My Secret Life Page 9

  That's if Shakespeare didn't ruin everything and tell Style that Min was the real author.

  "We'd best all be going soon," Alice said, sitting down anyway. "Wouldn't want the Watch to lock us up for breaking curfew."

  Edward barked a laugh. "If I can't avoid the half-wit who calls himself the Watch around here then I deserve to be locked up."

  Min and Blake left them and headed outside. She drew her cloak tighter about her body in a futile attempt to block out the sharp wind whipping up Gracechurch Street. Blake, she noticed, wore no cloak over his leather jerkin.

  "Your four pounds," he said, handing her the coins.

  She stared at the gold sovereigns nestled in her palm. She'd not seen that much money in a long time, certainly not all in one place. "Thank you." She dug out her purse through the slit in her skirt and slipped the coins inside. "I do appreciate all you've done for me," she said on a whim.

  He shrugged. "I'm benefiting from this arrangement too."

  "Ah, yes, the secret that is not yours to divulge. Still holding to that story?"

  One corner of his mouth lifted. "Aye."

  "I see. But..." She sucked in air and let it out again in a whoosh. She should just say it. Get it out and have it over with. "I was referring also to the kiss. I appreciated it too. Very much."

  He began walking, fortunately taking the right direction to her house.

  "Well?" she said, running to catch up.

  "Well what?" he said, looking straight ahead.

  "Aren't you going to say something about the kiss?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "There's nothing to say."

  "Yes there is. You could thank me."

  His pace quickened. She had to trot to keep astride him. "Thank you?" he said. "For what? It was just a kiss."

  He was teasing her. He must be. That kiss hadn't been just anything. It had been the most bone-loosening experience of her life. It had turned her world on its head. And he'd enjoyed it too. She knew he had—from the way he'd pulled her closer to the way his mouth had devoured hers. If only he would admit it, they could move onward. To what came next.

  "Down here," she said, stopping.

  "What?"

  "I live down here."

  He doubled back and they turned into Knightridge Street together. She wished she'd worn a hooded cloak to lower over her face. They were still a good distance from her house and it was unlikely that anyone she knew would be venturing out at such an hour, but she still didn't want to take the risk of being recognized. Walking with a stranger as dusk fell would certainly have a few tongues wagging and she couldn't be certain that her father wouldn't hear, even though he rarely spoke to the neighbors.

  "Anyway..." She cleared her throat. "Anyway, the thing is...I'd like to ask a favor."

  "That's not a good idea."

  "You don't know what it is yet."

  "No but it's never a good idea to be in debt to anyone. Especially someone like me. I might take advantage of it one day."

  Her breath quickened. "I was rather wishing you would."

  "Would what?"

  "Take advantage of it." She exhaled slowly. "Of me."

  He stopped mid-stride and stared at her. A muscle high in his cheek pulsed. She thought he would berate her, tell her she was a fool, but he didn't. His expression, as always, was unreadable.

  "No," he said and started walking again, his strides so brisk and long he was all but running.

  "But—."

  "No!"

  "Why not?"

  He stopped again and when she halted beside him, he bent to her level. In the inky light she could just make out the V of his forked brow, the flat lines around his mouth and eyes. "Respectable maidens like you are not supposed to ask favors like that. There. Is that reason enough for you?" He straightened but she gripped his upper arms before he could walk off.

  His muscles flexed beneath her fingers, the tiny ripple sending a responding ache low in her belly. Imagine what those arms looked like without the many layers of fabric. Imagine what they felt like.

  "Who said I was respectable?"

  Blake threw his head back and laughed. Laughed! It was so infuriating and humiliating.

  "What's so funny?" She thrust her hands onto her hips and gave him her best how-dare-you glare. It seemed to have very little effect on him. He still grinned like a half-wit.

  "You are. Min, only an innocent would ask a potential lover for permission before she seduced him."

  "I see. I should have simply kissed you without preamble." The way she'd wanted to. Why oh why hadn't she followed her instincts?

