In the bright light of day and without stage paint to mask her, she looked younger than she had the other night, fresh and pretty if not precisely beautiful. Her heart-shaped face was more piquant than classic, the nose adorably turned up at the tip, the jade green eyes arched upward at the edges, a trait she accentuated by lining her eyes.
But it was her mouth that kept drawing him back, filling his head with fantasies about all the ways he might kiss her. He rather thought he would start by brushing ever so lightly over first one corner of her mouth then the other, then move on to trace the tantalizing ribbon of full upper lip with his tongue before teasing her lips apart and deepening the kiss and gliding inside to taste her, really taste her. When the fantasy progressed to where he was twining his fingers through cinnamon-colored tresses, Daisy’s bowed head between his thighs and her moist, hot mouth sliding like a velvet vise over his ready hard member, he knew it was time for this cozy
tête-à-tête
to end. It promised to be a long four weeks.
She took a sip of tea and set her cup and saucer aside. “Catch me up on our friends, if you don’t mind. Harry, I mean Hadrian, is a newlywed, I take it?”
Forcing his thoughts back to the present, he nodded. “He married the suffragette leader formerly known as Caledonia Rivers almost a year ago. Until then, she was one of the chief spokespersons on behalf of a Parliamentary bill to grant women the right to vote in national elections.”
Daisy hesitated. “She sounds a very worthy woman. I wouldn’t have imagined our Harry pairing off with such a sobersides, but then I wouldn’t have imagined him pairing off with any woman for longer than it took to coax her out of her knickers.”
Her frank speech bothered him more than he cared to let on, but beyond that it had him worrying over her future. Celebrating bawdiness had died out with Nell Gwynne and the Restoration and though many of the current actresses in vogue such as the celebrated Sarah Bernhardt weren’t born ladies, they were expected to at least act the part.
He noticed she hadn’t touched any of the tea treats, a respectable array of bite-sized cakes, scones, and finger sandwiches as well as a bowl of fresh strawberries served with a side dish of clotted cream, the latter a special indulgence in honor of the new arrival. Wondering if she might be one of those women forever worrying over her weight or if the selection simply wasn’t to her taste, he asked, “Is the tea all right? Would you care for something else?”
“Oh, no, this is lovely.”
As if waiting for his cue, she piled her plate with strawberries and several sandwiches. She peeled off the bread from a sandwich and popped the filling of cucumber, dill, and cream into her mouth.
Chewing, she said, “It sounds as though Rourke’s set his cap for an heiress.” Gavin admitted he had. “But I thought he was rich already?”
“Lady Kathryn Lindsey’s family is top-drawer, although land poor. It’s her pedigree he’s after, not her purse.”
“Top drawer, is she?” Daisy snorted. “That must mean she’s squint-eyed and plain.”
Making a mental note to add some rudimentary lessons in manners to her program of study, Gavin shook his head. “Hardly. Lady Kat may not be a beauty in the classic sense, but she’s comely enough to have sat for Hadrian as a photographer’s model as well as possessed of a razor sharp wit—and the tongue to match it. The only fly in the ointment is that so far the lady can’t seem to abide him.”
Daisy frowned and picked up another sandwich from her plate, giving it like treatment. “Don’t tell me the toffee-nosed bitch doesn’t think he’s good enough for her?”
He winced at the ease with which the vulgarity rolled off her tongue. “If that is indeed the case then for once our friend, Rourke, finds himself in company with a goodly number of London’s finest gentlemen.”
Popping another cucumber slice into her mouth, she asked, “How so?”
“The lady simply won’t have him—or any other man, for that matter. She swears matrimony is the province of fools, and she’d sooner end her days a maid than submit to a man serving as her legally appointed jailor.”
He expected her to shake her head, but instead she tilted her face to the side, a faraway look in her eye. “I can’t answer to the maid part, but I’d say she has the right of marriage. Most men treat their mistresses a great deal better than they do their wives—and they don’t always treat them so very well.”
The statement struck him as sadly jaded for one so young, but more to the point, it was obviously a veiled reference to all the men who’d enjoyed her favors, which in turn led him to ponder the depressing question of just how many men that might be.
