Shayla Black Page 4

  “Ten.” He opened his eyes.

  Maddie stood mere feet away, arms crossed, her gaze focused on him. Damn it, she was still beautiful. She still had the ability to make him crave her with just one look.

  “I want you to leave,” she whispered.

  “And disappoint your daughter?” He raised a challenging brow. “Never.”

  Strolling away from Maddie, he glanced behind the fireplace screen, behind the worn blue sofa, under an upholstered armchair that had seen better days.

  The house needed updating, most likely from top to bottom. If the receiving rooms looked this shabby, Brock could only imagine the condition of the family’s rooms. He would see to their renovation immediately after the marriage, new furniture, gardeners to prune the yard of weeds, new drapes and carpets, some paint.

  The rooms he would share with Maddie would receive special attention, particularly the room that held their bed. Definitely their bed. He would not have those oh-so-civilized separate chambers. He had been deprived of every lush curve of her body for the past five years. After they spoke vows, he had no intention of doing without her for even one night.

  Their chamber would be filled with fine fabrics to slide against the softness of her skin while he stroked deep into the tight clasp of her sex. A wide, thick mattress so he could roll to his back and urge her to ride him while he filled her with every inch of his aching cock. Or perhaps he’d tie her down, leaving her helpless as he drove her to madness with the slow torture of his touch. Yes. And in case the bed seemed too far away, he’d make certain the room possessed plush chairs and carpets to provide comfort when he wanted to bend her over or order her on all fours so he could fuck her from behind.

  Blood rushed to his cock. Soon, Brock promised himself. Very soon.

  The sound of little-girl giggling brought him back to the present. Aimee had hidden on the far side of the room, so he sauntered in that direction.

  She was an interesting child. Full of personality no one had yet forced her to repress. Possessed of Maddie’s eyes, he wondered from whom Aimee had inherited her blond hair and peachy complexion. Sedgewick’s hair had been dark brown, his skin very pale.

  Brock bent before a cabinet and heard a gasp. A moment later, he opened the door and found the child crouching inside. She jumped out with a shriek, her braids flying behind her as she sought her stick horse.

  “Am I still the evil knight?” he called after her.

  “I suppose not. Again!” she demanded.

  “Aimee,” Maddie broke in. “That is enough.”

  The firmness of her voice told Brock the games were over—for now.

  Aimee’s little face clouded over, tightening up as if she fought tears.

  “Another time.” Brock told the little girl as he knelt to her.

  “Promise?”

  “Aimee, let Mr. Taylor alone,” Maddie chided.

  Brock knelt down to the girl and tapped the end of her pert nose. “I promise.”

  Her little pink lips lifted in a smile at that, warming him. “When?”

  At that question, Brock rose to his full height and looked straight into Maddie’s mysterious gray eyes. “Soon. From now on, I plan to be with your mama very, very often.”

  #

  Riding the old nag she could scarcely afford to keep, Maddie made her way through the spring chill toward the section of London known as The City. She clutched the address of Colin’s solicitor in her palm. Desperation clawed at her throat. If the man had any answer to her dilemma, she must know it now. Though her father had discouraged discussion with Mr. Henry and society frowned upon women taking such financial matters in their own hands, she no longer had a choice.

  In a mere two days, Brock had tightened the monetary noose about her neck. With this business of courting, Maddie feared he intended to set a silkier, more dangerous trap.

  That realization frightened her beyond sleeping, eating. Aunt Edith had remarked just that morning about her preoccupied frown, while wearing an impish smile. Though Maddie was hardly addle-brained enough to fall for the same cad twice, she could not deny that when he came near, she felt fidgety and excitable. She didn’t like her fast breathing, racing heart, or that hum of awareness. She must banish those stray thoughts recalling the feel of his strong body covering hers with passion and demand.

  Dismounting, Maddie secured the nag in the afternoon fog and entered the Palladian style building. With her palms sweating inside her gloves, she made her way to the solicitor’s door.

  A plump, bespectacled young man opened the door. “Yes?”

