Page 73 of The Hunter
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 thetonrarely 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 thetonhad 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.
