I Kissed a Rogue (Covent Garden Cubs) (10 page)

“I had them put in storage.”

She’d removed his furniture and had it put in storage? “How did you manage that?”

She lifted one pale shoulder. “I asked Hunt to find a suitable warehouse. He’s really quite useful, you know. I was astonished you didn’t have accounts at some of my favorite shops on Bond Street. He took care of that.”

Brook took a step back. “
I
paid for all this?”

One eyebrow arched. “It’s not as though I came into this union with nothing. I know my father made arrangements.”

The agreement had been five thousand a year until he caught the murderer and then if he chose to stay married to Lila, the rest of her dowry. At the time, Brook had thought five thousand a year ridiculously generous.

Not anymore.

“You spent my money”—she made a sound, and he held up his hands—“
our
money on all of this? You didn’t even consult me.”

“Consult you? You’re a man! Not to mention I thought I’d be living here alone. I haven’t seen you since the morning of our wedding.”

That was true enough, and since he didn’t want to argue, he moved toward her. With a small cry, she jumped aside, and he stomped into the bedroom.

“Bloody hell!”

He didn’t even recognize the room that had once been his sanctuary. A dressing table sat just inside the door, and its surface was covered with brushes, combs, and glass bottles. His bed was gone, replaced by a four poster swathed in some sort of filmy white fabric. On the bed was more velvet—a deep, rich brown velvet blanket and gold and white pillows. A Chinese screen stood in another corner, along with a tulipwood armoire that matched the dressing table.

“Where are my clothes? Where’s my bed?”

“Your clothes are in storage until the new wardrobe arrives. I suppose I should have kept a few things here. You’re dripping on the Aubusson carpet.”

Brook looked down. Indeed a new rug in brown, gold, and burgundy had been laid beneath his feet.

He shrugged off his greatcoat, but before he could drop it on the floor in a soggy heap, she snatched it and hung it on a hook by the fire.

“As for your bed,” she said in a prissy tone, “I couldn’t possibly sleep under that blue coverlet or in the same bed where you sired all those children. Speaking of which, I have wax now, so you might seal and send your missives.”

Brook’s head spun.

It might have been the rumble of hunger in his belly. It might have been the damp seeping into his brain. It might have been that he’d walked into a stranger’s home. It might be that his wife was absolutely daft.

He turned at look at her, or rather, above her, as when he looked at her, he tended to forget he was angry.

“Might we go back over that last exchange? You procured wax. Very good. The blue coverlet was not to your taste. Very well. But what children are you speaking of?”

Her cheeks colored, and she lowered her head. “The children you wrote about in the letters. I shouldn’t have read them, but they weren’t sealed. That’s why I bought the wax.”

“You read my letters?”
What letters?

“Yes, the letters about your by-blows.”

“By-blows? Bastards? I don’t have any bastards.”

She huffed. “Of course not. And if Mary and Geoffrey and Thomas aren’t your children, then whose are they?”

“Mary and Geoffrey…” Quite suddenly it all made sense. Could he have been spared the refurbishing if she’d known none of those children were his, that he’d only sought to help them out of their wretched lives in the rookeries?

“I see you recall your offspring now.” Her tone was frosty.

“They’re not—” He paused, tried to clear his mind, and realized he was too hungry and cold to think clearly. “I’ll call for food and warm water.” He started for the door, then paused. “Unless you’ve hired a cook.”

She gave him a look that said she thought he was the daft one. He would not throttle her. He
would not
throttle her.

“I’ve had Hunt or Finnegan bring me meals, but I didn’t know how to acquire hot water other than heating it over the hearth,” she admitted.

“The landlord’s wife will bring it if you ask. She’ll cook a simple meal or two if you tell her you want it in advance.”

“I see. Then you intend to stay here and eat dinner?”

“Yes. Just as soon as I shed these wet clothes.”

He walked through the door, but not before he heard her small squeak of alarm.

* * *

Lila peered out the door after him. Their flat opened onto a narrow landing and a set of steps. This flat was at the top of the building, and she had not heard anyone moving around below her. Was the rest of the building unoccupied?

