Shayla Black Page 10

  A burning resolve to make the railroad a reality scorched through his veins. The T & S would be the best in England, servicing passengers by the thousands every year, earning all her investors money beyond their expectations. His name would be one of the most venerable in London financial circles. Men would respect who he had become. His wealth alone would assure he would rarely be snubbed by the ton again. His business would thrive beyond his every wild dream. The risk of his fortune would come back tenfold.

  And Maddie would be his, for better, for worse. Forever.

  Each midnight, I will lie here and wait for you.

  Brock bit back a sigh, wishing he could get that sultry voice out of his head. He must focus on the business at hand.

  “You sound confident of the financial gain,” Cropthorne said.

  “Indeed, I am,” Brock answered, leaning forward on the plush, burgundy velvet sofa. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he looked directly into Cropthorne’s dark, astute eyes. “Businesses want to profit from cheaper transportation of their goods. The gentry want to travel more comfortably. The working man wishes to reach his job sooner. We can fulfill all these needs and make a fortune doing it.”

  “I perceive you’re right. And all the land is secured?”

  I need you to be my lover.

  Remembering Maddie’s beguiling demand now was nothing short of foolish. Brock gave himself a mental shake. This discussion with his host represented the very reason he couldn’t possess Maddie until after they had spoken wedding vows. Without Maddie as his wife, the railroad could not exist, and all his dreams would be no more attainable than finding gold in a beggar’s pocket.

  Across the table, Cropthorne waited none too patiently for a reply. Brock knew he could never explain his strange marital wager with Maddie, yet neither did he wish to lie.

  “I’m still working on one last parcel. It should be ours quite soon.”

  “You’ll keep me apprised.”

  Brock recognized the unflinching authority in the statement. Cropthorne was not accustomed to refusal.

  “Naturally.”

  Cropthorne stood, reaching two inches above Brock’s own tall frame, then held out his hand. “You have a partner.”

  Brock clasped the man’s hand, trying to tamp down his excitement. “You won’t regret it, Cropthorne.”

  “See that I don’t.”

  With that, he’d been dismissed. But Brock left, drunk with elation. The feeling was far more potent than the finest brandy winding through his veins. His dream of utter wealth and respect, of having everything he had not been born with, lay one step closer to him.

  All he needed now was Maddie.

  #

  After Brock left Cropthorne’s, he enjoyed a first-rate supper of julienne soup, lobster rissoles, compote of cherries, and fine Madeira wine. Then he stopped by his office on Prince’s Street, a stone’s throw from The Bank of England.

  Still, Maddie wouldn’t leave his mind. The image of her skin, softer than crushed velvet in his hand as he lay atop her, thrusting inside her and finding heaven, reclaiming what should never have belonged to that wretch Sedgewick, wouldn’t leave him. Arousal, thick and sweet seeped past his defenses. She was getting harder and harder to resist. An urge to touch her threatened to drown all the logical arguments against taking her to his bed now, again and again and again.

  He pushed the thought away and left the office, letting the bustle and scents of London in spring lead his mind elsewhere. After an hour of wandering about in his phaeton, Brock looked up, shocked to find himself in his childhood borough.

  Meanness assaulted his senses, the odor of sewage, the acrid taste of starvation in the air, the dark alleys winding to nowhere.

  What the hell was he doing here on Finch Street? When he had left at sixteen, bound for a new life somewhere besides London, he’d vowed never to return.

  But now that he was here, shouldn’t he see what he’d left behind?

  He urged his vehicle further up the road, until he stood directly before the tenement house he had once called home. The streets were nearly deserted, save for a pair of young boys running gin. To his distant left stood an old woman selling herself, no doubt wishing for a bottle of said gin to ease the pain of her bleak life. Directly past him scampered a wide-eyed girl of six or so hurrying home after a long day of selling scraps of candles. Would she find anything but a weary parent and an empty table for her trouble?

  “Girl,” he called down, surprising himself.

