Chapter Eighteen

I f you've got something to say," Chris said, flicking a page of the book held open across his lap. Ivanhoe , which he might have found himself enjoying, had Phoebe not peppered the silence of the library with a melody of sighs. "You might as well out with it." Phoebe peered at him from above her own book. Frankenstein . He'd seen her reading it before on a number of occasions, but apparently she was taking her time with it, for she'd never once replaced it upon the shelves. Which was a damned shame, because he'd have liked to get a peek at it to see for himself what had so held her interest. "Can't a woman simply sigh without the need to explain herself?" she asked. A woman could. Phoebe could not. There was a tiny nudge against his shoe—Chris glanced down to see Hieronymus making an effort to climb atop it. With a sour grumble and a pointed look at Phoebe, he reached down to reorient the turtle, sending him on another long journey about the library. "What?" she inquired with a haughty tip of her nose. "He likes the library." "He likes his damned pond," Chris said. "It's where he belongs. He's an outside turtle." "He's an inside turtle when I desire company." "If you had wanted company," he said, "you need only have asked." "You?" The arch of her brows suggested doubt. "You've been secluded away within your study all day." "Putting things to rights—at your command, if you'll recall. Besides," he huffed, "haven't you got altogether too damned many sisters? You might have invited one of them." He knew well enough that she'd taken tea with Charity earlier in the day. Had been hoping she might mention it. "Curiously," Phoebe said archly, "my family is somewhat reluctant to visit, even if invited. Someone sent a litter of puppies to Laurence's children, and they are naturally reticent to find themselves the recipients of so…thoughtful a gift." Ah, hell. "Children like puppies," he said, affecting an innocent expression—or as near enough to one as a man of his disrepute was capable of managing, which he supposed was not particularly competent. Phoebe cast her book down beside her, and it landed with a thwack upon the couch. "Six puppies, Kit! Six !" "He's got six children, hasn't he? You should be thankful I made an effort to remember it." A puppy each. It had sounded fair when he'd made the arrangements. "They've ruined four pairs of Laurence's best boots, two Aubusson carpets, and they've chewed a leg off of a perfectly serviceable dinner table! Regrettably, they made such short work of it that nobody noticed until the whole thing collapsed in the middle of dinner, and—and Laurence—" She took a short breath, something that sounded suspiciously like a snort escaping through her nose. "Laurence found himself—found himself entirely covered—in filets of sole with tarragon cream sauce." She wheezed with laughter, attempting to smother it behind the tips of her fingers with little success. "God! I wish I might have seen it." "You've got six sisters upon whom we might bestow puppies," he suggested mildly. "No!" But her shoulders still shook with reluctant mirth, and she swiped what he thought must be tears of amusement from her eyes. "You cannot go around sending puppies to everyone who displeases you!" "I thought you'd find it somewhat more palatable than maiming." "Do you know, I think Laurence would rather have been maimed. He's lost at least three good servants, and he can't even send the puppies to the countryside, because the children would be just devastated." She sobered with a sigh, her hands landing in her lap. "Who is Russell?" she asked at last. "Russell? Where did you hear that name?" There was the tickle of a memory somewhere at the back of his mind, some sort of distant familiarity to the name. "Charity made mention that a man had come round to your—your office in search of you," she said. "He said he'd been sent by someone called Russell." "Don't know a Russell," he said. At least, not one that had been made known to him when he and Brooks had gone through his illicit documents. And yet, that name… "Hell," he said. He might not know a Russell. But one knew him. "I don't know him," he said again, "but one of Em's children made mention of a Russell." The little mudlark called Albert he'd taken to her some weeks ago. "He's a kidsman, most likely. Running a gang of