Wicked Under the Covers, page 9
Xavier was not at the back tables as the raven-haired temptress had predicted. Maccus located him in one of the private saloons. He stood in the doorway with three other onlookers as Xavier seized one of his patrons by the front of his coat, lifted the man off his feet and slammed him against the wall. The struggling man never had a chance. Xavier was a blond giant and built like a blacksmith. He also had fury on his side. Maccus winced in sympathy as the proprietor drove his fist into the unlucky man’s gut.
“I run a fair establishment. The next time you accuse the bank of cheating, you’ll lose more than a hundred pounds,” Xavier said, setting the man back on his feet and shoving him toward the door. “Get out and don’t come back until you’ve learned some manners!” With a sneer curling his upper lip, he glared at the small group of men who had gathered to watch the action. “And that goes for the lot of you. Clear the room.” His scowl lessened when he spotted Maccus.
Realizing the fight was over, the lingering onlookers wandered back to the main room. Maccus crossed his arms and kept his back to the wall as he watched Xavier issue orders to three members of his staff. After curtly dismissing them, Xavier sourly eyed Maccus. “Trouble blows through my door and you are standing in its wake. A coincidence?”
“I leave that for you to decide. You are the one in the business of calculating the odds.” Maccus gestured his head at the knocked-over table and broken chairs. “I was told you were soothing delicate feelings in the back.”
Xavier snorted. “Not likely. I don’t care how fancy a gent’s coat is cut. No one accuses me of cheating.”
There was enough deadly sincerity in the man’s expression to convince Maccus that no one crossed Xavier, and if they were foolish enough to try, it was a mistake they lived to regret.
“I haven’t seen you around for some time. What brings you to my door?” Xavier asked, setting a chair on its legs. He beckoned for Maccus to sit.
Maccus refused. He walked around to the other side of the overturned table and grabbed hold of it. It was heavier than it looked, but no match for two strong men. “I’ve come to collect on an old debt. I need a favor.”
The announcement did not seem to surprise or disturb his companion. “It took you long enough,” Xavier said nonchalantly. “What do you need?”
There was no hesitation in the proprietor’s tone. No questions. He was a man of honor who paid his debts. Maccus walked over to the open door and beckoned Xavier to join him. He was silent for a few minutes until he found the man he was searching for. “Are you familiar with Lord Standish?”
“Aye. He and his cronies are new patrons to Moirai’s Lust, but their gold and stupidity make them welcome,” Xavier said, his disgust for anyone who did not respect the devil’s books evident. “Why?”
“So the gents have had a run of bad luck?” Maccus asked, watching the brunette he had spoken to earlier saunter over to Standish’s table.
“Some.”
Standish had lost interest in the cards in his hands. Maccus smiled slightly as the woman dodged the viscount’s groping hand with practiced efficiency. “Some have wretched luck every time they sit at a gaming table. I want his pockets bled dry, Xavier.”
The proprietor had seen the interaction between the woman and Standish and he did not seemed too pleased with the nobleman, either. “How long?”
“Until he is no longer welcome at your tables.” His meaning was clear. If Standish was reckless enough to throw away his fortune, then Xavier should take it.
Xavier heaved a heavy sigh. “Consider the debt paid, my friend. It is regrettable, but I see a dark cloud of misfortune settling above Lord Standish. Many in his unfavorable predicament never recover.”
The dark cloud had settled over Standish the moment Maccus had learned the viscount had seduced Lady Fayre, although he did not speak his thoughts aloud. His gaze returned to Standish. The man had left the table and was in pursuit of the woman. Xavier had noticed, too, and from his forbidding expression the proprietor was going to relish emptying Standish’s purse.
“I have been meaning to ask. Who is the temptress in green?”
Maccus did not believe it was possible, but his friend looked grimmer. “Moirai in the flesh. Standish isn’t the only man here bedeviled by ill fortune.”
7
“Is nothing sacred, woman?” Maccus bellowed, warily staring at the razor in Fayre’s hand.
