The Hunter (29 page)

“I’ve not had many lovers,” Millie confessed.

A soothing noise of understanding purred from the older woman. “You’re one of the smart ones. I feel I must say, a man such as that, so large and so … well, I don’t imagine he’s gentle.”

Millie shook her head slightly, so as not to interrupt Loretta’s work.

“A man like that spends his life giving orders and having them obeyed. Women submit to him and other men follow him, he’s only ever learned by doing because no one dares issue him a command.” Millie heard Loretta’s voice warm with a wicked smile. “Know what a man like that needs in bed? I can give you the secret to his pleasure, and yours.”

“What?” Millie asked, forgetting that she need never share his bed again. It surprised her how much she desired this information. Wanted to employ it.

“A woman to tell him just what she wants.”

“You’re joking.” Millie gasped.

“Not at all. Think on it a spell.”

She did. She thought about it the entire time Loretta let the honey mask dry on her face while she rubbed an oil mixed with sugar on her arms and hands to exfoliate and remove any rough skin.

It wasn’t enough, damn you.

Those words he’d gritted out at her the night before sent a secret thrill straight to her core. It hadn’t been enough. Though she knew he’d found his pleasure, she also understood that she somehow hadn’t … finished. That the twinge of pain she’d experienced as he’d entered her had been followed by little pulses of pleasure. She’d wanted him to move deeper. She’d wanted him to touch … somewhere else. That little bud of pulsing flesh that resided above where he’d entered her. It had bothered her late into the night, aching, tightening and clenching around nothing but emptiness. She’d wanted to touch it, herself, but didn’t dare. What if she told him to do it? Would he? Argent wasn’t a compliant man, to say the least, but Loretta seemed to know what she was talking about.

“Those hot-blooded men love it when you tell them where to touch you and how. When to use their tongues, how long and how hard to take you, and in the most explicit language you can muster.”

Millie’s mind snagged on only one thing. “Their … mouths?”

“Oh darling.” Loretta patted her hand with sympathy and went on about her business. “Tell me, do you think Mr. Argent is going to stay at your skirts for a while? That he’ll speak for you?” Loretta asked in a carefully neutral voice.

“No.” Her reaction to the answer surprised Millie, a sense of desolation coiled within her. “No, our arrangement is … finite.”

“Probably for the best,” the woman said gently. “Men with eyes that cold often come with a hot temper. You’d be wise to take care with him. Give and take some pleasure, and then say your good-byes before the first clash or snit makes everything awkward … or dangerous.”

Millie nodded, her mind racing too swiftly to form a coherent sentence.

Would a few failed assassination attempts count as a
clash
or a
snit
? It was impossible to tell, and inconceivable to ask such a question. Goodness, how had this become her life?

“Were you not engaged in a flirtation with that chief inspector over at Scotland Yard?” Loretta asked. “What was his name, Morrison, Morton?”

“Morley, Carlton Morley.”

“Yes, that’s the bloke. Whatever happened with him?”

Millie shrugged, conjuring the handsome, angular features of Sir Morley. “I only mentioned him to you because I thought he was charming, intelligent, and kind. We’ve known each other for a handful of years and I’ve always found him attractive and his presence … calming. I highly doubt the interest was mutual. He’s very focused on his work.”

“Attractive and kind is not a bad place to start.” The woman wrinkled her nose. “But charming and calming have nothing on that big, strong brute out there. Women like us, we need a little danger in our lives in order to keep it interesting. Sometimes what a woman needs is a man who can pick her feet off the floor and have her against the wall, if you understand my meaning.”

It took Millie a moment to capture Loretta’s meaning, and her eyes widened as the conjured image awakened that ache in her nether regions. Would Argent do something like that? Against a wall or maybe—Lord, why was she even entertaining such salacious fantasies about such a broken man? He was a killer. A
murderer
by trade. He was naught but a necessary evil in her life. The serpent king she employed to consume the vipers who would do her and her son harm. She’d do well to not mistake the way her nerves sang when he was close to be anything but a primal warning to her that danger was near. She shouldn’t let it entice and thrill her.