  She stopped, wide brown eyes cast up at him. Clearly, the sight of a rich stranger terrified her. “I don’t sell meself.”

  Dear God. That she should already have to know of such a reality horrified him. He’d forgotten just how terrible poverty was, especially to the young.

  He forced himself to focus on her sad, smudged face and tattered clothes. “How much for the rest of your candles? All of them?”

  The girl blinked rapidly as she peered up at him, as if not quite believing his question. “A crown.”

  It sounded more like a query than a statement. “Is that all?”

  “Well... a crown ‘n ten pence’ll do.” She pushed a strand of dark hair from her anxious face and into a kerchief knotted about her head.

  Reaching into his waistcoat, he withdrew two sovereigns. The girl set the candles on the seat beside him with all haste and managed to have free hands by the time he handed the coins down to her. She peered at the shiny circles through the moonlight, then looked at him once more, this time with eyes full of surprise and delight.

  Sadly, that was likely more money than she made in a month.

  “Cor, sir. I ain’t never seen so much blunt at once.”

  Something panged in his chest again. “What is your name?”

  Warily, she eyed him again. “Molly.”

  “You live here?” He pointed to the building he’d once occupied himself.

  “Aye, sir.” Suspicion tinged her voice. “But I still don’t sell meself.”

  “Don’t ever do that, Molly.” Brock wanted to say so much more, but choked back his words.

  He hated to remember his past.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Solemnity now ruled her luminous brown eyes. Somehow, he knew her little face would haunt him for days, perhaps weeks.

  Brock jerked the carriage west, toward the pristine villas and townhouses lining the polished streets of Mayfair he now called home. He felt too restless to sleep. He ambled north and east, despite the stiff wind tugging at his coat, chilling his hands and feet.

  Finally, he found himself on the doorstep of Maddie’s St. John’s Wood cottage. He checked his gleaming pocket watch. A few minutes past midnight.

  The door opened easily beneath his hand, the creak of the old door greeting him as always.

  Inside, the dwelling was small and quiet. The scent of damp thatch from the afternoon’s rain and a good fire filled the small space. He sensed the woman he yearned for inside.

  “Maddie?” he called from the little foyer.

  “By the fire.”

  Though anxious to see her, he paused in the foyer to divest himself of his gloves. “Is the house I picked in Paddington acceptable?”

  “We hardly require anything so lavish.”

  He grunted at that, wishing he could see her face. “Did my carriage come for you this evening?”

  “At ten, yes.”

  He thought again of Molly and wondered if she would have a full tummy and a warm bed tonight, as all children should. “And Aimee. How is she?”

  Maddie said nothing for ten seconds. Brock wondered if she had even heard the question as he stripped off his greatcoat. Finally, certain she hadn’t, he started to ask her again.

  “She is well. In bed, like every child her age should be.”

  Had poor Molly sought her bed, or was she busy doing chores after a long day on her little feet? Gritting his teeth, Brock pushed worry aside. With a wry grin, he realized that thinking of Molly would cert
ainly dampen the hunger he felt for Maddie’s lush body.

  Instead, this amiable conversation warmed him. Not his loins, but something deeper.

  God, he’d missed her these past five years.

  After laying his jacket on a nearby chair, Brock crossed the short foyer, turned the corner just before the breakfast table, then headed toward the hissing fire.

  Her pale shoes lay scattered on the threadbare carpet, her corset and petticoats draped over the sofa. What on earth...?

  Then Brock caught sight of his would-be mistress lying on the green sofa, and he knew nothing could keep him from thinking about Maddie beneath him, around him, on top of him...

  Firelight caressed the ivory curves of her bare thighs, danced in the hollows of her abdomen and breasts—cloaked only by the lacy undergarments he had bought her. She sent him a bewitching smile of invitation.

  He tried to swallow, but his throat stuck. “Maddie?”

  She eased up from her supine position until she sat with the light to her back, setting her unbound auburn hair ablaze and thinning her chemise into obvious transparency.

  His cock didn’t just stir, but sprang to hard, needy life.

