” She had never told anyone that, and it was as if a weight lifted off her shoulders. She hated the prying and spying, for all her father’s excuses and reasoning. Even if Lord d’Argento blasted her for it, at least that much good had come of this whole messy affair.

“I see.” Pushing away from the fireplace, he strolled toward her, a slight smile on his face. Probably because he’d caught her out, and done it in the most humiliating way possible. “Do you think you are the only person to do this? We have journalists at the doors and applying for work all the time. I have one on staff, and he has no clue I know, but it suits me to have him there. He keeps the others away, and I can keep an eye on what he’s doing.”

To her shock, he untangled her hands and held them in his. Nevertheless she continued to speak. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave immediately. The only piece of gossip I heard was Lady Spencer’s new lover, but that is all. I’m afraid my father will have put that out in today’s issue.”

“You heard nothing else?”

When she tried to pull her hands away, he tightened his grip. She jerked up her head and met his gaze, the shock, as always, profound when she gazed into those still, silver eyes. “Nothing. Did you expect me to?” She had seen, but not heard.

“No. Where else have you worked?”

“Lloyd’s Coffee House, and a few others.”

“Tom King’s?” Now his smile turned wicked. Prostitutes met their clients at King’s, although they never conducted their business on the premises.

Her response was immediate. “No!”

He laughed softly. “That’s my girl.”

“I’m not your anything!” She gave up tugging, because her efforts were having absolutely no effect.

“Would you like to be?”

The word “No,” hovered on her lips, but it would not come out. She could not make herself say it. “I should not,” was all she managed.

“And I should not either, but I would like you to be.” He sighed. “A fine pair, are we not?” When he tugged her closer she did not resist, and found herself, once more, chest to chest with him. His breath scorched her cheek, and he smiled into her eyes. “So what do we do with this? Us?”

She blinked. “You’re asking me?”

“What would you do?”

She had not thought that way before. What
would
she do? Sensing a trap, she snapped her mouth shut.

“Ask me one question. I swear I will answer it truthfully.”

Was this a game? A question popped into her head, one she’d heard a lot of speculation about. “Are you a real comte?”

Tipping his head back, he howled with laughter. His white teeth flashing like a predator’s, he returned his gaze to her. “I cannot possibly let you go. Yes, my dear, I’m a real comte, but my title doesn’t carry much with it. It’s Italian, but I lived for some time in France, so it’s comte rather than conti or conte. I have used it for all I was worth. However, I did come by a reasonable amount of money, so I used that to increase my holdings. My mother was the daughter of an English peer, a minor one.” He paused, his face still, his eyes distant. With a blink, he returned his attention to her. “And that is your question?”

“I suppose I should have asked about something else. Mr. Lightfoot’s feet, for instance.”

His mouth flattened and exasperation creased the corners of his eyes. “Ah yes. That’s not my secret to tell, sweetheart. But I should caution against asking him. Lightfoot is very sensitive about his, ah, feet.”

“They looked like hooves,” she whispered, like revealing a secret. “However does he walk?”

“I believe he uses special shoes,” he said. He released her hands and shrugged, strolling over to the window and gazing outside at the red brick palace opposite. “Everyone has secrets. Some are just more noticeable than others.” He turned around and faced her, his features in shadow. The light behind shone bright for an instant, casting him into nothing more than an outline with a hint of colour, then the sun must have gone behind a cloud, because the illumination dimmed and she could see him again. “And we will have our secret. You may continue working here, and you may continue to collect your scandals, but on one condition.”

Shocked, her mind reeling, she had enough presence of mind to say, “What?”

“That you tell me before you tell your father. Come to me at the end of every day and tell me what you intend to tell him. Gossip is very useful. Even if it is not true, it tells more than that.”

“Such as the teller’s attitude, and their opinions?” Delight filled her. She had met a kindred spirit, someone who understood exactly why gossip was important. It wasn’t
what
was told, but
who
told it and
why
. “And the way many people are thinking. If enough people think that the sun is green, when it is evidently yellow, then there must be a reason for that.”

He nodded. “Precisely. I want to know first. But I do not want certain secrets bruted abroad and I may ask you not to spread some. You will have to abide by my decision, at least where my club is concerned.”

That seemed restrictive. She frowned. “What if I discover something important, something people should know?”