  He wouldn't have laughed at her then.

  "I just want a little life experience," she muttered. "Something to draw on to enhance my writing, to make my plays more realistic."

  "Your plays. Of course." He sighed and gave a half shake of his head. "Is seeing your play performed really that important to you that you would exchange it for your virtue?" There was none of the humor in his voice now, none of the teasing. However there was another emotion simmering below the surface—she could feel it vibrating off him, but couldn't identify it.

  "It's nothing to do with seeing it performed," she said. "Not really." How could she explain to someone who'd never felt the beauty of poetry in his soul, never known the power of the right word or phrase? "It's for perfection. I want my plays to be the best they can be. I want them to resonate with the audience in a deep and meaningful way. I want them to be remembered months, years, after the last performance. And if I can only gain perfection by exchanging something I don't really value—."

  "You should," he said gruffly. "Damn it, Min, you should!" He all but shouted at her. "A woman's virtue is the most valuable commodity she possesses. And I know you say you're not rich, but doesn't that make it all the more important?" He pushed his hand through his hair. "Don't give it up so lightly, Min. Not to anyone. Especially not to me."

  Did she risk telling him he was the only one she would give it up to?

  She shivered, unnerved by the speech, lengthy by his standards. He was angry with her, she understood that, but he wasn't entirely correct. Nor had she been entirely honest with him. It wasn't simply about perfecting her plays, it was about Blake too. About scratching the deep itch that had surfaced the moment she'd seen him. But if he knew that, would he still say no?

  He began walking once more. "I'll find someone else," she said, lifting her skirts and running after him. It was easier to avoid the murky puddles when she wasn't worried about her hem.

  "Good."

  Her step faltered, but she continued on. "You don't mean that."

  "Don't I?"

  "No. You don't want me randomly kissing strangers."

  He stopped again and she almost bumped into him. "Tell me there's at least one other man of your acquaintance you could turn to."

  "Freddie?"

  He made a sound, half grunt, half groan.

  "No," she admitted, "there isn't. No one who could make me feel the way you did when you kissed me."

  His blue eyes flared and his hands fisted at his sides. Apart from that small movement, he was still. Calm. "Min," he said. "Don't." No, not calm at all. There was raw need in his voice, heavy and grating.

  Or was she imagining it? Perhaps he really didn't want her. Perhaps she only thought she'd tasted desire on his lips during that kiss.

  She hated admitting it, but it was entirely possible. For a playwright, imagination was everything. Unfortunately it complicated real life.

  "It doesn't have to go as far as you're thinking," she said, backing away. She'd made a big enough fool of herself, it was time to lose gracefully. Or at least grudgingly. "Just another kiss, that's all I ask. There's no need for anything else. You could simply explain what happens between a man and a woman after they kiss."

  He lifted a brow. "What happens?"

  "Well, I know what happens, of course." Her laugh sounded like a giddy girl's. She cleared her thr
oat. "What I meant was, how it feels."

  "Let me see if I understand you. You want me to kiss you then you want me to describe what...lying together feels like?"

  "That's it."

  "No."

  "But—."

  "No!" He chopped his hand through the air. "This conversation is ending. Now. Where is your house anyway?"

  He sounded flustered. Surely that was a positive sign that his feelings had been thrown into at least a little bit of turmoil by her proposal.

  "Blake," she said.

  "What do you want now?"

  She stood on her toes and reached up to cup his face. Then she kissed him. The first thing she noted was that he didn't resist her. The second thing was how pliant his mouth was considering it was usually set in such a firm line. The third thing...

  There was no third thing.

  When his tongue gently probed hers, she wouldn't have noticed if the surrounding buildings tumbled down around them. Nor, she was certain, would he.

  She moaned against his lips and the small sound seemed to urge him on. He captured her waist, holding her against his body. There was none of the fashionable padding in his clothes. She could feel every supple movement of sinew, muscle and flesh, smell the hint of lavender bath water beneath his unmistakable scent, and feel his protruding—.

