Christopher rose at dawn, as was his habit, and dressed in the loose-fitting silk trousers he wore for martial art training. Stepping out of his room, he paused to study the closed door at the end of the hall. Did the woman behind it sleep well, or was she plagued with fitful dreams? Did she sincerely trust him to keep her alive? How did she fare, he wondered, after last night’s encounter?
Turning, he strode toward the stairs, feeling the need to punish himself physically with some brutal drills. A drop of awareness trickled down his spine, and he paused to glance back at Millie’s room, expecting to see her standing there.
She wasn’t, but his feet remained rooted to the floor as he, again, contemplated the door and the woman who slept on the other side.
Millie.
He’d taken her virginity. Coerced it from her. Mounted her like a randy stallion and pushed inside of her like a brute.
Christopher pressed his lips together, as the contrasting memory of her unparalleled warmth combined with the cold discovery of her blood on him. He’d washed the evidence from his body that night when he’d bathed after leaving her room. His fingers had lingered over the wet patches her tears had left on his shirt and, in a moment of unguarded sentimentality, he’d lifted the garment to his cheek in the chance he might catch some of her warmth left from where she’d clung to him.
He’d sent a bath to her, as well, hoping to assuage the tight and uncomfortably oily sensation he’d been unable to escape from. No matter how vigorously he scrubbed, his skin felt tainted by his own impulsive, undignified need.
Was this what shame felt like?
If so, he didn’t at all like it, or its bedfellows, whom he’d hesitantly identified as doubt, regret, and concern. He’d lain up half the night picturing Millie in her canopied bed, vigorously hating him, or worse, hurting because of him.
Where there was blood, there was a wound. One he’d created, one that nature had made necessary, to be sure, but even so …
It troubled him in a way it never had that he’d caused her pain. Which bemused him further because pain was his business, was an intrinsic part of his life. He’d been born to it. Pain had honed him to a razor’s edge, a weapon as sharp and lethal as any blade. So why would it bother him so much that he’d caused her even the slightest pinch?
Because she’d met his sharp edges and rough ways with softness and amiability. Because beneath all that smooth, creamy skin and sweetness, was a woman with untold courage and strength. Because she’d fallen apart in his arms, and he’d somehow helped to stitch her back together.
Because the thought of her hurting set his muscles to twitching and an uncomfortable fury simmering through his veins. There in his cavernous hallway, surrounded by emptiness, something cold and sharp found him. Something he thought he’d left in the iron darkness of Newgate. It washed over him with the breathtaking shock of the Thames in winter, bringing with it a myriad of rapid-fire questions ricocheting through the quietude.
Fear?
What about when this was all over and he was no longer at her side? Who would protect Millie and her son from the dangers that lurked in the shadows? From men like him? What if someone else hurt her?
The thought had barely formed before he found himself at her door, pushing it open and plunging into the dark room. With the heavy drapes drawn closed, he could only make out little silvery motes of dust sparkling in the sliver of daylight that filtered through the slit in the curtains. Making his way to the window, he bashed the meat of his thigh on an unfamiliar piece of furniture and swallowed a grunt before he reached it and threw open the drapes.
Turning, he caught his breath as the silver rays of dawn illuminated her dark hair with angelic beams of light. Millie slept curled on her side, her knees drawn up and her elegant fingers cupped ever so slightly in repose. Her skin, nearly as pale as the linens upon which she lay, created the most stunning contrast to the inky curls draped behind her on the pillow.
Christopher had seen her from every perspective imaginable. On stage, glittering like the empire’s crown jewel. In the shadows, lids heavy with desire. At the bathhouse, naked, wet, and slippery. Bent over this very bed, exposed, lush, and warm.
But not like this. Not quiet and unguarded, the electric life in her eyes dormant and the smile she shared with the world hidden behind slack, slightly parted lips.
The ridiculous notion to kiss her soft mouth awake caused Christopher to swallow profusely.
Twice.
He didn’t dare move, couldn’t trust himself not to do something idiotic, like curl himself around her body and cradle her against him. To use his own mangled flesh as a shield for her perfection.
