18. Domesticity

DOMESTICITY

L eopold stood in the center of his chamber, bemused. She had not been running away. Nor had she been about to throw herself off of the cliff. When his senses had tugged him awake earlier, he'd gone right to the window.

And upon seeing her flight, he'd thought his heart would explode right out of his chest.

She'd simply wanted to explore—to experience something he took for granted.

A few moments of solitude.

Exhaling, Leopold caught sight of himself in the small looking glass on his wardrobe. He saw puzzlement there. But he couldn't allow her to muck up the waters and, scrubbing his hand down his face, dismissed the spell she'd seemed to cast over him.

Not just this morning, but the day before. And the damned day before that.

She was never far from his thoughts, not because he had a job to do, but because what he'd hoped was only a passing attraction was growing into something stronger. Holding her yesterday hadn't helped. It had, in fact, left him in something of an uncomfortable state.

If he wasn't admiring her character, he was admiring her… other assets.

He was all too aware that getting personal with Lady Amelia Crowley was a dangerous business. For both of them.

Despite that, despite himself , he found himself feeling very personal feelings anyway.

Have you come to care for me, Mr. Beckworth?

Nine little words and she'd kicked right through his boundaries. And it wasn't the first time.

He'd not been lying when he said she was his weakness.

Goose flesh pebbled his skin. Seeing hunger in her eyes had him teetering on the edge… Even in the sunlight, her pupils had darkened. She'd licked her lips.

He'd noticed her fingers twitching, almost as though she wanted…

But no. What the hell was he thinking?

He'd lifted her out of her sheltered life and she was obviously going a little mad.

Leopold spun away from the mirror. He was wasting time.

He couldn't have weaknesses, not with the sort of life he lived.

He reminded himself again that the only reason she was here was for protection. This wasn't a damn house party, now was it? Not when danger could emerge any minute thanks to her father's bloody bad choices.

Normally, he would have relieved this tension by tossing himself off. But there wasn't time, so while making himself presentable, he turned his thoughts to more serious matters.

The knowledge that Crossings' ship drifted up and down Leopold's coast worked like a bucket of cold water. It also reminded him of his own recently unloaded shipment and the trunks stacked in the cellar awaiting his inspection. Then there were the various vehicles set to arrive later today to transport them to London.

And all the details involved.

Ten minutes later, fully dressed but unshaven, Leopold marched into the dining room, satisfied to have full control of all his urges.

The smile she met him with, however, smashed that satisfaction to pieces.

She wore the same gown she'd been wearing at the cliff, but had added a ribbon to the waist, the same shade but a little darker. She'd also done something more complicated with her hair, which reminded him…

"You don't have a maid," he said, and found himself half-waiting, half-wishing that she would complain. Complaining could make her less attractive—remind him that her expectations always far exceeded anything he had to offer.

But of course. Of-bloody-course , her smile only beamed brighter.

"I don't need one!"

"But you will, won't you? Eventually?"

She shook her head enthusiastically. "Not really. Sally, the maid who helped me at The Goat's Tail, was kind enough to show me how to style my own hair. It takes me three times as long as she needed, but I must admit, I like it better than my usual coiffure. And it requires half as many pins." She turned her head side to side so he could see the pretty little braid winding around the crown of her head. "And, in addition to the crochet hook, Bessie brought up a needle and thread. She said I could alter any of the gowns stored away in the wardrobe. They're a little out of date and musty, but with a few alterations, I can make them work in a pinch." She frowned. "Unless the original owner will want them back…"

"She won't."

Lady Amelia nodded. "That's convenient, then." But a strange tension tightened her voice, and she wasn't looking at him.

Surely not because she had discovered another woman's clothing? In his house.

Leopold found himself wanting to put her at ease. "The estate's previous owner sold off most of his valuables, but left the furnishings. It didn't make sense to throw it all out when a polishing and a few screws could give them new life." And then he added, "Although I did replace the mattresses."

"Oh."

"A good mattress is important, don't you think—for a good night's sleep?" He couldn't help himself, mentioning the unmentionable to a lady, waiting for her cheeks to pink up.

But she wasn't fooled, and instead met his gaze defiantly. What the hell had happened to all those proper ways of hers?

"I quite agree." She pursed her lips. "But I'm most appreciative of the modern plumbing. I can do my own hair, but I've not come so far that I'm willing to deal with…" She swallowed, obviously gathering her courage. "Chamber pots."

Barely keeping his laughter in check, Leopold rubbed his chin. The whiskers scraping his fingers told him he needed a shave. The last time he'd bothered with a razor was the morning he'd stopped Foxbourne's coach.

Three days. It had only been three days, and his priorities were already shifting.

But they hadn't really. It was just that the importance of protecting Lady Amelia had moved to the top of the list.

Two members of his team entered the dining room just then, their arms laden with dishes, sparing Leopold from having to top Lady Amelia's extraordinarily inappropriate comment.