They were circling around each other in the kitchen. She had managed to pay three calls to Mr. Brawley’s house since she had confessed the kiss to Callie in the Pindars’ garden. Each time she saw him, anticipation coiled in her stomach in expectation of him pulling her into a rough embrace and thoroughly ravishing her mouth.
“Honestly,” Fayre said, placing her hand on her hip as she shook the blade at him. “You are acting as if I intend to castrate you.”
Exasperatingly, with regard to his behavior, Mr. Brawley had been a perfect gentleman. He appeared sincere when he had asked for her assistance. It had taken several afternoons to scrutinize his wardrobe and offer suggestions, not that she could fault his conservative selections. Hobbs, she discovered, was an unusual choice for a gentleman’s manservant. The man did not have the temperament one expected for a personal servant, but it was obvious Mr. Brawley and Hobbs had a private understanding, if not affection for each other. Fayre had given Hobbs the name of her brother’s tailor and the address of a reputable haberdashery in Piccadilly. She also planned on introducing the man to her father’s valet since he was willing to improve and his skills reflected on his master.
“Some men might view your actions as such,” Mr. Brawley retorted, glaring at his manservant. “Hobbs, you are not much help just sitting there cackling like an old hag. Do something!”
Mr. Brawley had been amazingly cooperative until she had suggested the services of a barber to remove his unfashionable moustache. He flatly refused. If she wanted him shaved, he had told her, she was going to have to do it herself. Perhaps he thought such a personal task would deter her from her goal. Ha! He had underestimated her because she intended to triumph.
“I confess that you look rather dashing with a moustache, Mr. Brawley, but it must go. No fashionable gentleman wears them these days. Since you mulishly refuse to visit a barber, I am forced to attend the matter myself.” Fayre signaled the manservant with a nod. “Hobbs, if you please,” she said, her tone ringing with authority.
It was clear that Hobbs’s former experience with polite society had been disastrous. His insolence seemed second nature, despite his master’s numerous warnings, but Fayre privately thought the older man was warming to her. He confirmed her suspicions by hopping up from his perch and grabbing Mr. Brawley from behind.
“I never expected you to turn traitor, Hobbs. Consider yourself on the streets!” Mr. Brawley grumbled, halfheartedly resisting the manservant as he dragged him backward to the stool the servant had abandoned earlier.
“Cease blustering.” Hobbs dumped him onto the stool and held him in place. He tugged hard on Mr. Brawley’s queue to tip his head back. “When you asked for polish, that means from boots to face. Let the lady see to ’er task.”
Fayre bit back a smile. Mr. Brawley had the look of a sullen child. He was not fighting to get off the stool, but he was not surrendering gracefully. “Shall we have Hobbs bring you some lavender to calm your nerves?”
His gray eyes raked over her contemptuously. “My nerves are just fine!”
“Oh dear, I have insulted you,” she said in a manner that revealed she was not sorry at all. “Perhaps something stronger? A glass of brandy?” she asked, teasing him.
“I never touch the stuff. It rots a man’s mind and loosens his tongue. So do your worst, miss,” he dared, his lean body taut with outrage.
She blinked at his vehement rejection of a simple glass of brandy. There was a story there, Fayre mused, but he was too angry with her to explain his odd reaction. “Such sterling faith in my abilities,” she mockingly lamented. “I confess, I do not have the spirit for this business if shaving off whiskers means Hobbs has to bash your skull in with one of the cook’s best copper pots to gain your cooperation.”
Fayre pivoted on her heel as if to leave.
“Wait.”
Naturally, she had no intention of leaving, but his soft command gave her a measure of control over the enigmatic Mr. Brawley, which she eagerly seized.
Slowly turning back toward him, she politely inquired, “Yes?”
He glared up at her, defiant. “Do you truly know how to wield a razor?”
Fayre drew herself up to full height. “You might be surprised, but I can do a number of mundane tasks amazingly well.” She did not bother mentioning that two summers earlier when one of her male cousins broke his arm while hunting at Arianrod, she had taken up the chore of shaving him daily. “Besides, the notion of holding a blade to your throat is vastly appealing.”
Mr. Brawley braced his hands on his thighs and laughed heartily. “I’m certain it is.” He motioned her closer. “You can’t do a decent job of it clear across the room.”