She looked so young like this, her black lashes fluttering against cheeks flushed pink with warmth and slumber. It struck him just how small and helpless she really was. Granted, the bed could have comfortably been rowed down the Thames by a dozen burly sailors, but her slight form and delicate bones barely seemed to interrupt the mountain of covers Welton had piled over it.
Soundlessly gliding to the bedside, Christopher lurked over her, his hands clenched, and arms tensed. Never in his life had he possessed anything so beautiful. Even the mansion in which he resided wasn’t technically his. He knew he could afford things, anything really, but it had never made much sense to him to accumulate objects he might lose. If the philosophies of Sifu Wu Ping had taught him anything, it was that desire leads to disappointment, and attachment only brings suffering.
Christopher was well acquainted with suffering in all its forms.
In the middle of this room, draped in soothing colors and lovely, filmy things, a dangerous desire flared inside of him with such ferocity he shuddered with it. Not the kind of sexual desire he’d experienced with her last night, though he’d be fooling himself if he didn’t admit a strong component of that, but a stark pang of yearning that pulsed inside his chest.
For her, for this, for all of it.
This strange and unfamiliar fantasy in the middle of his own bleak house. Decorations that warmed the chilly rooms and dazzled the eye. Beds of soft down with a softer woman inside of it beckoning him to join her, to be a part of this fantasy. A fantasy she lived every day. Not just any woman, this woman. The most coveted female in the empire and several countries on the Continent.
His woman.
Christopher shook his head to clear it of the errant thought. Millie wasn’t an object to acquire, she was another human being. One with desires and attachments of her own. One who’d never tempered herself with training, hardened her body with punishment, or inflicted violence upon another. And yet, an instinct, primitive and possessive, surged through him with the intensity of a tidal wave. Only one word carried through the quiet, still morning and braved the tumultuous storm swirling and screaming inside of him, barely contained by his sinew and skin.
Mine.
No. No, he berated himself more firmly. Millie wasn’t his. He could not possess her and refused to become attached. She was a possession of the stage, she was beholden to her son, and she belonged to her adoring public.
He belonged to no one.
Breathing around the strange dull ache in his chest, Christopher whispered her name. He’d not come here to lay claim to her, no matter how intensely his body urged him to do so. He’d promised to protect her. And to keep that promise, he knew he must teach her to protect herself.
Because he could not always be with her. She’d made him vow to leave her alone when their arrangement was through.
But a woman like her was never alone. Never lonely. Constantly surrounded by friends, fans, and a loving son, her life would be full of others.
Yes, he’d leave her. But it was Christopher who would be alone.
Again.
Always.
The dull ache became a cold stab, and Christopher said her name, louder this time, hoping to pull her out of her world of dreams. She slept the sleep of the innocent. No weapons within reach, no weight pressing her down in the night, threatening to consume her the moment her eyes closed. No bitter knowledge that the only way to protect oneself from the danger in the shadows was to become one with the darkness, a creature from the depths of the abyss.
The very thing that goes bump in the night.
Harsh, cold reality awaited her here in the daylight, and he needed to prepare her for it, or he’d never sleep again.
“Millie.” He said her name with force, reaching down to touch her shoulder. Even through the overlarge nightgown, her bones felt fragile beneath his hand. It would take nothing at all to break her. But he knew if his large, brutal hands ever did her harm, he would be the one who shattered.
He could think of this no longer without losing his sanity … his control.
Tightening his grip on her shoulder, he shook her gently. When she did not stir, his brows drew together, and a small chill formed in his gut.
Was she well? Had she done herself some harm during the night?
Was she breathing?
Seizing the covers, Christopher flung them from her, bellowing her name in a low, desperate tone he didn’t even recognize as his own.
She sprang to life with a strangled sound, limbs flailing, and were Christopher a man with lesser reflexes, he would not have caught her wrist in time before her fist connected with his face.
Glassy, frightened eyes stared at him for a moment from a tangle of unruly hair until they darkened with anger.
“Get dressed,” Christopher ordered. “I have a few things to teach you.”