child-thieves out of the rookeries." "What business could he have with you?" Phoebe asked. "Probably," Chris said, "he'd like for me to stop interfering in his ." Most of the children whom Em had taken in represented a loss of income for the kidsmen who had once employed them. Though there were countless children in dire straits that might be taught the nimbleness they'd require to make proficient thieves, still it was a training that required a great deal of time. Even Phoebe hadn't learned it overnight, and still she relied on the distraction of a nudge or a shove to disguise the nipping of her fingers into a pocket. "Should I be worried?" Chris shrugged. "Like as not, he'd like to frighten me into letting his gang alone," he said. "That's how they operate, the kidsmen. A steady diet of fear alongside a few scraps of bread is usually enough to keep the children in line." And if that wasn't enough, then a few slaps generally did the trick. Like Scratch had done, wielding dread against the children he'd taken into his gang like it was a weapon. He simply hadn't expected Chris to usurp him from his place. His mistake, really. "Do you think this…this Russell might have been the one to shoot at you?" "Possible," he said. "I've washed my hands of most everything else that might be worth killing over, so I suppose if there's another attempt, we'll have our answer." And in the meantime, he'd have a chat with Em and see if she'd learned anything from the little mudlark she'd taken into her home. "You've really done it?" she asked, her eyes widening minutely. "That's what Brooks and I were secluded away for," he said, and added pointedly, "while you and Charity were taking tea. I suppose you had a pleasant chat?" A sudden surge of color came into her cheeks in a violent wash of pink. "Pleasant enough," she said, her fingers sliding across the couch toward her abandoned book. "About what?" "Oh, this and that." Her voice squeaked across an octave or two, pitching too high to be anything but suspicious. So Charity had told her. A rap upon the library door heralded the arrival of a maid bearing a silver tea tray. To Chris' consternation there was no pot; only a single cup resting upon it already filled. Probably she'd called for it before he had arrived, and so the servants hadn't known to supply him with any. "Thank you," Phoebe said as the maid placed the tray upon the low table before her, her face glowing hotter still. With jerky little movements she seized the cup, lifted it to her lips, and took a sip. Her face changed, her nose wrinkling into a little expression of distaste. She set the cup back down, and began to plunk lump after lump of sugar within it. "Hell," he said. "You'll ruin it with so much sugar. If it's not to your liking, ring for more." "That's not necessary," she said, her jaw firming in determination. "It'll be fine. It just needs—" "For God's sake. The staff has got to learn somehow. What is it, scorched tea leaves?" Another sugar lump, and she cast a frown in his direction. "I'm certain they did their best." But their best had resulted in tea that was unpalatable. "Hell," he said. "I'll drink it, then, if you wish so badly to spare their feelings. Go and ring for more." He nipped the tea cup out from beneath the sugar tongs, ignoring the little gasp she gave. "Wait!" she said as he lifted the cup to his lips. "That's mine!" An instant before the cup touched his lips, a familiar scent drifted to his nose. Bitter, slightly floral, weedy. Now sugared excessively to make it less offensive to the tongue. Charity's tea. The one she swore by drinking to prevent the conception of children. He glanced across the table, where Phoebe sat upon the couch, red-faced and shaking with mortified fury. "Ah," he said, and set the cup back on its tray. "I see." But the tiniest hint of satisfaction had woven itself through his voice, and her flush deepened to a vibrant crimson. Phoebe gave a garbled sound of rage, throwing up her hands. "You should be so lucky!" she said crisply as she rose from the couch. He should. He really, truly, should. She stormed out of the library in a glorious snit—but she took the cup with her. "Wives," Chris said on a sigh to Hieronymus, who had completed a leisurely circuit of the room and had come to rest once more near the toe of his boot. "Not that you'd know, eh?"