  “You said I wore too much clothing,” she offered so, so innocently.

  Blast it, he should never have uttered those careless words. But he couldn’t stop himself from gorging on the visual feast she spread out before him.

  “You said you dreamt of seeing me in only this.”

  He had. And here she lay, spread out before him, taunting, teasing. He couldn’t reach her fast enough.

  Brock curled his fingers around her waist with a splintering desperation. As he lowered his mouth to hers, he could barely spare a moment of thrill when she met him halfway.

  Maddie’s damp lips gave way, soft, pliable. He tasted something new on her tongue—cinnamon, perhaps—before she deepened the kiss, fusing her mouth to his. Then thought fled, replaced by the need to touch her everywhere. Sooner than now.

  Groaning, he pulled her closer. Their thighs collided. The soft crush of her breasts, covered only by that frighteningly thin chemise, lay against his chest and spiked a furious need for more of her.

  His splayed fingers found their way round her waist to her back. One hand he raised to grip her nape, the other he lowered to cup her buttocks. He expected her to continue the kiss, perhaps moan for him.

  Not Maddie. With gusto, she plucked at the buttons of his shirt, baring the flesh beneath. The feel of her fingers on his heated skin, skimming over his nipples, the clench of his belly nearly undid him. Her mouth followed her hands to his skin, skimming his neck, his shoulders, then down farther.

  Brock groaned. Lord, where would he find the self-control to stop this, when what he really wanted to do was shove his aching cock inside her and make her his?

  He drew in a shuddering breath. “Maddie.”

  She lifted her mouth, and Brock heard her panting over the rapid thump-thump of his heart. His own breathing quickened. Her vanilla-jasmine scent surrounded him as he licked his lower lip and tasted her again. He prayed desperately for self-control. But it was gone. Pounding urgency crept over him again with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

  Before she could answer, he covered her mouth with his once more. Her taste aroused him, lifting his lust higher. Her thin chemise beneath his hands seemed almost non-existent. He swore he could feel her bare skin, so warm and soft, so intoxicating.

  Her fingertips skimmed his ribs suddenly, before they pulled the shirt from his breeches to dangle about his hips. He gave into the craving to invade Maddie’s mouth again.

  Her palms stretched across his skin, scorching him like twin fires as they danced over his chest, to his waist, then across his back. Maddie pulled him so close, pressing right against his erection raging with need. She could have little doubt how much he wanted her.

  He snatched one of her hands and held it to his rigid cock. She hesitated for a painful moment before her fingers curled around him and squeezed. Brock tossed his head back with a groan as hunger clawed deep in his belly.

  It sank deeper still when she unbuttoned his breeches and drawers. He scarcely comprehended the goal of her fumbling fingers before she’d freed him, wrapping her sleek, scalding fingers around his bare cock in a firm grip.

  Yes! Her grip was ecstatic torture. He could find no description for her touch.

  Brock seized her mouth again, dipping deep, making her take more of him. Another groan erupted from his chest when she glided her way down his cock slowly—so slowly—then back up. His shaft swelled again, and he felt all too ready to lift that thin chemise around her waist, feel his way up the silky length of her stocking-clad thighs, then fuck her deep and hard.

  But he couldn’t.

  That realization lanced him with pain. Every tense muscle in his body screamed to possess her now, before she got away again. She was his.

  But he wanted to marry her, not just bed her. He had to remember his plans, his goals.

  Sketches of the railroad flittered across his mind, followed by Cropthorne’s thundering warning not to cause him regret over his investment. Then Molly’s little face swam into view. He didn’t know why.

  Brock tore his mouth from Maddie’s.

  “Stop,” he demanded on a quick, hard breath.

  She ignored him, her mouth dusting his jaw with soft, seductive kisses before winding its way back to his lips.

  He jerked his head away. “No, Maddie. Until we’re married, I won’t take ye to bed.”

  The words rang in his ears. Ye? Had he truly said that?

