Page 27 of A Most Unlikely Lady
What do I deserve?
Every fibre in her being wanted to ask, but she couldn’t force the words from her lips. Because even as her body ached, her mind recoiled. She didn’t want his attention. Or protection. Or interest.
‘Men look at you and only want one thing, little Ivy. The pleasure they can take from your flesh. And what pleasure you will give them.’ Lord Cavendale’s strained voice reached her in the darkness as his hand moved in a frantic rhythm.
Ivy swallowed down the bile and forced the memory from her thoughts. He was dead and gone. His power over her should be at an end. But she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.
Worthington’s dark-blue gaze sharpened as if he could see her memories, hear her thoughts.
What if he knows?
Impossible. No one knew. Not even Millie. It was her darkest, sickest secret, pushed so far down into her depths, it created her foundation. A broken, twisted thing upon which nothing could be built.
And that’s where it must stay.
‘Are you well, Lady Ivy?’ The concern in his voice wrapped around her, threatening to dissolve the shields she meticulously constructed.
No.
‘Of course. I am fine. Just astounded at your ridiculous plan.’
Edward’s firm mouth tilted in a grin not quite reaching his eyes. ‘You mispronounced resplendent, Lady Ivy.’ He turned, picked up his coffee, and paused at the door of the kitchen. ‘When you meet with Philippa today, tell her our plan. If she is unable to assist us, I have several constables with young wives who would happily volunteer their time. Send me word at Scotland Yard.’ He nodded politely, as if his hands hadn’t just moments ago been touching her, as if his words hadn’t been tearing apart her carefully built walls of protection, as if his very presence hadn’t been wreaking havoc on her senses.
Smug bastard.
Yes. Thank God for the anger that rushed in, replacing the mystifying need for something… more. Anger, she could understand. Anger, she could hold without fear of being burned. Anger, she could control.
She returned her focus to the kettle. ‘Tea. What I need is a strong cup of tea.’ Anger and tea. Elements that could rule a kingdom or contain the fears of a woman on the edge of becoming something entirely new.
* * *
Edward strode into his office at 4 Whitehall Place and slammed the door shut. Impotent rage boiled in his blood. Lord Cavendale might be dead, but that didn’t change the fact he was an insipid, evil, loathsome bastard. Edward would give a great sum of money to turn back time and find the wretched, diseased man long before Ivy ever drew breath. He would dismantle him one piece at a time, ensuring his vile appetites would never touch his defenceless daughter. The sins of men against women were a cruelty never failing to astound Edward.
‘I noticed you finally arrived and in a great temper. That should make our work today far more efficient.’ Reading entered, a folder in his elegant hands.
‘Not now.’ Edward’s black glare should have sent the man running. Any other person would have tucked tail and hidden far away.
Reading stepped closer.
Contrary, smug wisp of a man.
‘I have new information that might pertain to the Devil’s Sons. Perhaps you would care to drag yourself out of your snit for a moment to review these files.’ Reading placed the folio on Edward’s desk and retreated a step, clasping his hands behind him.
‘These are financial records.’
Reading nodded. ‘Well done, sir.’
Edward bit back the sharp retort wanting to burst free; it would only be a waste of air. If Reading weren’t so good at his job, and one of the few men willing to stand up to Edward, and remarkably skilled at research, and possibly Edward’s only friend, he would have dismissed him by now.
‘These are Lord Smithwick’s financial records.’
‘Quite.’
Suspicion flared. ‘Who directed you to look into Smithwick’s finances?’
Reading’s ears flushed crimson. He had the decency to look away. Because Edward knew the man couldn’t lie straight to his face. ‘I don’t recall.’
‘Bollocks! Did Lady Winterbourne put you up to this?’