∞∞∞

There was nothing particularly unusual about a wife visiting her husband's bed chamber, Phoebe reassured herself as she paced before Kit's door. The minute trembling of her hand set the light of her candle quavering, making the shadows of the hallway shiver. Well, nothing too unusual, at least. Probably the reverse was somewhat more common, for those couples who did not share a bed chamber. Her fingers touched the door handle, and promptly drew away as if the cool metal had seared them. It wasn't as if she had never been within his bed chamber, or that she feared she risked a rebuke for intruding upon the sanctity of her personal space, it was just that— That she had the strangest sense that this one decision would change her. Make her over into a new and different version of herself. One person before, and another after; fundamentally and intrinsically altered. For better or worse. Did she want to be so changed? Moreover, did she want to remain the same woman she had been these nine and twenty years, unchanging? She had already gotten everything she had ever thought she had wanted out of life. Was it selfish, then, to reach for just a little more? The door creaked open, and Phoebe leapt back, startled, as Kit appeared there in the open doorway, bordered by darkness on all sides. His banyan hung loosely from his shoulders, clearly thrown on with little care. "Make up your damned mind," he said, scrubbing one hand over his face. "Coming or going?" "I—I—how did you know?" A low snort. "You've been pacing before my door and muttering to yourself for at least ten minutes. Pulled me out of a sound sleep, I don't mind saying. Thought you were Old Nick come to drag my misbegotten soul straight to hell." The hinges of the door let out a soft squeak as he pushed the door open wider. "Coming or going?" he repeated. "Have you…made preparations?" she inquired delicately. "'Course. Seemed the prudent thing to do." "And presumptuous." "And yet," he said dryly, "here you are." He was right. Of course he was right. "All right," she said. "I suppose I'm…coming." "Oh, not yet," he said pleasantly. "But you will be." He jerked his head toward the interior of the room. "In," he said. Phoebe skittered inside, blinking into the darkness that was only slightly relieved by the dim halo of light cast by the candle, and with the vague sense that she had taken on the role of the poor, helpless heroine of a Gothic novel, lured into the lair of the villain from which she would not emerge unscathed. There was a whisk of fabric somewhere behind her as she set the candle on its plate atop the nightstand, and the fine hairs at the nape of her neck prickled with awareness. Soft, padding footsteps, and then—and then the coolness of the air was burned away by the heat of a body at her back. Her heart kicked behind her ribs, lurching into a harried beat as a hand found her waist, slid around her side and over her stomach to find the tie of her dressing gown. It slid off her shoulders in a rush of slippery silk, and Kit gave an annoyed huff. "Have you come armored for battle? Just how many layers are you wearing?" "Well, I could hardly go about in only my nightgown." The words emerged with a faintly hysterical giggle. "'Course you could. It's your damned house." His fingers tangled in the tie at the neckline of her nightgown, pausing to stroke the hollow of her throat. "Could go about naked if you liked. Hell, I'd like it." He gave a brisk inhale, his nose buried in the hair she'd bound in a ribbon and draped over her shoulder. A low sound rumbled in his throat; an approving sort of purr. Scenting her perfume, mostly likely. "I thought you didn't care for roses?" "Not generally, no." The tie came loose at last, and the neckline gaped. "Lift your arms." The instruction sparked a low flare of heat deep in her belly. His fingers seized bunches of her nightgown, drawing it up an inch at a time. The thin material rasped her sensitive skin as it slid up, and up, and up—and then he whisked the whole thing over her head and tossed it carelessly somewhere behind him. "There," he said, and satisfaction thrummed within his voice. "In bed with you." His palm slid over her bottom with a pat and a squeeze, and Phoebe jerked at the intimate touch. Flustered, she scrambled for the bed, tossing up handfuls of covers in an attempt to crawl beneath them whilst baring as little skin as possible. Kit chuckled to himself, bracing one hand upon the mattress beside her hip as she drew the covers to her chin. "Budge up," he said. "My knee already aches. I'm not walking to the other side of the bed." Oh. Of course. How thoughtless of her. Phoebe slid across the mattress, which was still warm with the heat of his body, and settled her head onto a pillow that still carried the impression of his head and the clean, faintly spicy scent of his soap. "Don't be so nervous," he said as he crawled in beside her. She wasn't certain what she had expected, really. Perhaps for him to maintain a respectful distance for at least a few minutes while she accustomed herself to sharing a bed with a man. Instead, he invaded her space at once, his hand gliding over the sensitive skin of her belly to find her hip, grasping it in the clutch of his fingers to turn her toward him. His knee insinuated itself between hers, the coarse hair