Footsteps sounded on the stairs again, and she moved back inside. As much as she wanted to go outside again soon, she felt safe in the flat. And now that she’d refurbished it exactly as she liked, she was happy to stay there for some time to come.

Perhaps when the rain stopped and the weather warmed, she would be able to open the window and look out and let the fresh air in.

Brook entered, then pushed the door closed with his booted foot. He secured the locks and yanked at his drooping cravat.

“Did you speak with Hunt?”

“Yes. Since you threw out all my clothing—”

“I put it in storage.”

“—I’m forced to send him back into the rain to fetch me dry garments. Dinner is on its way.” He dropped the length of neckcloth on the ground with a wet splat.

Since the water leaked onto the wood floor and not her new rug, she did not object…until he began pulling at the sleeves of his coat. She stepped back, bumped into the chaise longue, and sat down hard to avoid falling. From that vantage point, she had an unobstructed view of Brook disrobing.

The coat, which was not as fitted as was the fashion, joined the cravat on the floor in a wet heap. Then came his boots and stockings. It seemed strangely intimate to see him in shirtsleeves and bare feet. The linen shirt molded nicely to his chest. She had a lovely view of his muscled back when he moved nearer the fire to warm himself. She looked down at his feet and was surprised to see they were long and well shaped. She honestly couldn’t recall ever having seen a man’s feet before…or his bare calves. Without the boots and stockings, his firm calves were on display.

A muscle in one flexed as he moved closer to the hearth—
closer to her
—and Lila looked away, heat rising in her face.

She should not be looking at his body. This was not a marriage in truth. He did not want her as his wife or in his bed. He certainly didn’t want to be ogled by her.

And then he reached to his waist, grabbed hold of the shirt, and lifted it over his head. Lila couldn’t help but stare, especially when he tossed the wet shirt onto the pile by the door.

She must have made some small sound of dismay because he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Are you choking?”

She shook her head, closing her eyes to shut out the image of his broad back, mostly in shadow, but the room boasted light enough that she could see the tendons of his shoulders and the way his sides tapered into a slim waist.

His back was smooth and muscled, and she could almost imagine he was a sculpture in a museum.

A warm sculpture she desperately wanted to touch.

She closed her eyes again, attempting to rein in her thoughts and focus them on what was right and proper.

This was his home. He had every right to undress in it. And she was his wife. There was nothing wrong in the eyes of God or man with him prancing around nude in front of her.

That thought produced quite an image, and she gulped in a breath.

His clothes would be arriving soon. If she just kept her eyes closed until he was dressed again…

She could feel him, feel the heat of him beside her.

Lila opened her eyes and looked at the fall of his breeches. Horrified, she quickly directed her gaze upward, over a taut abdomen, a firm chest, and bare arms with rounded muscles at the biceps. And all of this perfect flesh was burnished by the fire in the hearth. She squeaked and closed her eyes again.

His clothes would be there any moment.

“Are you well?” he asked.

She nodded, eyes still closed. “Quite well. Why do you ask?”

“You’re making a sort of wheezing sound when you breathe. Come to think of it, your breathing is rather rapid. Are you certain you are well?” She felt him bend down, and she jumped up, brushing her arm against some bare part of him and flinching as though burned.

“I’m quite well. No need to touch me. Where is Hunt with your clothes?” She scooted away, trying to train her gaze anywhere but on him.

He put his hands on his slim hips, not seeming in the least embarrassed by his partial nudity. With his hands on his hips, she noticed his breeches were a bit too big at the waist and hung rather low on those hips, giving her a tantalizing peek at the forbidden area just below his navel.

She closed her eyes again.

“I imagine Hunt will be an hour or more,” he said. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No. Why should you say that?”

“You’re wringing your hands together and squeezing your eyes shut. Haven’t you ever seen a man’s chest before?”

She opened her eyes and immediately wanted to close them again. Out of sheer force of will, she gazed at him and notched her head up. Of course, she could feel the color rise in her cheeks as well, but she could not control that. “Of course I’ve seen a man’s chest. I’ve been to the museum.”

“Ah, the museum.” He stepped closer. He was still across the room, and she wanted him to stay there. “I meant a real man. Not one made of marble.”