  Dear God... Humiliation smacked him at the slip in his nearly perfect speech, which he’d worked for years to attain. He didn’t know who to hate more for the blunder—himself for the lapse in control or Maddie for causing it.

  “Love me now,” she whispered.

  Maddie’s murmur burned him up. God, she made it sound so simple, as if giving into her wouldn’t mean giving up everything he’d sought all his life, especially her as his wife.

  Extracting himself from her embrace, Brock stepped away and fastened his clothing with a curse. Dragging his fingers through his tousled hair, he regarded her with a mix of lust, resentment, and something else that didn’t have a name.

  “That is enough for tonight.”

  Maddie fought to catch her breath, drawing in one ragged breath after another. She curled her arms about her waist in a self-conscious gesture. But when she looked up at him, anger flashed in her stormy eyes. “You will be back.”

  Brock closed his eyes and cursed his weakness. He wanted her so badly, he could scarcely breathe. He certainly couldn’t think straight or talk properly. Unacceptable. But he knew himself too well.

  “I’ve no doubt that you’re right.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Days after attending the Moore’s ball, Maddie received an afternoon call from her very unwelcome sister-in-law.

  Gritting her teeth, Maddie entered the Ashdown Manor’s parlor and found Roberta within, fluttering the embroidered folds of a stylish muslin pelisse about her legs in an absent, fussy gesture. Wondering what the witch wanted, Maddie held in a sigh and refused to consider her own fraying brown frock.

  “Roberta, what a surprise.”

  With a lift of her pointed chin, Roberta regarded Maddie with hazel eyes. “That is precious little by way of greeting. Am I not welcome?”

  Maddie chose to ignore her question, finding her anger at the woman had not dissipated since their argument at the Moore’s. “Your presence here after three years seems something of an...occasion, since I’ve not had the pleasure of your call following Colin’s death. To what do I owe this honor?”

  Though Maddie knew Roberta could hear the sarcasm in her tone, she couldn’t find the inclination to care. Her encounter with Brock last night had made sleep impossible, despite her exhaustion. The passion of Brock’s mouth on hers, the steely feel of him, rigid and thick in her hand, had fired an ache deep within
her. She’d yearned for him well into the dark night, her breasts heavy, her body throbbing with this unsatisfied craving.

  “I’ve come to visit my niece,” Roberta announced, patting a dark curl at the side of her immaculate coiffure.

  Protective hackles sprang up within Maddie. Roberta had never cared a whit for Aimee. Not while Maddie had carried the babe Colin had told his family was his, not when her daughter had made her way into the world two weeks late in a bloody birthing that had nearly been Maddie’s death, not while Colin had lived and stared at Aimee with hate in his eyes.

  “Aimee is sleeping,” Maddie lied and waved Roberta to the door. “Another time, perhaps.”

  Roberta smiled but did not rise from her perch on the sofa. “As long as I’ve come this far, you might explain why you came to Lady Moore’s with Brock Taylor.”

  “Has Lady Litchfield cut you from her guest list since that night?”

  A cross look from Roberta let Maddie know she had not appreciated the jibe. “Not yet, thank goodness. But Colin—”

  “Your brother is gone. My mourning is over.” Maddie paced farther into the room and crossed her arms over her chest. “I may socialize with whom I choose.”

  Roberta set her face in a stiff pout. “Madeline, dear, I only mean to remind you that Brock Taylor is not good society. No one appreciates his presence at a gathering of quality.”

  “No, they only appreciate his Midas touch,” she returned.

  “Money interests everyone.” She waved her hand in explanation. “But that hardly means they wish to see him amongst the ton.”

  “I will keep company with anyone I choose, Roberta.”

  She scowled. “Everyone thought it shocking that you should bring a man of such indiscriminate breeding to a gathering of his betters,” her sister-in-law went on as if her opinion mattered. “Still, I think I understand why you receive him. He is handsome, in a barbaric sort of way, and his wealth is massive. I suppose he might be...interesting.”

  Maddie knew Roberta baited her and dared not comment. “I really have not given the matter much thought.”