She picked up the small bowl on the table before she joined him. Within the bowl was a shaving paste she had mixed herself containing soap, honey, ambergris, and oil of bergamot. She had asked her father’s valet for the recipe. She set the razor down and picked up the shaving brush. Dipping it into a cup of tepid water, she swirled the thick bristles into the paste.
Rolling his eyes up at Hobbs, Mr. Brawley said, “Restraints won’t be necessary, Fayre. I promise to behave.”
Belatedly, she noticed Hobbs had not released his master’s shoulders. “You have done a fine job keeping your master in line, Hobbs. Since I have his promise he will cooperate, you can go about your duties.”
Hobbs tugged on a front lock of his hair. “Aye, milady. Just holler if you need me,” he said, and left the kitchen.
Mr. Brawley groaned. “Fayre . . . Fayre . . . you are corrupting my staff.”
“I have told you countless times that it is not proper to call me by my given name,” she scolded, but in truth she liked the way he said her name. “And I am not corrupting anyone. Hobbs was just being respectful.”
“Hobbs is surly and disrespectful to everyone,” Mr. Brawley said, tilting his face up to give her better access. “One smile from you and he is doing your bidding.”
Fayre brushed the shaving paste across the line of his jaw. “Not likely,” she scoffed, dipping the brush back into the bowl.
“You are never going to get this done if you don’t move in closer.” Mr. Brawley wrapped his hands around her hips and pulled her closer so that she was positioned between his legs. She jolted when her leg brushed against his inner thigh.
The weakness settling in her limbs made her feel like a silly goose. She was just shaving the man, for heaven’s sake, not making love to him. Setting down the bowl of shaving paste, she refused to allow the intimacy of the act of shaving him affect her. Fayre finished slathering the paste over the lower half of his face. They had a bargain between them. Nothing else.
Fayre dropped the brush into the cup of water and reached for the razor. Hobbs had sharpened the edge, so if she faltered at her task she was likely to give him a scar or cut his throat.
“Be gentle,” he said calmly as if reading her thoughts. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
Biting her lower lip, she concentrated on her task. Delicately placing the blade to his skin, she delivered the first stroke. The bared flesh across his jaw was free of blood, much to her relief. Rinsing the razor, she continued.
“I have never been shaved by a woman,” Mr. Brawley mused, his left hand caressing her hip. “It is a pleasurable experience I hope to repeat.”
His lingering touch was a lightning stroke to her womb. Fayre rested her wrist on his shoulder to keep her hand from trembling. “You will not think it is pleasurable if I accidentally slice off your nose. Hold still!” she ordered, trying to shake off the feelings churning inside of her. “I will have no more mischief from you, Mr. Brawley.”
“Maccus,” he corrected dreamily. “Your tongue will not blacken and wither if you utter my name aloud. Grant me this boon, and I will grant yours—and more.”
The fine arch of her left eyebrow lifted questioningly at his husky promise. And more. Such a promise covered quite a large ambiguous field of unspoken desires.
“Maccus, then,” she conceded, unwilling to battle him while her nerves were frayed by her task and his proximity. With tiny strokes she removed the small moustache he had favored and then began to work on the underside of his jaw.
“I like to hear my name come from your lips, Fayre,” he admitted while she washed the shaving paste and hair stubble from the razor. “Your voice softens when you say it, and there is a slight hesitation I think is endearingly sweet.”
She did not speak thusly! Only a woman falling in lo—No, she was not that harebrained. He was exaggerating to keep her off balance. She brusquely turned his head to the side and then up. It only took two strokes and she was finished. “You are mistaken, Maccus,” she said, deliberately using his name to prove her point. “The softness and hesitancy you hear is simply outrage regarding your arrogance.”
“I have embarrassed you.”
Fayre slapped down the razor. “No.” She picked up a towel Hobbs had soaking in a bowl of warm water and wrung it out. Maccus Brawley and his arrogance had succeeded where she had failed in dousing the awareness she seemed to feel in his presence. Using the towel, she wiped away the remaining traces of the shaving paste.