“And where would I have seen that?”

“So I do make you uncomfortable.”

She pressed a hand to her forehead and felt a sheen of perspiration on her brow. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I suppose I do wish you were clothed.”

“I can’t stay in those wet garments. I’ll catch my death of cold. And I can’t don dry garments because you threw them out.”

She glared at him. “No, I did not. I had them put in storage. It’s entirely different. And I think you could show some consideration for me. You won’t catch your death if you stay in wet clothes for a few minutes. You were obviously out in the rain for some time.”

He took another step toward her, and she backed up a step. Her slipper squashed into the wet clothing, and she jumped aside.

“You think I don’t show you any consideration?”

His eyes had taken on a dark, challenging look. Lila could spot a trap when she saw one and didn’t answer.

“I left my breeches on. Perhaps I should show you exactly how
in
considerate I can be.” He reached for the waistband.

“No!” she cried. “You have been most considerate.”

A knock sounded on the door behind her, and she let out a small scream. And then she thanked God for the intrusion. Anything to stop Brook from shedding any more clothing. She reached for the locks, but Brook was beside her in an instant, batting her hands away.

His bare chest brushed against her ungloved arms, and she shivered at the frisson that leaped between them at the contact. Had he felt that as well or was it just her imagination?

“Do not ever open the door without asking who it is,” he murmured in her ear.

She nodded, eager to do anything if he would move away and stop whispering in her ear. “W-who is it?”

“Mrs. O’Dwyer with your dinner, love.” She had the lilt of Ireland in her speech. “Open the door now afore I drop it.”

She glanced at Brook for approval, and he nodded. She fumbled with the top locks, and he inserted a key into the bottom. She pulled the door open, and a young woman with bright red hair and freckles on her cheeks and nose bustled in.

“Where shall I put it, miss?” she said, holding up the tray.

Lila considered, then pointed to the escritoire. The dining table hadn’t arrived yet, so the desk would have to do.

“Sure and that’s a right enough place for it,” Mrs. O’Dwyer said moving toward the desk. “You look cozy enough in here,” she said with a nod at the fire. “It’s like the devil’s weather outside tonight. A good night to stay by the fire. And then where’s Sir Brook?”

“I…ah…” That was an excellent question. Where had he disappeared to? “He was here a moment ago.”

“And those must be his clothes on the floor. They’ll dry much faster by the fire then, darlin’.”

“Yes, he went to ah…put on warm clothes.”

“Ah, now, sure he did. Give him my regards, and I hope you enjoy the broth.”

And with a quick curtsy she was out the door again. Lila’s stomach grumbled at the fragrant smells coming from the other side of the room, and she crossed to the tray and lifted the cover of the soup tureen.

She frowned, for though the soup smelled delicious, it was a very simple broth and not at all the sort of fare she was used to. Beside it was a hunk of brown bread and cheese that looked several days old. She lifted a spoon to dip into the broth and taste it.

“What the devil are you doing?”

The spoon flew across the room, and Lila inhaled sharply. Brook had returned without making a sound, and he gestured at her angrily.

“Our dinner arrived.”

“And you didn’t lock the door?” He crossed to the door, turned every lock and key, and then stomped over to her.

“I would have.”

“You could have been dead by now. Beezle only needs a moment.”

“Finnegan and the other”—what was his name?—“are below.”

“And what if their throats have been slit? Do you want to be next?”

“No! And stop trying to scare me.”

“I shouldn’t have to try and scare you,” he said, towering over her. “You should be scared enough on your own. Do you think this marriage and hiding here are for fun?”

“No.”

“Did you think this was just an opportunity to shop?” He gestured to the new furnishings.

“No! But I can hardly sit here for hours and days on end twiddling my thumbs,
waiting
to be murdered. It’s not as though you are here to converse with.” She did not care if he towered over her or shouted at her. She could shout too.

“Oh, I’m sorry I’m not here to entertain you with idle conversation. While you lounged warm and dry on your velvet pillows, I stood in the shit of the gutters of Seven Dials, the rain pounding down on me, and waited for Beezle to make an appearance. I’m trying to save your life, Lila.”