Each time Millie blinked, a different emotion peered out from her bleary eyes, none of them particularly flattering. Confusion, annoyance, indignation, and then accusation. “What—what time is it?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep as she pressed her palm to one twitching eyelid.
Her voice. He’d only heard that register once before.
If you don’t kiss me, I’ll die.
The loose bodice of her nightgown slid down her arm, baring her creamy shoulder and skimming the curve of one breast.
Instantly his body reacted, his cock swelling with such momentum, he felt a pang of discomfort low in his belly. He hadn’t been aware his hand was tightening on her wrist until she winced.
Instantly, he released her. “It’s just after dawn,” he clipped. “Now put some clothes on.”
Millie narrowed mulish eyes at his bare chest, her jaw thrusting forward in a gesture that was becoming somewhat familiar. “You put some clothes on,” she snapped. “And wake me at a more decent hour.” Scowling, she grasped at the covers and heaped them on top of herself, before rolling away from him and sinking back into the bed.
Christopher stared at the bundle she made with a sense of pure, frustrated astonishment. “It was my impression that the later the hour, the less decent it becomes.”
“Your impression is wrong,” her sharp voice informed him, somewhat muffled by the coverlet. “And if you wake me before nine in the morning again, I’ll pâté your liver and have it with my breakfast. Now get out.”
It was a rare person, indeed, who dared to question him, let alone threaten him. Frozen in place, Christopher found himself at a loss for what to do next. How did one make a recalcitrant woman do what she was told?
He’d have to ask Dorian.
But for now, he was faced with eerily unfamiliar territory. He knew, of course, that the ton rarely rose before noon. Millie, he supposed, was a similar creature of the night, beholden to delight and entertain the paying crowds until dawn.
His eyes shifting uncomfortably, he tried another approach. Enticement. “If I sent Welton up with some tea, would that help to rouse you?”
“Not if you value your butler,” she said around a shuddering yawn.
“Pardon?”
She punched the pillow and fluffed it before settling back down. “If you send Welton in here before nine in the morning, I’ll send him to the devil.”
“What’s at nine in the morning?” he asked before thinking.
She didn’t answer, her breath slow and deep.
He stepped closer; she couldn’t have fallen asleep again in that short of a time.
“What’s at nine in the morning?” he repeated, louder this time.
She jerked and made a very unladylike sound, halfway between a growl and a snort. “I have an appointment,” she muttered.
“Appointment? What sort of appointment?”
She mumbled something that sounded like “forgetting to get washed and beaten.”
“What?” Christopher asked sharply.
“Kindly leave,” she huffed into the pillow. “It’s the middle of the cursed night.”
Glancing at the window, Christopher developed a scowl of his own. He opened his mouth to inform her that it was not, in fact, the middle of the night if the sun was up.
She beat him to the chase. “And close the bloody curtains on your way out.”
Speechless with complete amazement, he complied, thinking to himself that a lash from her sharp tongue ought to open the vein of anyone who’d dare accost her in the morning.
He shut her door behind him, wondering to himself just what hour of the day she became less dangerous than him. He’d probably wake her then.
* * *
It turned out that “forgetting to get washed and beaten” was Millie’s incoherent sleep language for “Mrs. Loretta Teague-Washington.” Even Argent, a social nonentity, had heard of the brassy, scandalous American whom the ton had fondly nicknamed the Sorceress. An hour with her was supposed to erase ten years from your skin and guarantee your desirability on the marriage market.
Christopher’s eyebrows met over a frown as his carriage swayed across the cobblestones of London, back toward Millie’s apartments on Drury Lane. Millie sat opposite him, arm to arm with her son, her hair plaited in a simple chignon and dressed in the same costume he’d fucked her in the night before.
He’d not thought to send for clothing.
Trying to ignore the memory of the wine-red skirt tossed above her creamy ass, Christopher shifted in his seat as his trousers became decidedly smaller. The heated recollection gave way to the unpleasant question of Millie’s reasons for seeking out Loretta Teague-Washington’s services.
Marriage?