burnishing his leg teasing her sensitive skin. Hard male flesh pressed against her belly. Her breasts were flattened against his chest. What was she meant to do with her hands? The right one hovered in the air, uncertain where to settle. His face was too close to hers, mostly concealed in the shadows. The candlelight gilded his hair, flickering over the tousled locks to produce a halo. Despite herself, she swallowed back a laugh. If he happened to be in possession of a halo, it was almost a certainty that he'd stolen it. He wedged one hand beneath her head to find the nape of her neck and knead gently. "It's not going to hurt," he said, bending to brush his lips against hers. Her hand settled upon his shoulder, fingertips learning the texture of muscle and sinew beneath the warmth of his skin. "You couldn't possibly know that." She'd heard just as many worrying stories as she had reassuring ones. "I give you my word," he said, and his leg slid up between hers until his thigh pressed against that private place with a sort of slow, insistent pressure that produced a strange throb. "Oh?" Her voice had come out strangely throaty. "And how much is that worth, exactly?" He chuckled as he wove his fingers through her hair and tugged her head back gently. His head dipped, and his nose brushed her jaw, then her throat. Another deep sniff; another low, approving sound. "You're lucky you're my wife," he said. "If you were a man, I'd have to take my fists to you. But instead…I think I'll satisfy my honor with a bite." Her strangled gasp sheared through the air as he nipped the delicate skin of her throat. Every nerve quivered with a strange ripple of pleasure, as if they'd been plucked like the strings of a harp, muscles tensing with awareness and then relaxing with a curious lethargy. She hardly even noticed when he rolled her to her back, her limbs loose and pliant. "Kit," she whispered, and swiped her tongue across her dry lips, struggling to keep hold of the few fragmented thoughts in her head when they wanted only to scatter. "Mm?" Only the upward inflection of the sound denoted it as a question, and it had been mostly buried in the valley between her breasts besides. "Can I—can I touch you?" A muffled laugh against the curve of her breast, vibrating the soft skin. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you have been touching me." His shoulders, he meant, which she had unconsciously seized and sunk her fingernails into. Like a drowning woman might seize at a lifeline when the waves threatened to drag her beneath them—though he'd not complained of it. "I meant…elsewhere." His knee stilled, and she nearly breathed a sigh of relief at the slow ebb of that strange pressure that had curled in her belly. "You want to touch my cock?" Well, she wouldn't have put it like that . "Well…could I?" "God, yes." Shifting to brace himself on one elbow, he used the other hand to pry one of hers free of its death grip upon his shoulder and dragged it between them. Her hand wrapped around him, his hot, hard flesh searing her palm. In retrospect, she hadn't been precisely certain what she had expected, but it had not been this—this blunt instrument that jutted from his groin, the skin smooth and thin. She traced her fingertips along what she thought must be a vein, felt the strange pulse of that male flesh against her fingers. He seemed to swell even as she explored, the thin skin growing tauter by the second. Somehow, she had thought it would be less daunting than this. "I—well, I—" His shoulders shuddered, but she wasn't sure if it was in pleasure or with the amusement that saturated his tone. "Don't lose your courage now," he said. "I promise you this: yes, it will fit, and no, it is not going to hurt." He wrapped his fingers around hers, showed her how to stroke him, how much pressure she ought to use. Her fingers slipped in a drop of moisture that had welled up from the slit in the head of his shaft, and it made each stroke go smoother. A coarse word erupted from his chest, and he bent his head to hers. The arm he'd braced beside her head trembled, collapsed—and then his full weight was on her, and the maddening pressure of his thigh situated between her legs was back, worse than ever. Her hand was trapped between them, fingers still wrapped around his cock. "Kit," she said. "I can't move like this." "I know." It was a grunt given into the feathery stuffing of the pillow beneath her head. "That's on purpose. Not going to last much longer otherwise." "Really?" She didn't know if she was meant to be shocked or pleased. On impulse, she twitched her fingers, gripping him just a fraction tighter. Pleased, she decided, when a queer shiver slid down his spine and he muffled groan into the pillow. "Good God, don't do that, or I'll not be responsible for my actions," he said irritably, his breath whooshing from his lungs. "It's been a long damned time." Curiosity compelled her to ask, "How long?" "Let's just say I've paid a great deal to keep a mistress from whom I've not benefitted in too damned many months." A wheeze as her fingers twitched again, and he turned his head. There was a tug on her hair, and then the locks slid over her shoulder, unbound. "Did you just—untie my hair ribbon with your teeth?" she asked, faintly surprised. "Mm. I can do a great deal with them." He