“Enough! I’d rather keep my skin.” He took the towel from her hand and tossed it back into the bowl. “Do you approve?”
Fayre tried to step back, but Maccus was quicker. He grabbed a fistful of her skirt and held her in place. Scowling at his interference, she was tempted to lie. His face had a pinkish hue from her ministrations, however, it did not diminish his masculine beauty. Staring into his mischievous gray eyes, she studied the fine outer rim of dark blue almost eclipsed by the restless sea of gray. He was a handsome devil and she silently cursed him for it!
Without thinking, she absently caressed the line of his jaw. Maccus’s smile widened at the affectionate gesture. “Am I still dashing?” he teased, recalling her earlier comment.
“Not in the least,” she replied, jerking her traitorous hand away from his face. She had to move away from him before she started babbling.
“You tempt me to prove you wrong,” he said, cheered by her growing agitation. “Then again, maybe that was your intention all along.”
“No. No. No! I forbid it.” He had that look in his eye again. The last time he stared at her so hungrily he—
A swift tug and she fell neatly into his lap. Before she could recover, his mouth was covering hers. The smell of bergamot from the shaving paste filled her nostrils while his agile tongue slipped between her teeth and stroked hers. Fayre moaned. She tried to pretend it was in anguish, even though his hand on her rib cage had her breasts swelling in painful anticipation of his touch. Leaning closer, she kissed him back with unexpected fervency. Her response surprised her as much as it did him. Maccus slid his hand approvingly up and down the length of her corset. She liked the taste of him. Tangling her tongue with his, she wondered if a person could become intoxicated by the essence of a kiss.
Sanity reared its practical head when he tickled her ankle.
Fayre tore her mouth away from his. “What are we doing? Hobbs could return at any moment.”
“Hobbs will not bother us until we summon him,” Maccus said, kissing her nose. “Besides, he likes you. Knowing him, he would have tried to steal a kiss from you if I had not had the good sense to claim you first.”
He moved in to kiss her again. She refused to be diverted. “The devil you say! You and I have a bargain. Nothing more.”
Maccus was tired of hearing Fayre spouting words that had no within them. Taking advantage of the position the emphasis had produced on her lips, Maccus swallowed the rest of her protest and kissed her relentlessly until she whimpered. He had a preference for her lower lip, he decided. The soft fullness begged to be nibbled and suckled and he was content to indulge himself.
The mask of a gentleman was fragile, and the lady in his arms had the tendency of ruining his good intentions. Their first kiss, which had left him still aroused hours after her departure, had had Maccus questioning his wisdom in seducing her. The afternoon Fayre had entered the restaurant to meet her mother, she had, at first glance, seemed like a delightful diversion for the tedious necessity of his goals for London. When he had been apprised of her unfortunate circumstances with Standish, Maccus quickly realized her connections in polite society tempted him as much as her haunting beauty. In his arrogance, he had thought a deepened intimacy would give him a measure of control over the fiery stubborn vixen. It had never occurred to him that by touching her he was surrendering a part of himself to her. The notion had rattled him. He had deliberately kept a polite distance since he had lost control of their kiss in the drawing room.
Maccus had concentrated on the business aspects of their new friendship. It was not all one-sided. He had begun honoring his part of the bargain by sowing the seeds of discord that would eventually lead to Standish’s downfall. Everything was progressing according to plan.
There were a few details beyond his influence that he found troublesome. His half brother was a perfect example of one factor.
Trevor was still out there somewhere searching for him. The boy was bringing ill fortune. Maccus could taste it on the air. If he had any sense he would hunt down Trevor and gain control over the situation.
Control.
The woman in his arms bit his lip, reminding him of what he lacked at least where she was concerned. Already his manhood was turgid, pressing against her rounded buttocks. Fayre was a stimulating handful of passion and vulnerability. Maccus slid his hand lightly over her calf and around to her knee. He really should heed her advice and hold to their bargain, he thought, nipping her chin with his teeth. On the other hand, he was a man who preferred risky ventures. His instincts whispered to him that dallying with Lady Fayre might be his most ticklish personal undertaking of all.