“Then we will discuss it. Or you will obtain other proof outside this establishment.” He came back to where she stood by the sofa and kissed her forehead so naturally it felt as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Except she would have remembered. Producing her glasses from his pocket, he flourished them before her. “Do you need these?”

She took them and put them back on her face. “Only when I read too much and my eyes hurt. But they make me look different.”

They made her eyes look larger, almost bulging, which they were not. “They do. Is that why you fell the other day?”

She shook her head. “I was in too much of a hurry and I slipped.”

“And yet there will be no repetition of that. The stairs will have carpet from now on.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I have no mind to see my guests tumbling down the stairs like skittles.” Over her gentle laughter, he added, “Do we have an agreement? At the end of every day you will come here, and I will be waiting.”

What could she do but agree? Joanna nodded. “Yes, we do.”

Tilting her chin up, he kissed her, a soft press of his lips to hers. “Then that is a bargain.”

Chapter Seven

“Sir? You said you would attend the card party in the main room tonight.”

Staring at his reflection did no good. Amidei turned away from the elaborate gilt mirror hung above the sideboard to face his factotum. “Yes, I did. Have you laid out the white?”

Lightfoot raised a brow. “The white velvet?”

He shrugged. The white was spectacular, far too much for a card evening. “The deep green will do.”

“Sir.” Lightfoot bowed. “That was the selection I made on your behalf, but of course the choice is yours.”

Amidei bared his teeth. “Damn you.” If he had not fenced his thoughts in with several layers of protection he’d have suspected the man of reading him. But nobody did that, unless he wanted them to. Lightfoot predicted his needs too often for his liking.

“You spoke to the girl? And read her?”

That was better. Nobody did oily unctuousness better than Lightfoot. Amidei hated it. “Partly. Her mind is protected, and I do not want to force my way in until I understand her better.” Besides, intruding in that way felt like spying. He would do it for his fellow immortals, and he would hate himself all the time he did, but he would rather discover what he wanted another way.

Like making love to her. Why deny that he wanted to do it? The minute he pulled her into his arms, he wanted to keep her there. When she had responded and nestled close, every protective instinct he possessed roared into life. Letting her go hurt him. Everything told him that she belonged to him, and now he had her he should never let her go.

The instincts bewildered him.

Lightfoot tilted his head to one side, regarding his master thoughtfully. “What is it?”

Amidei shook his head in resignation. “I have no idea. When I touched her I wanted her. When she came to me I wanted to keep her.”

“You must have had those feelings before.” Lightfoot tapped across the room and pulled the curtains closed over the windows. Night had fallen. He kept his shoes well nailed, an echo of the sound he made when he was barefoot. “Has the maid not been in?”

“No, the maid has not been in. I would have sent a tongue of flame over her if she had.”

Lightfoot turned around and shrugged, his dark blue coat reflecting the movement of supple muscle. “Why so vehement?”

“I don’t know.” Amidei was not accustomed to bewilderment, so much that he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Spreading his arms wide, he repeated, “I—don’t—know.”

Lightfoot rubbed his hand over his mouth as if stifling a smile. Amidei had never wanted to strangle him more than he did now. “You have forgotten something, sir.”

“That is?”

“You have been a god for a long time, much longer than most. You escaped the disaster thirty years ago, and you’ve been fighting to rescue your fellows ever since. In short, sir, you’ve forgotten the other part of you. That you are a human as well. You were created as a man, a seed in your mother’s womb. You became a god after that. You were born half god, half man. The god has been dominant for a long time now. Perhaps the mortal part of you wants some time.”

Amidei closed his eyes and felt the truth pour through him, a draft of cool air. That was why he put up with the satyr’s behaviour. The man was an excellent manager, but he did it on his own terms, and ran the day-to-day activities of the club with panache. Occasionally Lightfoot took off without notice, or played a trick Amidei found difficulty forgiving, like exposing his legs to a woman—

Damn him, the man was right. His desire for Joanna was nothing more than ordinary human lust. He had no other explanation for it. “So I should allow myself the indulgence with her?”

Lightfoot shrugged. “Not if you dishonour her.”

Amidei frowned. “And what in hell does that mean?”

“You know what it means. She’s what her fellow maids call a good girl. She doesn’t have round heels. If the maids start to gossip, she is ruined.” He spread his hands. “You know it’s all nonsense, but this is the age we live in.”