His frown deepened to a scowl and he glared out at the bustling city with uncharacteristic temper. She’d informed him that she wasn’t in love with anyone. However, she owed him no fealty or friendship, and therefore wasn’t beholden to share her innermost confidences with him.
Also, the institution of marriage infamously kept very little company with love. Perhaps she wanted what many women desired. A rich husband. A secure future. Someone contracted to take care of her when her youth and beauty faded. An eventuality he couldn’t even fathom.
A legitimate name for her son, perhaps?
Whatever her reasons, if she married, she’d belong to another. Christopher’s jaw locked with such force, he felt a slight headache prick at his temples.
“You’re rather quiet this morning,” Millie observed gently. “Is anything amiss?”
His eyes swung back to her, and he let out a few cyclical breaths, hoping to use his control over his energy to calm the thumps his heart seemed to insist upon whenever his gaze rested on her genuine smile.
The mild concern in her gentle gaze was the direct reverse of the woman she’d been at dawn. In fact, she’d been the picture of bright-eyed courtesy ever since she’d wandered out of her bedroom at ten, teacup in hand. The contrast somehow disturbed Christopher’s very sense of equilibrium.
“I’m delaying any conversation until noon,” he informed her. “Until I can be certain that the hour is safe.”
Millie tilted her head in a questioning way as, next to her, Jakub’s eyes widened with warning. “Safe?” she echoed. “Why wouldn’t it be safe?”
“The last time we spoke, you threatened to pâté my liver,” Christopher reminded her.
“That’s ridiculous, I don’t even like liver pâté.”
“You also promised to murder my elderly butler.”
Her eyes widened. “Welton? Why ever would I do such a thing? I adore Welton, and I’m not a murderer.” Her features conveyed the unmistakable message in her words.
She was not the assassin here.
“You are decidedly more prone to violence, it seems, at dawn.”
She shook her head, regarding him as though he were the one who’d lost his mind. “Did you have some strange dream? A nightmare perhaps?”
Christopher was beginning to wonder …
Jakub, who’d been glancing back and forth during their exchange, chimed in, his falsetto a calculated study in circumspection. “You woke her before nine o’clock, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid so,” Christopher confirmed.
The boy shook his head with a very mature compassion. “You should not have done so,” he reproached gently, though he remained the picture of solemn masculine commiseration. “Mama is not to be woken before nine in the morning, and if you wait until ten, then you’re the better for it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Christopher nodded his appreciation, which drew a gap-toothed smile from the boy.
Millie’s astonishment bordered on indignation as she made a tight sound. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you two are on about,” she huffed, then turned to peek at them hesitantly. “Am I such a monster in the morning?”
“Yes,” both Jakub and Christopher answered at once.
“Well.” Her lips tightened.
“It’s all right, Mama.” Jakub rushed to soothe her, placing his small hand over hers and giving her a few consoling pats. “I’m a monster if I take naps, remember?”
Millie smiled and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “You’re always an angel.”
“I’m a monster at night … in the dark,” Christopher confessed with an amused sort of smirk. An ironic revelation amidst a supposedly innocent conversation.
“Are you, Mr. Argent?” Jakub asked.
“The worst kind of monster, I’m afraid.”
The child turned back to Millie. “There, Mama, you see? We are all monsters sometimes.”
This time, Millie didn’t so much as glance down at her son, her brilliant dark eyes holding Christopher in some kind of thrall as they stared across the enclosed carriage. “So we are,” she murmured.
Finding it a marvel that even in the wan light of the carriage, her skin seemed to shine with a luminescence he’d never before encountered, Christopher ventured forward. “I may have been a monster last night. I may have done—rather monstrous things.” He’d never apologized in his life, but merely admitting the fact that what he’d done to her last night might have been wrong released some of that oily sensation from his soul.
Jakub returned to glancing between them as the intensity grew, his incomprehension obvious as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Was he a monster, Mama?”
Millie’s eyes shone with something Christopher couldn’t even begin to name. Something cautious and yet … soft. “No, kochanie,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “No, he wasn’t.”