nudged the loose spill of her hair away from her neck, found a particularly sensitive spot, and bit lightly. Sparks streaked along her nerves, a sizzling heat pooling in her belly. The sound she made in response was not what anyone would have called dignified, but she had come to the conclusion that there was little dignity to be found in this act. But what it lacked in that regard, it more than made up for in other aspects. She hadn't thought she could summon the will to relax, but then she hadn't any choice—tight muscles softened with the advent of that marvelous warmth that rippled out from her belly. "Phoebe, you've got to let go." The vague amusement in his voice dragged her back from the strange place of pure sensation her mind had wandered off to. In reflex her fingers tightened again, like a child reluctant to surrender a coveted toy. "But I'm not finished." Even the words came out slow and languorous, as if she'd been drugged into a stupor. That steely flesh pulsed in her grip. "Another time. I swear it." He shifted minutely, sliding his hand between them to peel her fingers away from his cock, shuddering with relief when he'd freed himself. "God," he said, his voice raspy and ragged. "You're so wet." She might've dredged up embarrassment over that intimate dampness if he hadn't sounded so very pleased. If he hadn't slid his fingers through the cluster of curls there between her thighs, effortlessly finding the tiny bead buried beneath them with a sort of mastery that dragged a shocked cry from her lungs. Her thighs tensed and trembled, and she grabbed for the stability of his shoulder to steady herself, briefly concerned that she might jolt herself straight off the bed. A deeper touch, inching lower in firm strokes. He found that vulnerable place where she was open and damp, sliding easily through the moisture as his fingers pressed inward in a gentle invasion that stretched tender tissues. Phoebe gasped—and gasped again, her nails biting into the smooth skin of his shoulder. She had known this was meant to happen, though she'd had little more than a vague understanding of how. But her body accepted the intrusion with little more than a token protest, the tiniest ache there as untried muscles learned to accept the slow thrusts of his fingers. "Perfect." It was a guttural whisper against her neck, and she felt his lungs expand against her breasts as he took a deep, steadying breath. "You see? No pain." No pain, but there was the strangest pressure within her as he plunged his fingers in lazy, languid motions. No pain, but her hips fought to catch a rhythm he never quite set, and frustration kindled at the spiraling pleasure of it that he dangled just beyond her reach. "Kit," she panted, flexing her fingernails into the muscle of his shoulder. Her hips trembled as she tried to lift them into the strokes of his fingers. He seemed to know what she wanted without asking. "Not just yet," he said, and his lips burned against the side of her neck. She whimpered as he withdrew his fingers at last, and her skin prickled at the cool air that rushed over her overly sensitive flesh as he drew away. There was the slide of a drawer opening, a brief fumbling, and then he drew her hand down between them once more, her fingers slipping over the oiled surface of his cock. Still so hot, even beneath the barrier of the condom. Still smooth and hard, and he shuddered as she explored the silken surface, his breath coming in hard, fast pants. He knelt between her thighs, slid his hands beneath her bottom to lift her hips. "Now," he said. "Take me inside you." Awkwardly she tried to position him toward that place his fingers had so recently left open and aching, and he slipped through the clutch of her fingers as smoothly as silk, a slick slide that missed the mark but slipped over that tender bud at the apex of her thighs in a searing stroke that made her cast her head back upon the pillow, made every muscle in her body tighten in reflex. He'd meant to do it, she realized, as a rough laugh echoed around her. And he did it again—and again, until she could hardly catch a breath before it had sailed once more from her lungs. Until her hips lifted of their own accord into the cant of his, until finally he grew impatient with the torture of it. The blunt head of his cock found that moisture-slicked opening and he angled his hips to enter her at last, sliding home. Deeper than his fingers could have managed. Inexorable and insistent. Phoebe gasped as he filled her in a strong surge, taking up space within her that she hadn't even known existed. A minor miracle, she thought, that people could simply…fit together. Like two halves of a whole reconnecting. True to his word there was no pain, but instead a strange sensation of fullness as long-unused muscles contracted around the rigid length of flesh embedded within her. "Christ." Kit cast his head back, and a tendon in his neck went taut. His jaw clenched, and he hissed through the gnash of his teeth, "Say you're all right." An odd little laugh rolled up Phoebe's throat. It should have been a question. But she didn't think it had been. Instead it had been a command, terse and insistent. "I'm all right," she said, and she was—for the most part. It was difficult to be entirely all right when she had come to the realization that just as