Oh, but it did.

“What my Émile said was the truth,” Loretta continued conversationally. “We do worry about you some nights. It might do you some good to find a man to settle down with. I can only work my magic for so long, you know, and no matter how much money you give me, time does get us all in the end.” She peeled the mask off Millie’s face as she said this, dabbing on a toner of rose water, brandy, and witch hazel once the skin was revealed.

Millie made a noise of affirmation in her throat, still locked inside her churning mind until she could finally voice her worries. “The difficulty is, there are plenty of men offering to warm my bed and line my pockets, but I’ve never received a legitimate proposal of marriage. I’m a woman men want to possess, to bed. They want me to tempt them, to seduce them, to fulfill
their
fantasies. Though, when they hear that I plan to remain on the stage for as long as I am able, none of them want such a woman for his bride. A wife is supposed to follow her husband and support him in his endeavors, not the other way around.”

“Speak for yourself, darling.” Loretta snorted. “Émile does little but carry my heavy things, pleasure me senseless, and make me laugh. And that suits me just fine. The man would rather be fishing than working, but that means he brings home supper, at least, while I pay the banknotes. His people live off the land, and that’s hard to do when I drag him from city to city. I wouldn’t think of putting him to work in a factory so I could sit on my duff at home and get thicker.”

“But you and Émile are a rare and lovely couple.”

Loretta gave a fond half smile. “That’s as true as it is kind of you to say, darling.” She bustled over to her cases and extracted clippers, a block of beeswax, and a rough bit of leather she’d use to trim, shape, and buff Millie’s nails and cuticles with. “I brought up the idea of settling down because I was at an appointment a few days past with Lady Harriett Crenshaw, Viscountess Russell. And, as you may know, she is sister to
His Grace
Collin Talmage, the Duke of Trenwyth, who is recently returned from the Indies. Rumor has it that he’s looking for a wife, and Lady Russell informed me he is a
great
admirer of yours and is angling for a chance to make your acquaintance.”

“A duke?” Millie’s fingers twitched beneath Loretta’s masterful ministrations. Women like her, ones from the tenements of Whitechapel, never allowed themselves even the private fantasy of capturing a title as lofty as duchess.

“Rich as Midas, big as your Viking, and beautiful as a bronze statue of Adonis, so long as you don’t mind that he has only one hand.”

“Oh?” An article flashed across her memory. “I think I read about him in the paper. No one knows exactly how he lost his hand, do they? Didn’t he recently return from the Indies with that marquess they call the ‘Demon Highlander’?”

Loretta nodded. “Laird Ravencroft, the very same. Two more decorated officers than Trenwyth and Ravencroft never existed, though the Highlander returned with all his bits intact.”

It astonished Millie how little she actually wanted to meet this Lord Trenwyth. A national hero, a wounded soldier, and a duke, besides. “You’re forgetting, dear Loretta, that dukes do not marry actresses, it just isn’t done.”

“This one would. He famously, or perhaps infamously, does whatever it is that he likes. And, as something like fifth in line to the throne, he can afford to disregard convention.” Loretta let that thought linger in the sunlight and settle as she held up Millie’s finger to the light to check the evenness of a nail before buffing it. “If you’re of a mind, once you’re finished with your arrangement with the Viking, Lady Russell and I could set up an introduction, though I wouldn’t keep a man like him waiting.”

“Indeed,” Millie murmured. A duke. Could she give up her life, her career, to become a duchess? For Jakub, she could. Of course, he’d never be the heir to the title, but the life and advancement that kind of familial connection could afford him would be worth the price she’d willingly pay. Not that the price was lofty. There were worse things than becoming a duchess to a handsome duke, she supposed. Much, much worse.

“I do need to start thinking of the future, don’t I?” she mused. For the past week, she’d been so busy worrying about her own survival, she’d let everything else fall to the wayside. Argent had become a very large part of her life in such a very short time. Since the moment she’d seen him on that balcony, he’d dominated her thoughts. Since the time he’d pressed that hard, full mouth to hers, he’d overwhelmed her senses.