  “I am Lady Wolcott. I must speak with Mr. Henry regarding my late husband’s estate.”

  Rejection flittered across the clerk’s ruddy face. “You have no appoint—”

  “Please.” Maddie grabbed the man’s arm. “I truly must see Mr. Henry.”

  “What’s this?” boomed a voice from behind the door.

  The clerk cleared his throat. “Lady Wolcott to see you, sir?”

  Opening the door wide, Maddie glimpsed the portly Mr. Henry, a shock of gray hair and whiskers. His curious expression said he was unaccustomed to seeing women in his domain.

  “Come in, my lady.”

  He ushered her through the door, into a smaller room, shutting the door behind them. A sturdy wooden desk, a book shelf, and two chairs filled the tiny office.

  He gestured toward one of those chairs, and Maddie sat, clasping her hands together tightly. “Thank you. As you may remember, my late husband, Lord Wolcott, nearly died two years past. He did not leave me well off.”

  “Yes. I do recall.”

  She swallowed her embarrassment. “I came to inquire if, perhaps, there remained anything at all in his estate of value. Property? Jewelry?”

  “Hmm.” The man frowned, bushy brows slashing downward. “Let me look. I recall something unusual...”

  The solicitor turned about and searched the shelves behind him. Maddie felt her stomach lurch to her throat. After interminable minutes slid by, Mr. Henry retrieved a document.

  Scanning the papers, his frowned deepened. He set the papers aside and laced his fingers across his protruding stomach, regarding her with shrewd eyes. “Your husband had no male heirs or relatives.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Your father oversaw the disbursement of his estate. He did not want you aware of the fact that your husband owned a cottage.” Mr. Henry cleared his throat. “In St. John’s Wood.”

  Maddie absorbed the man’s words. For years, men of consequence had kept such cozy dwellings to cavort with their mistresses. It should not surprise her that Colin had kept a cottage for the purpose of bedding women he did not find cold. She had not wanted or loved him, no matter how he had demanded it. Ignoring his liaisons had been better than bearing the brunt of his lust herself. Still, shame suffused her.

  Thrusting aside her turmoil, Maddie focused on the solicitor. This cottage might provide an opportunity to dig out of poverty.

  “I would like to sell it, if possible.”

  “We can try,” Mr. Henry said without enthusiasm. “I believe, however, you will have an easier time letting it if you are in need of quick funds. Perhaps it could fetch a hundred pounds a year.”

  Not nearly enough.

  “I suspect the taxes are past due, as well,” he added.

  Maddie closed her eyes for a long moment to fight off a crushing sense of defeat. Damn it, she needed help, not another burden.

  “Did my husband leave anything else? Anything at all?”

  He grimaced an apology. “I fear not, my lady.”

  Maddie rose. “Please, make whatever arrangements you can to let the cottage and notify me. Use any proceeds to pay the taxes.”

  Upon his agreement, she left.

  Exhaustion claimed her body; despair seized her heart. As Maddie found her horse outside, she held back her tears. She must find a way to fend off Brock’s proposal. Neither Fleet nor marriage were viable options. But dread
and anxiety taunted her with the knowledge that her chances of evading Brock Taylor and his unthinkable ultimatum were dwindling by the hour.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When Maddie arrived home, she found a pleasant surprise from an unpleasant source.

  Spread out across her bed was a gown, a beautiful confection of pale, creamy green. Unlike anything she had ever possessed, it was made of a thick moiré, dazzling her with its subtle hues and shimmers as the light caressed the fabric. Tiny ivory flowers had been embroidered with painstaking care on the bodice, as well as the epaulettes layered over the large puffed sleeves.

  Maddie lifted the garment against her in delight and fingered the edge of the off-the-shoulder bodice, touched the embroidered belt. When had she last held something so fine? Superior craftsmanship showed in every stitch. An eye for cuts and colors was evident in the design. A lilt of excitement lifted her grim mood.

  The dress made her giddy. How had it come to be on her bed? As soon as the thought drifted through Maddie’s mind, she realized Brock Taylor must have sent it.