the dim glow of the candle had revealed things to her, it had also revealed things to him. And now his avid gaze had fallen upon her breasts, and she didn't know if she was meant to cover them, or— "Phoebe. I can practically see you thinking. Now is not the time." He slid one arm beneath her leg, hooked it around her knee, and moved. Phoebe forgot about her bared breasts, her fingers scraping across the mattress as that slow withdrawal teased delicate inner muscles. "Oh," she said on a shaky sigh as her toes curled. His free hand landed upon her stomach, over muscles that quivered at the touch. A gentle pressure, sliding up the cage of her ribs to land upon her breast, kneading the tender flesh. The crest of her nipple beaded beneath the stimulation of his palm. Another slow plunge inward, and another. He touched some part of her that sent her senses scrambling, lit every last nerve on fire, contracted every muscle— " Fuck , yes. Keep doing that." A shiver slid from his body to hers. Panting with exertion, his hand abandoned her breast to plant itself beside her head as he bent over her. A forceful lunge that compelled a cry from her lungs. His lips touched her jaw, slid toward her mouth, coasted over her dry lips. He was the only stable thing in a chaotic world. Phoebe pried one hand free of the covers in which they had fisted and wrapped her arm about his neck. Tried to kiss him, but missed. His skin was hot and salty, misted with sweat. His hips canted, found a new angle, and everything went hazy and tingly. " Kit ," she wailed, her fingers tangling in the damp locks of his hair. The tension that had drawn her tight and taut broke at last in long, shuddering waves of release. She clutched him with every part of her; arms, legs, and even within, those delicate inner muscles embraced him, welcomed him, tried not to let him go. A raw, ragged sound sheared past her ear, and the intensity of his thrusts redoubled in a helpless drive for the same fulfillment she enjoyed. And she felt it when he reached his own culmination, felt the same splintering rigidity overtake him, heard the relief of it in the gasp he gave, felt the strange pulse of him deep inside her. He collapsed slowly, burying her beneath the expanse of his chest, and for a moment she fancied they shared shaky breaths and frantic heartbeats. She couldn't seem to make her fingers withdraw from the silky tangle of his hair, and he rubbed his cheek against hers, like an affectionate cat. She didn't know what she was meant to say, what she was meant to do. Kit solved the problem for her. "Every day," he said, tucking a kiss into the place where her neck met her shoulder. "And twice on Sundays." Phoebe smiled and yawned, because it really was tiring work. "I'm open to renegotiation," she said.

∞∞∞

Phoebe looked different. It wasn't so much that her appearance had changed—other than the tangled hair that spilled over Chris' pillow, of course, but that was just a consequence of having snarled his fingers in it so many times. There was nothing unusual about the shape of her lips, or the color, except perhaps that the hue had deepened just slightly owing to the pressure of his. There was nothing out of place in the feather of her lashes across her cheeks, and Chris suspected that if he were to pry one peacefully-closed eyelid up, he would note nothing changed in the color of her eyes. Her nose was the same as it had ever been, long and straight and just the tiniest bit tilted upward there at the very tip; an accoutrement she wore well and which gave her an edge whenever she wished to appear haughty and condescending. Her cheeks were still gently rounded, with just the hint of a dimple there in the right one. Probably in left, too, but it was obscured within the plush stuffing of the pillow beneath her head. Nothing about her had changed. She was the same as she ever was, as she always had been. But she looked different. Or perhaps she merely looked different to him. An odd turn of events to be sure. Chris folded his arms beneath his head and stared at her. The slope of her shoulder emerged from beneath the rumpled covers, which neither of them had gone to any effort to straighten. The candle, burning low, tossed distressed flickers of light across her skin, little glints of gold rippling across milky white flesh, lending her a faintly glowing appearance. The subtle scent of roses, warmed by the heat of her skin, came and went in brief bursts, and he found himself searching for lingering hints of it. It was in her soap, in her perfume—even if he'd never much cared for it before, he liked it on her. Sliding his fingers out from beneath his head, he gathered up a handful of disheveled curls to bring them to his nose. Phoebe stirred, slapped at his hand. "Stop that," she muttered irritably. "I'm trying to sleep." Still half-asleep, her back arched in a trembling stretch, and at last she settled with sigh, her cheek nestling into the pillow beneath her head. He could give her a nudge and send her on her way. Her room was just down the hall, and the candle would burn at least long enough to see her back to it safely. It had never been his habit to share his bed with any of his partners only to sleep . But it seemed a shame to disturb her. He supposed he could accustom himself to sharing his bed. Just this once.