  She sprang back. He wasn't wearing one of those ridiculous codpieces so that meant... Oh. Oh!

  Don't look down, don't look down.

  "You shouldn't have done that," he said, voice as rough as a country lane after a storm. He swore and ground the heel of his hand into his brow. Then he swore again. "Min..." He tipped his head back and stared up at the sky, a narrow stripe of gloomy grey separating the overhanging upper stories of the houses on either side of the street. "Christ."

  "This is my house." He didn't acknowledge her. Perhaps her whisper hadn't been heard over the torrent of blood rushing between her ears. "Come to me tonight," she said, louder. "Second window from the right on the second floor."

  He shook his head once.

  "Don't worry if you see a lamp on downstairs," she persisted. "Father sleeps little these days but if he's still awake and in his study, he's unlikely to notice you unless you jumped out of one of his books."

  Again, a single shake of his head. He didn't speak, didn't look at her, didn't say yes.

  Nor did he say no.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was the sort of offer Blake usually accepted. An eager woman, pretty and soft in all the right places, who was happy to alleviate the ache in his balls. He wasn't sure why he refused. Perhaps he'd been bewitched by an over-protective neighbor of Min's or a servant eavesdropping on their conversation. He'd certainly had the uneasy feeling of being watched.

  Blake grunted into the darkness. Now he was the one making up fanciful stories. The irony tortured a grudging laugh from him—he'd refused the one woman in London capable of turning him into a fool who couldn't separate fantasy from real life.

  Except she wasn't the only woman in London—he'd never met a woman like her in all the world and he'd been almost everywhere.

  Refusing her had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

  Hardest. Ha! An apt word. He was still hard even after trudging along the damp streets. He'd crossed the City from wall to wall, twice, and still felt as hot and bothered as when he'd left her. Min had a way of inveigling herself into his mind and body, making it impossible to dismiss her lightly. An hour later and he was still thinking about her fine, fragile limbs, her soft curves and pert mouth with its teasing freckle at the corner. The one he still couldn't capture with his lips, despite one hell of an attempt.

  He stopped at the Cheapside conduit as the moon peered out from behind a cloud. It reminded him of the conduit at the entrance to Knightridge Street. The wide, clean thoroughfare with its grand shops was nothing like the cramped lane on which Min lived, but it seemed everything this night would remind him of her.

  Had he actually refused to go to her?

  He couldn't recall. He remembered the kiss. How could he not! He also remembered shaking his head afterwards. But he couldn't recall saying no. Not then. Earlier yes, but not after that kiss.

  Did she still hope? Was she waiting for his return? Was she sitting at her desk, writing her play by candlelight, wearing a thin cotton shift that displayed her shapely thighs to perfection and her—.

  ENOUGH! Imagination was for poets and fools. He liked to think he was neither.

  He strode on. The best way to get Min out of his head was to go home. Nothing like a strong, bitter dose of family to chase away unwanted images of a delicious woman.

  He found his mother in her apartments, reclining on the daybed by the fire, her eyes closed, her full skirts billowing about her like a black cloud. His sister sat beside her on a deeply cushioned chair, reading aloud from a book of poems.

  "I don't think she's listening," he whispered on entering.

  Lilly looked up and smiled, not the bright, full smile of her girlhood but a more whimsical one, fringed with sadness. Blake's insides clenched and not for the first time since his return he wished he knew how to put the old, carefree smile back on her face.

  It was that simple desire that had sent him on his quest to infiltrate Lord Hawkesbury's men. And that, he should never forget, had led him to Min.

  There he went again, thinking about Min when he had more important things on his mind.

  "I can hear every word," Lady Warhurst, said without opening her eyes.

  "You could have warned me she was awake," Blake said to Lilly, holding out his hand.

  His sister took it and squeezed. "You should know by now that Mother hears everything, asleep or not."