Lightfoot was older than Amidei. He had the perspective that age brought, more than Amidei, who preferred to live for the day, for the hour. “I’ve asked her to come up here after she finishes work every day. I want to know what she intends to tell her father before anybody else knows.”

The satyr snorted in derision. “And that will help her reputation, will it? Do you want me to send a chaperone up with her?”

“No. I suppose I’ll have to tell her not to do that.” Lightfoot was right. A regular appointment with her employer would label her a whore, especially since the maids jostled to get his attention. His heart sank. A few kisses along with the information had aroused him beyond what he could have imagined.

“No. I’ll give orders for her to come upstairs and clean your rooms.” Thus Lightfoot proved he was not completely heartless. “If you happen to be here, that is just an accident, is it not?”

Relief poured through Amidei. “Yes. That will do very well.”

“So use her and send her back to her father. You did, I presume, understand the significance of the name.”

And now they came to it. The factotum did not even have to explain. “Of course. Argus the spy, the betrayer.” Amidei clenched his fist in remembered fury.

The satyr passed a brush over the nap of the coat. “He has caused us great harm in the past. Do you think this is him again?”

“Why else would he come here, why else send his daughter to spy on me?” Exasperation filled him with anger.

“Do you really think she came here to collect gossip?” Lightfoot sneered. “She is his spy, telling him your secrets.”

“She thinks she is here to uncover gossip. About me, if possible, but she doesn’t suspect the truth.” He was sure about that. When someone lied to him, he always knew. Evasions and half truths were trickier, although he could detect them if he wanted to, but with her, he’d been crazy with desire, so much that he had to break away from her in order to restore himself to some semblance of sanity. And to allow the inevitable physical response to subside. Had she noticed the hardness of his shaft? Of course she had, but she had not remarked on it. If she had he might have taken their encounter further.

While certain she was a virgin, or close to it, he doubted she would have known how to broach the subject. That made him smile, but he quelled it. At this point in the conversation a smile would not be welcome. He kept it tucked inside, lending its warmth to the more uncomfortable part of what he had to say.

“She will have to face me every day and I will read her. The more I get to know her, the better I’ll read her.” Once he got to know the way her mind worked. If he discovered her body at the same time, what of that?

“Do you remember who killed Argus in the original legend?”

“Oh yes.” How could he forget when it was his forebear who had done the deed? Then presented Argus’s hundred eyes to Juno for the peacocks that drew her carriage. “But we have already proved history does not have to repeat itself. However, we probably need to tell Argus that.”

“I shall send someone to her father’s offices. I know just the boy. Surely he will employ someone to help him now.”

“Why should he? She said they could not afford to pay people.”

Lightfoot grinned. “If we drop a few tasty tidbits their way, that will get circulation up.”

Delighted, Amidei laughed. “I’m sure we can do that. But ensure the stories are not exclusive to the club. The people who come here are well aware that they cannot breathe without someone observing it and taking note, but if this is the only place Lady Samson confides to her best friend that she is applying for a legal separation from her husband, then we must not tell her.”

“Indeed.” His attention sharpened. “Is she, or did you just make that up?”

Lightfoot’s grin widened. “Yes, she is, but as far as I know nobody else knows it.”

“Lady Samson brought a lot of money to that marriage.”

Lightfoot nodded. “And she is taking it with her. The family was very careful about the marriage settlement. The money was put in a fund, not given to her husband. They knew he was a wastrel.” He shot Amidei a sly glance. “Did you have anything to do with her decision?”

Amidei pursed his lips, thinking. “Perhaps.” Lightfoot would know Amidei had dallied with Lady Samson last year. “We did not spend all our time in bed. I spoke to her between bouts, although the lady was insistent and extremely energetic. Part of that was because her husband had used lovemaking as an incentive and a punishment. I saw the beginning of her enlightenment. She came to me when in distress, and I saw the marks he’d inflicted on her.” Remembered anger rose in his soul. “But I could not intervene.”

“How could you come between husband and wife?”

“Oh, I could do that readily enough, but she asked me not to. I was her first lover outside her marriage, and she was somewhat ashamed of herself, but relieved to discover her husband was not normal.”

Lightfoot inclined his head. “It is hard for women who are kept secluded.”

