Page 20 of A Most Unlikely Lady
She wished with a fervency bordering on desperation to visit Millie for a cup of tea and some comfort before her fateful evening with Commissioner Worthington. Of all Ivy’s friends, Millie had known her the longest. While Ivy never told her of the troubles she had with her father, Millie was a bright woman with sharp powers of observation. She might not know, but she certainly suspected. It would be such a relief to finally tell her friend everything and ask for advice about living with a man.
Livingwith a man. Ivy Cavendale. How is this happening? And not just any man. The Commissioner of Scotland Yard.
He inspired something far more dangerous than the habitual fear she’d grown accustomed to managing. Commissioner Worthington aroused her curiosity. While fear kept her cautious, watchful, and safe, curiosity was another matter entirely. It was a known killer of cats and ladies alike. Something Ivy should squash immediately. If she only knew how.
Only a coward would retreat to her room instead of waiting for the commissioner to arrive.
I can live with being a coward. I’m exceedingly good at it.
When the last child was tucked into bed, she rushed into the kitchen to make a small pot of hot chocolate with a dash of whiskey for good measure. A forbidden treat, but one she was willing to sacrifice new ribbons and fripperies to purchase. When she lived in her father’s house, she was only allowed the rich beverage on very special occasions. He showed excessive concern over her figure and complexion, believing the chocolate might ruin both. So, Ivy was allowed one cup on her birthday and Christmas.
Upon leaving his house to live with her aunt, she was determined to have a cup of hot chocolate whenever she pleased. Her father left her a small inheritance, but it required excessive economy if she wished it to last for her life’s entirety. And she did, as the only other option would be marrying. It was another reason why Olivia’s offer was so appealing. The position came with free room and board and a small income. But even without her new position, Ivy would budget ruthlessly to afford her treat. Hot chocolate was much more than just a delicious drink. It was a symbol of her autonomy. With her father’s and brothers’ deaths, she had less wealth, less standing in the beau monde, and certainly less companionship. But she would never have less hot chocolate.
After such a trying day, she planned on climbing into her narrow bed, snuggling the kitten, sipping her cup of dark delight, and becoming engrossed in a penny dreadful. The ghastly stories should frighten her into sleeplessness, but there was something about the fanciful violence that made her feel incongruently safe.
She poured her steaming chocolate into the little pot already holding a dram of whiskey and took the tray through the grand entry toward the stairs.
Far too grand an entry for an orphanage.
Towering columns led up to a painted, albeit faded, ceiling. A sweeping staircase, wide enough to fit ten large men, teetered unevenly upward. Papered walls displayed darker squares, rectangles, and ovals where pictures once hung. But it was the marble floors echoing ominously with each step she took that Ivy truly despised.
The front door flew open and Commissioner Worthington entered.
Oh my!
He looked nothing like the neatly presented gentleman Ivy knew.
‘Drat,’ she muttered, almost dropping the tray carrying her precious pot. A crime she would have held against Commissioner Worthington for the rest of his days. She froze, words spilling from her mouth before she could stop them. ‘What are you wearing?’
Scruffy breeches hung loose on his muscular frame, hiding the shape of his thighs.
Not that I’ve noticed his thighs. Or that I want to notice them now. I couldn’t care less if the man has tree trunks for legs. Let him wear silly pants that hide the hard lines of muscle running along his?—
Forcing her eyes away from his legs, she took in a battered waistcoat of once green material that was now a greyish brown. Under that, the commissioner wore a plain spun linen shirt, unbuttoned at his neck. No starched collar. No cravat. Just an intriguing peek at the hollow of his throat.
Dear God. Is that chest hair? Just there, where his shirt buttons?
She was no idiot. She knew men had hair in places women did not. But she never imagined she might see Commissioner Worthington’s body hair.
The very idea! I wonder if it covers his legs as well…
No. She would not permit her gaze to wander south again. All the air was mysteriously sucked from the room and Ivy struggled to draw in a deep breath.
Commissioner Worthington stretched out both arms, displaying himself proudly. His inky hair was mussed, his shirtsleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, revealing more intriguing black hair sprinkled over his arms and lending credence to Ivy’s theory that it must also cover his lower extremities. ‘Do I not look like your common working man, hired by the kind ladies of the Committee for Community Betterment to be a general dogsbody for whatever needs doing?’
Ivy opened her mouth but found no words. Nothing about him looked common. He was intimidating in the proper clothing of a gentleman. But dressed in the casual garb of a normal man, his distinctive features were highlighted to an obscene degree. A strong brow, Roman nose, firm lips, sharp cheekbones, and the shadow-beard painting his hard jawline.
The clenching was back, low in her belly. And the rush of heat as though someone pulled aside the curtains inside her body and let in the summer’s sunlight. An echoing thud in her chest resonated in her bones.
What is wrong with me? Mayhap I’m catching the ague. Or this is the beginning stages of consumption.
She couldn’t check her forehead for fever as she was still holding the tray with her pot of chocolate and a teacup.
‘Did you not hear me, Lady Ivy? Or have I missed the mark? Reading said it was the perfect disguise, but I never know with that man if he is just trying to hornswoggle me.’
‘No, you look just… um, well. You look perfect, Commissioner.’
‘Please. We are going to be seeing quite a lot of each other. You can’t keep calling me Commissioner. Especially not when I’m dressed like this.’