  She dropped it as if she’d been burned.

  Then she noticed he’d sent over a boned chemise made with a soft, thin silk, trimmed in expensive Swiss lace. A ribbon tied beneath her bosom. The brief cut of the garments and sheer appearance made her gasp. What the devil was he up to?

  On her coverlet, she glimpsed an ivory-colored card bearing the name of an expensive London modiste. She lifted the heavy vellum between her fingers. Dread beating like a drum in her stomach, she turned the card over.

  Se souvenir de moi souvent.

  “Remember me often,” she translated with a whisper.

  Brock had signed it, adding how beautiful she would look at the theater on his arm, in this dress. Frowning, she wondered when he had learned French.

  Humiliation washed over her in a sick, cold wave. An unmarried woman of little means accepting such garments from a single man made her feel every bit like his mistress.

  Damning him, Maddie tossed away the card. Then she espied a pair of drop earrings on her secretary in stunning, flawless pearls. A matching necklace sat nearby. With a gasp, she fingered the smooth surface of the pale orbs. When had she last seen anything so pretty—or high-priced?

  The cad had known she had nothing suitable to wear to the theater and had provided it. That he had remembered her preferences and given her a spectacular dress in one of her favorite colors sent a reluctant flutter of excitement through her.

  Brock refused to forgive her debts, but bought her costly clothing and matching jewelry? Did he plot something more than buying a well-born wife to improve his social status? Discerning that would take time.

  Maddie wanted to throw this dress back in his face, tell him she refused to be either his charity case or accept lavish gifts, as a woman who gave her body to a protector for money would do.

  “My lady?” Matheson called on the other side of her door with a knock.

  Before she could reply, Aimee burst inside her room.

  “Mama,” the girl called, skipping around her in a circle. “Mr. Taylor is here. Where are you going?”

  He had arrived already?

  Maddie knelt to Aimee and held her warm little hand. “The theater, dear. I promise not be gone long.”

  Dashing for her wardrobe, Maddie opened the doors, finding only serviceable garments. Brown and gray jumped out at her, worn fabrics with patches over patches. Even the respectable day dresses she had preserved and updated as possible were hopelessly casual for a night out.

  Maddie hadn’t cared much about her wardrobe since Colin’s death. Most of the ton thought her still in mourning, so the lack of funds to dress had hardly been an issue.

  Brock had changed all that.

  If Maddie could wear one of her own dresses without embarrassing herself she would. But a glance told her that was impossible.

  Her gaze fell upon the dress Brock had given her. With a sigh, she peeked into the hall and shouted for Vema, who had been kind enough to act as her lady’s maid since finances had forced Maddie to let her own go.

  Moments later, Vema entered the room with a cryptic smile. “So he is here, and you wish to look well?”

  Maddie harrumphed. “Presentable, and nothing more. Please help me into this dress so I can end this farce.”

  “As you wish.”

  Maddie ignored the trickle of laughter she heard in Vema’s quiet words.

  Some minutes later, the Indian woman closed the last fastening. Maddie turned to stare at herself in the mirror, stunned by her own reflection. The muted green brought out the peaches in her complexion, giving her a flawless look that flat brown never did. And her eyes, always gray, took on the sparkle of the dress, appearing a unique shade somewhere between the two colors. As she stood mutely, Vema braided her hair before twisting the strands upon Maddie’s head. Auburn tendrils curled about Maddie’s neck. Golden light from the candlewicks made her hair shine a deep red.

  As Maddie attached the ear drops, Vema fastened the pearls about her throat, the orbs luminescent against her skin.

  “Mama, you look like a princess!” Aimee exclaimed.

  Brushing a quick kiss across her daughter’s cheek, Maddie pondered the girl’s observation. She felt like a princess, like Cinderella on her way to a magical ball where anything was possible. It was untrue, and she must remember that Brock Taylor, no matter how intriguing, was no charming prince.

  #

  Brock stood in the same threadbare drawing room at Ashdown Manor that he and Maddie had occupied only the day before. Cursing the empty doorway, he turned his top hat over in his hands.