Turning back to him, she said, “The other day, I didn’t think to ask what sort of law you practice. There are different sorts, aren’t there?”
Her question surprised him. He wouldn’t have imagined his profession would have interested her, but then it was likely she was only humoring him or being polite. “Most of the cases I take on are felony offenses tried in the criminal courts. Assault, theft, embezzlement, offenses against Her Majesty such as counterfeiting and coining with the occasional murder trial tossed in for good measure.”
Gaze shining, she said, “How splendid. I’m so proud of you.”
He shrugged, the compliment bringing him back to the awkward boy he’d once been. “There’s the occasional satisfaction, but for the most part the work is deadly dull—and frustrating. The law isn’t class blind by any stretch. Those with the money to do so generally purchase their way out of trouble whereas the poor and working classes are left to suffer the harshest penalties for oftentimes petty crimes driven more by desperation than any appreciable evil.” He stopped himself. “Sorry, there I go stepping up on my soapbox again.”
She shook her head. “Not at all, but speaking of soap boxes, do you remember that little makeshift stage we set up in the Roxbury House attic?” She punctuated the reminiscence with a soft smile.
Gavin found himself smiling with her. “Indeed, how can I forget? Given what little we had to work with, boards salvaged from milk crates and nary a proper tool in sight, it was a marvel of architectural design. With all the banging that went on, I wonder we were never caught out.”
She hesitated and then admitted, “We were. That miserable tattletale Lettie Pinkerton found us out and threatened to go to the headmaster.”
“Piggy Pinkerton.” Lord, but it had been years since he’d so much as thought of her, indeed of any of the Roxbury House orphans beyond their immediate circle.
She nodded. “Fortunately she proved even fonder of sweets than of tattling. With Harry’s smuggling hot cross buns and lemon tart from the kitchen, she must have gained a full stone that last month.”
So she hadn’t told him quite everything even then.
It wasn’t like before but still it was nice, this easy conversation, this sharing of memories, the good ones at least.
She turned her attention to the strawberries and cream, apparently saved for last. “This is good,” she said, and licked a dab of clotted cream from the corner of her mouth.
Watching her, Gavin felt as if the temperature in the room had shot up several degrees. “Jamison has the scones and tea cakes brought in from a nearby bakery. You’ve only to tell him your preferences and he’ll purchase accordingly.”
Plate balanced on her knees, Daisy regarded him for a long moment. “Did it take getting used to?”
“Did what take getting used to?”
“Being rich. Roxbury House was nice enough, but even there we each had chores to do and lessons to learn. I’ve never had servants though I considered going into service once.”
“I’d think staying put in one place would seem rather dull after the traveling life you’ve lived.” Only after the fact did he admit the statement concealed a question. Could a woman like Daisy ever be content to settle down in one place—with one man?
She shrugged. “A dancer’s career is short-lived. Most girls don’t make it past thirty. On days when I perform more than one show, at bedtime I wrap my ankles in cloths soaked in mustard seed oil to ease the swelling.”
Gavin had never considered that her dubious profession might take such a physical toll. “I had no idea.”
She picked up another strawberry and bit into the fruit, juice dribbling down the side of mouth, making her lips look all the more luscious. The telltale tightening in Gavin’s groin was a warning that for once he chose not to heed. Reaching across, he caught the juice with the pad of his thumb as he might have done were they children still. Only they weren’t children, they were adults, and the flare of heat between them was an undeniable presence in the room. He swiped his digit along the curve of her bottom lip, tracing its contour, wishing he might taste her with his tongue instead.
Drawing back, he cursed himself for an idiot. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It won’t happen again.”
Daisy shook her head, cheeks flushed as though she hadn’t stripped for him only the other day. “No, it’s me who’s sorry. I’m making a mess. I suppose I’m hungrier than I thought.”
For the first time it occurred to him her wolfishness might be the result of missed meals rather than rough manners. She was very slender but he assumed that was from the exercise of daily performances.
“Daisy, when was the last time you ate?”
She hesitated, and then reached for another strawberry. “Why, I’m eating now.”
“You know what I mean.”