Amidei grimaced. “She is anything but that now.” While he found pleasure in the lady’s news, he could not recall her features in any detail. He remembered every delicious inch of Joanna’s skin, to the tiny mole covered by the fold under her breast and he couldn’t wait to discover more.

If she allowed it.

He had to remember that, for his own peace of mind. He refused to push her, even though that was exactly what all his instincts urged him to do. “Tell her about Lady Samson tomorrow. The news will be all around town next week, so a few days early will not cause any undue fuss.”

Lightfoot bowed, but that did not prevent Amidei seeing the censure in his eyes. “My lord.”

“Stop ‘my lord’ing me. Do as I say. If she is in a happy frame of mind, she’ll be more open to my reading her. And if she provides her father with some juicy society gossip, she will be in a more relaxed frame of mind.”

“Not to mention more open to you.” Grinning, Lightfoot headed for the door, but turned around, resting his hand on the back of an upholstered chair. “By the way, I almost forgot to tell you. There’s a new guest in the club. I believe you wanted to know when Apollo arrived?”

Cursing, Amidei strode in the direction of his bedroom. He had indeed, but he would not appear in his daytime grime. The man would probably still be the most handsome man in creation.

* * * * *

“Ah, Joanna.” Her father appeared almost genial as Joanna stepped through the doorway of their house. It led directly on to the main offices, the tiny lobby having been disposed of long before they rented the place. His bulk filled her vision.

The journey home had never flown so fast, dreaming, as she was, about the man who had kissed her and made her feel special and wanted. She could allow her imagination to take flight, so long as she did not forget that they had no bearing on reality. The most she could expect from the lofty and aristocratic owner of the Pantheon Club was a tumble or two. Even if he swore he would wait until she was ready, he would still have her and then grow bored with her in rapid succession.

She was so far gone on him that she would even agree to that. After all, she had no reason to save her virginity. Nobody else would want it. Her only concern would be potential consequences, but she could even cope with that. Move house, claim to be a widow, and who would bother to question her? So she greeted her father with a respectful nod and a smile. Usually she had to fight to hide her exhaustion at the end of a tiring day, but now, resting was the last consideration on her mind.

Resting alone, that was.

“My dear, do come in. I have the kettle on the hob, and I shall make your tea tonight.”

As she removed her hat, he patted her head, something she disliked exceedingly. Not that she had told him, because she knew what a person owed her parents. Her surviving parent, that was. The gesture made him happy, so she let it be.

She murmured a reply, hung her hat and cloak on the peg next to her father’s coat, and was about to turn when she noticed a new smell in the air.

She would rather call it a scent, a very light floral aroma, but underlaid with something else, heavier, more spicy. She was surprised that she could detect it over the pungent scent of printer’s ink and machine oil. It drifted to her nostrils as if insistent on being noticed.

A man stood by the printing press. She had not seen him before because of the bulk of her father. It was the man she’d met that morning briefly, their new patron. As good manners demanded, Joanna sank into a curtsey, and lifted her head as she rose. She met his eyes with a slight shock.

He came forward, his feet striking the boards of the bare floor, and held out his hand. She put hers in it, and he lifted it to his lips.

To her shock, instead of hovering over it, his lips met her skin. But the contact did not shiver through her as a touch from Amidei might have done. It left a damp patch on the back of her hand. On rising he did not immediately release her fingers, but pressed them before he let her go.

Joanna became horribly aware of her plain dress and her dishevelled appearance. Although she had done her best to neaten herself up, about the only tidy part of her was the fichu which Amidei had arranged for her. She had never quite achieved the knack of a neat appearance, always assuming one needed a maid for that. Under the hateful enveloping white cap, her hair would be sticking out at all angles and the bun lopsided.

Mr. Gough was handsome, that was without a doubt. His sharply delineated jawline added the finishing touch to features she would describe as patrician, were she to be writing about him. His slightly too large nose added a note of masculinity to his fine eyes and full mouth. A fashionable wig covered his hair, but from the colour of his finely arched brows, she’d guess he had dark hair. He must be a full six inches taller than Joanna, but her decidedly average height lent itself to that fate with most men.

Very few had broad shoulders and strong thighs, the like of which tailors must vie for the joy of dressing. But he stirred nothing in her but curiosity. Yet, at any rate. Joanna liked to judge as she found, as her mother used to say, and she would do this man the courtesy of the same service.