  Twenty minutes ago the butler had gone to fetch Maddie, and still no sign of her. Damn, what if she refused to accompany him? His pride wanted her to see exactly the life she’d missed out on by marrying Wolcott—the life she could still have, if only she would consent to wed him. Besides, for trifling with his affections and playing him for a fool years ago, she owed him.

  He intended to make certain she repaid him in full with her body and pleasure every night.

  The sound of soft footfall brought his gaze back to the door. He nearly swallowed his tongue.

  Maddie stood mutely in the portal, chin raised, looking every inch a delectable challenge in the pale green finery and pearls he’d sent. With her hair piled atop her head and curls dangling at her temples, her flawless face stood out like some painter’s masterpiece, almost too beautiful to be believed. Brock craved her naked, skin to skin, the force of his desire as subtle as an explosion.

  “You look lovely, Maddie. Do you like the dress?”

  “Mr. Taylor—”

  “Brock,” he corrected with a raised brow. “We know one another well enough to warrant the use of first names.”

  Maddie stiffened. “This outing is ridiculous. There is no purpose—”

  “We are courting. Or do you have an answer to my proposal?”

  “You gave me a week. I intend to consider this matter thoroughly first.”

  Or search futilely for a way out of his grasp. “Your choices are only two. You won’t find me nearly as...confining as your other option, I assure you.”

  “Your assurances are of little comfort.” Her stormy eyes flashed. “If I alone would suffer in refusing you, be assured I would do so this instant.”

  Though Brock knew that, her words stabbed like a knife to the chest. Five years ago, she had thought him beneath her. Nothing had changed.

  “I am not a man who likes to be gainsaid.”

  Fear and resistance flickered in her eyes. Yes, she knew he deserved his ruthless reputation. Whose story had she heard? That of the banker who had tried to steal from him and found himself trapped within Newgate’s walls for the effort? Or mayhap she had heard of the factory manager who had substituted substandard materials and kept the profit for himself, earning him a lifelong trip to Australia. No matter, he thought, smiling. She knew enough.

  “Is refusing me in your be
st interest? In Aimee’s?”

  Maddie tensed, looking ready to scratch his eyes out. For a moment, he envied Aimee that kind of maternal love. His own mother had died bringing him into the world.

  “You know nothing of my daughter’s best interest!”

  In truth, once they were wed, he would provide for Aimee. He had no intention of neglecting the child or sending her off to an austere boarding school. It was hardly Aimee’s fault that he hated her father.

  Brock stepped closer. Anxiety crossed Maddie’s face as he stopped within inches of her. Good. Disquieting her, keeping her off balance—all would play in his favor.

  “That is one of your qualities I always admired, Maddie, that passion you were never afraid to show.”

  The passion he suspected had only grown. Before, she had possessed a girl’s ardor. Now, she surely had a woman’s needs. Though Sedgewick had surely shared Maddie’s bed before his death, Brock planned to kindle her desire into an inferno. He would bury himself so hot and so deep within her, fuck her both day and night. Soon, she would forget Sedgewick’s touch.

  “I have no need for the kind of fleshy passion you hint at so improperly.”

  He watched Maddie swallow nervously with satisfaction. Then he inhaled. The scents of jasmine and vanilla lingered on her skin, rousing his slumbering senses. That perfume took him back five years, when he’d undressed her, held her, worked into her virginal body with more enthusiasm than finesse, his heart bursting with fierce need and hope for the future.

  Desire seized him. He retreated a fraction to draw in a steadying breath.

  “Then I shall have to create such a need. Very soon.” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “You have the most delicious scent. I could breathe you in all night.”

  “You will not, Mr. Taylor, ever.”

  She turned her back to him, presenting him with a small waist, slim shoulders, and a graceful neck made more tantalizing by honey-cream skin. Gritting his teeth against her rebuff, Brock cursed his urge to press his lips against the slender column of her neck, to seduce her until she was naked, gasping, sinking her pretty little nails into his back as he sank his cock into her lush body over and over.