Still blushing to the roots of her golden hair, she spooned a little of everything onto her plate and then unfolded her napkin and smoothed it onto her lap.

Right back to being a lady.

"Your cook is amazing. My mother's friends in Mayfair would be fighting over her if they got a taste of these eggs."

But then she met his stare from across the table. "Did you know her from before…?"

Before anyone ever thought of calling him King…

"She came with the estate." More than one employee had remained when the previous owner moved out. "I didn't mind keeping them on to help with my incoming shipments."

"What comes in?" she dared to ask. "What is it exactly, that you… smuggle?"

Leopold was becoming quite accustomed to her questions. They came with the air of someone who was endlessly curious but not used to the luxury of being able to ask for information whenever they wanted, someone who was testing the bounds of a newfound freedom, like a baby bird leaping from a tree for the first time. It was oddly endearing, that burgeoning boldness.

"Silks. Artifacts. Lace. Spices."

"Not tea?"

He snapped his head up. "Not tea. Never tea."

"They don't mind that your work is… illegal?"

"No one gets hurt, and I pay well," he said. "That tends to erase any misgivings."

"And you trust them?"

"For the most part." Leopold glanced up from his food. "To a certain degree, I have no choice. But I'm always wary, because…" He circled his fork in the air. "People are, on the whole, selfish creatures."

He'd believed she was like all the others. But was she?

Time to change the subject.

"Do you have enough yarn? For your crocheting?" The words didn't feel as strange on his tongue as he'd expected. Which ought to serve as some sort of warning to himself. You're losing your edge, a voice in his head taunted as he sat making meaningless conversation like a bloody gentleman.

To silence it, he picked up a sausage using his fingers and then tore a piece off with his teeth.

Her brows shot up but she didn't comment.

"I imagine you think crocheting is a frivolous activity—that its only purpose is to keep ladies busy." She shrugged, bringing his attention to her shoulders—delicate, but stronger than one would imagine.

He liked the gowns Mrs. Billings had selected for her, that they had reasonably sized sleeves rather than the monstrosities on the one he'd ruined.

He liked seeing her move freely.

Hell, she'd carried the weight of society's expectations her entire life. No wonder she'd gone skipping across the grass now that she was finally free of it.

And, in all honesty, keeping her busy meant less distraction for him.

"It does, though, doesn't it? Keep you busy that is?"

She frowned. "Yes, but it isn't frivolous."

"So you make what, scarves? Blankets?"

"Sometimes." She hesitated. "But I really like making toys—stuffed little animals—to send to… foundling hospitals…" Her enthusiasm trailed off.

Leopold could picture her all too easily, sitting in one of his drawing rooms, her fingers weaving yarn into something whimsical, a fire burning at the hearth. But as quickly as it appeared, the image unfurled something so damn deep he could hardly breathe.

It was almost as though he'd ingested poison.

Leopold leapt to his feet, a clumsy, purely reactive move that had him knocking the table and his coffee over at the same time. He couldn't bring himself to apologize or make excuses as he watched the liquid staining the white linen tablecloth.

Amelia was already reaching across, righting the glass and mopping at the stain with a napkin. When she shot him a confused—and hurt—look, he backed away towards the door.

There was no way in hell he'd make any attempt to explain himself. So he resorted to that which he knew best. His business. His schemes.

"I need to inspect last night's shipment." Leopold dipped his chin and, left the room as though the devil himself was chasing him.

He refused to look back.

She. Was. Forbidden.

A cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and he tugged at the front of his shirt, wanting more air. At least he didn't wear a cravat like those stuffy tossers of the ton , with their excessive layers and frilly tufts of fabric everywhere. No, his taste in fashion generally prioritized comfort and practicality.

Cravats weren't for the likes of him. Cravats were for those toffs who'd been raised on country estates. Oxford graduates.

He only ever wore them when he was attending meetings at the Domus Emporium, to blend in with the nobs—to make himself as invisible as possible.

Although, that typically wasn't an issue. Few lights burned at the Emporium—a place where men played out their darkest fantasies behind velvet drapes.

On scarlet sheets.

The Domus provided the forbidden on a golden platter, teasing at a sense of indulgence and danger.

But it was all a farce, and by morning, all of its patrons would have returned to their brightly lit mansions and "honorable" lives, where the consequences of their nightly activities could not touch them. They never knew true risk.

Not like Leopold. He'd known the darkness for as long as he could remember, had lived in it, thrived in it, survived in spite of it—and now it lived inside him.

Lady Amelia represented everything he would never have. Rather than lure him with darkness and vice, however, she lured him with innocence and light.

Not. For. Him.

He would only diminish her. Like the coffee he'd knocked over, ruining the tablecloth.

Or perhaps more like ink. For surely any stains he left would not so easily be washed away.