  Their mother sighed and sat up, touching her wig to ensure it hadn't slipped. Naturally, it was as stiff and elegant as ever. "How pleasant of you to join us," she said to Blake. "Care to tell us what you've been doing all day?"

  "Not really." He sat on a stool near Lilly. "What about you?" he asked his sister. "Have you been out?"

  "The afternoon turned a little too cold for my liking," she said, smoothing down her skirt which looked smooth enough to him. She wore the plainest clothing he'd ever seen her wear, with no embellishments on the russet colored skirt whatsoever and only a simple embroidered pattern in the same color covering the black bodice.

  "That never bothered you before," he said.

  "She wasn't with child before," Lady Warhurst said, stating the bald truth as only she could.

  Lilly stiffened but said nothing.

  "And that makes a woman feel the cold more?" he asked his mother. "Strange. I've never heard that complaint before."

  "That's because you're a man," she said, twisting one of the many emerald rings on her fingers. "I've carried six children, borne three, and I can tell you, an expectant mother feels the chill. Your sister is wise to stay indoors and rest on a day such as this."

  "I'm hardly an invalid," Lilly snapped at them both. "Nor am I incapable of speaking for myself." She turned to Blake, a hint of color in her pale cheeks. "I simply wanted to stay indoors today. I had no reason to step out. Happy?"

  "No," he said. "Nor will I be until this man is caught."

  She stood quickly and the book fell to the floor with a solid thud. "You make it sound like he has committed a crime."

  He rose too. "Hasn't he? To get you in this way then abandon you?"

  She rounded on him and he was reminded of their mother in one of her full-blown aristocratic tempers. Her face flushed, her brow forked and her blue eyes flashed. It made a heartening change to the wan outline she'd become.

  "You know nothing of it," she snapped, "so do not presume what he is like." She picked up her skirts to leave but he caught her arm, holding her in place. The glare she gave him would have set him on fire if he'd been made of straw.

  "Then tell me what he is like," he said softly.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Why?"

  "I want to know."<
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  "So you can hunt him down like you would a Spanish galleon?" She thrust out her chin, a sure announcement of her defiance to all present. "Brother, there are several thousand men in this City. If you find him, I shall name this child after you."

  He crossed his arms and bent to her level. "What if it's a girl?"

  "Roberta."

  "Then you'd best hope it's a boy because that's an awful name. And I will find the man responsible."

  She couldn't have known he'd interrogated the servants about her movements during the last two months. Her maid had mentioned the visits to the theatre, in particular productions put on by Lord Hawkesbury's Men. The maid had only mentioned it because she'd been to one of their performances herself and had found it too painful to watch in its entirety. After his own attendance on that first day he'd met Min, he could well believe the maid's skepticism. She, like Blake, suspected Lilly had gone to the White Swan inn for something other than the plays.

  It was time his sister learned what he knew. If only to tease out the truth from her.

  "Is the father Henry Wells?" he asked.

  "Who?" both women asked at once. Then the name must have registered with Lilly because she made a choking sound. "How do you know about him?" Then a gasp. "Have you been spying on me? How dare you!" She flew at him, fists raised, but he caught them before she pummeled him.

  "Well?" It was Lady Warhurst, using her I'm-your-mother voice. The one that had always put a halt to their childhood games when they became too boisterous. "Have you been spying on her?"

  "I didn't want to," he said to Lilly. "But you wouldn't tell me anything."

  "Because I knew you would try to confront him. I don't want you to confront him!" She pulled out of his grip to swipe at the tears dripping down her cheeks. "Damnation, Robert, this is none of your business."

  "Lilly! Language," their mother chided.

  Dark, foul anger welled deep within Blake and he all but spewed it over his sister. "It is very much my business. You are my sister and therefore my responsibility whether you like it or not." As soon as the words were said, his anger dried up and he regretted shouting. He'd always been quick to flare up and just as quick to calm again. His brother was the one who brooded for hours, if not days.