And now that he’d been inside of her, she could scarce think of anyone else. Here she was, presented with an opportunity to seduce a duke. The highest available peer in the empire. And all she could think about was the bleakness in Christopher Argent’s pale eyes that contained a void too deep for even her to fathom. The contrasting primitive ferocity of his desire.

Now that she’d shared a night with him, submitted to his strength and need, a treacherous curiosity pervaded her every waking moment. It was as though something that had lain dormant her entire life had been awakened.

She couldn’t bring herself to fantasize about a duke who was the equivalent of a Greek god. It was Christopher Argent who invaded her very evocative imagination. Hard, lethal, and brutal.

Except for the moment he’d held her, when he’d surrounded her with his strength and rested those lethal hands on her back with such tentative care.

She’d never forget that moment. She’d never be rid of the mysterious assassin, even when he walked out of her life and disappeared back into the shadows.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
ONE

Millie had been right when she’d assumed Argent had a lair. Dark, cold, and frightening, it was everything she’d imagined it to have been but for one detail. It happened to be located in one of the grandest ballrooms she’d ever ventured into. Even the windows stood two stories high, heavy drapes drawn, and the ivory ceiling with gold embellishments and handpainted icons vaulted higher still. The two grand chandeliers required to light the immense length of the space dripped with expensive crystal and, tragically, more than a few cobwebs.

Her slippers made a forlorn sound as she glided to one of the flickering gas lamps and turned the intricate knob. The flame gleamed off the strange and terrible tools of his trade. Blades of every conceivable length hung from mounts on the wall. Pistols rested on a misshapen stand covered with black velvet that Millie suspected had once been a pianoforte. Other things, for which she couldn’t even begin to imagine their uses, hung from hooks or rested on stands, just waiting to inflict themselves on someone’s flesh.

Which of these, she wondered, would he have used to end her life? The weapons, already macabre, took on a menacing gleam, and Millie’s first instinct was to cringe away. To flee this place.

Turning from the wall of artillery, she gasped as hulking shadows rose from the glossy, dark wood floor, the effigies of violent practice, human-sized statuary upon which to enact the art of execution.

Why had he wanted her to come here, to meet him in this terrible place?

Upon returning from her apartments, his carriage weighted down with a few days’ worth of clothing and sundries, he’d ordered her to convene with him in the grand ballroom alone within ten minutes.

Apparently, he was fond of that distinction of time. Ten minutes.

Perhaps he felt the most at ease in this room, surrounded by his arsenal. Maybe he didn’t want her to forget who he was,
what
he was, whilst they formulated a plan on how to rid her of those who would see her dead.

She supposed there were many who would be revolted by this room and its contents, and maybe she ought to be. But somehow, during all of this, Millie had begun to leave her trepidation of Christopher Argent by the wayside. Strange, opaque emotions began to take the place of her apprehension. Some she dare not name, and others she shouldn’t allow herself to explore.

Curiosity chief among them.

Stepping forward, she reached trembling fingers toward the rack of knives, selecting one with a large handle and a wicked-looking blade. It was heavier than she’d expected. The handle cool and unyielding beneath her grip. It felt dangerous to hold it, as though it made her a more treacherous person. And, she supposed, it did.

Lifting the blade up to the light, she caught her reflection within it. Just one wide eye and a pale cheekbone. What must it be like, she wondered, to take a life? To thrust such an innocuous device into someone’s flesh, severing their veins and spilling their life’s blood on the ground.

Her reflection tightened, as the thought made her want to weep. It must be just dreadful. To gaze upon the fear in someone’s eyes, to see their pain, to witness the moment they knew their life was over. To witness their regrets. No wonder Argent was so cold, so passionless. How could he perform his hateful employment otherwise?

He’d been unable to execute his duty the night he’d come for her. What had truly stayed his hand? He’d admitted that his physical desire for her was the impetus for her survival. Deep down, Millie knew she had to believe it was more than that. That somewhere in his broken heart, Christopher Argent didn’t want to be an assassin. That he found no pleasure in the taking of a life, but was merely a victim of circumstance and the product of a society that had failed him, utterly.