She shrugged. “They were supposed to feed us one meal a day at the club but with rehearsals and what not, that didn’t always happen. The rooms I let are above a bakery, so I get more than my fill of bread and pastry, but meat and fresh fruit are hard to come by—and cost dear.”
So that explained why she picked off the bread from the sandwiches and turned her nose up at the fancy cakes and scones. He’d assumed Paris patisseries had made her finicky, but apparently he’d been wrong about her yet again. After two weeks above a bakery, she must feel as though she was drowning in dough.
Seeking to divert them from the awkwardness he created, he said, “I’ve placed an advertisement for an acting instructor in
The Times
as well as several of the more prominent regional papers.”
He expected her to be pleased that matters were moving along but she looked anything but. “You think I need acting lessons?” She drew back, cheeks as bright red as though they bore his handprints.
How to answer honestly without offering further offense? Choosing his words with care, he said, “When you read for a part, you have only the one chance. I want to do everything in my power to ensure you’re as prepared as possible.”
He more than suspected her background in burlesque barely scratched the surface of what she might do. With a bit of coaching, she might make for a solid actress. To her advantage, she was already very much at home on the stage.
She seemed to soften. “I suppose it’s no different from voice or dance lessons.”
Relieved they’d gotten past the potentially sticky subject so easily, he took a sip of his tea. “Exactly so.”
“That only leaves us to hammer out the terms of our arrangement.” She unsnapped her reticule and brought out a pencil and pocket-size notebook. Pencil at the ready, she looked up and said, “I’ve found that before going into keeping, it is by far best to decide the terms in advance.”
Aghast, Gavin stared at her. “Into keeping?”
She answered with a brisk nod. “I know it may seem unromantic to write it all down but doing so saves much time and angst for both parties when the time comes to go separate ways. In our case, you’ve promised me a stipend to cover my er … financial obligations as well as to pay for my incidentals. In return, for the month I’m living under your roof, you’ll expect to sleep with me, of course.”
Gavin felt himself flushing. “On the contrary, I expect no such thing. I didn’t propose this arrangement to make you my mistress. As I said the other night, you are to consider yourself my houseguest.”
Gaze never lifting from his face, she said, “Are you saying you don’t want to sleep with me, Gavin?” He thought she looked a little hurt.
He shifted in his seat, feeling almost as uncomfortable as he had when she’d forced him to be part of her act. “What I may want or not want is beside the point.”
Regarding him from beneath raised brows, she pressed, “What is the point, then?”
He felt the dreaded thickening settle into his tongue. “The point is to … to comport oneself in a manner that is p-proper and moral and, well, c-correct.” Good God, scarcely an hour alone in her company, and he was reduced to the stammering idiot of his youth.
She tossed back her head and laughed. “Dear Lord, Gavin, what a stuffed shirt you’ve become. It’s not as though I’ll mind sleeping with you.” She slid her gaze over him, and he felt himself warming not only from embarrassment but also from desire. “I rather think I shan’t mind it at all.”
“Be that as it may, ours is a platonic arrangement.”
“Platonic?” She frowned as though puzzling out the word.
“We will be friends, good friends, as we’ve always been, but I won’t press for more.”
She seemed to find that funny. “I assure you, Gavin, I’ve had any number of men call themselves ‘my very good friends,’ and it’s not stopped them from taking me to bed.”
He shook his head at her. Really, what else was he to do? “Do you always speak so … freely?”
She answered with a blithe smile and a toss of her head. If she caught the censure underlying the question, she was choosing to ignore it. “Unfortunately, not nearly as often as I’d like. The aim of an entertainer is to please, after all. Not just the audience, but also the stage manager, the chorus director, the promoter. Why, even the lighting crew has a say up to a point. It’s not often I have the chance to tell someone exactly what I think.”
“I see,” he said and the odd thing was he did. They might be occupy opposite ends of the social ladder and yet he, too, had made it his lifetime’s work to please others, first his grandfather and later his colleagues and clients, judges, and juries, doing his utmost to live up to the St. John legacy.
In truth, he didn’t know whether to feel flattered at how quickly she’d come around to feeling at ease with him—or stung that in the respect category he apparently ranked somewhere between the dustman who swept the stage between performances and the crew of stagehands who cleared and set up the props. He settled on mildly put out.