Page 17 of Beyond Scandal and Desire
He wanted to bite his tongue at the words. What did it matter to him if the earl was handled gently or roughly?
“Give you a ride somewhere, sir?” the coachman asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll walk.” He was familiar with the neighborhood, had been strolling through it quite a bit of late.
Not even an hour later, he was standing outside Hedley Hall. His thoughts should have been turned toward the duke. Instead, he focused on the one room with a light shining in the window on the upper floor, and he wondered if that chamber belonged to Lady Aslyn. More, he wondered what she might be doing. Reading, embroidering, penning a love letter to Kipwick. The latter didn’t sit well with him. Did she know her precious earl was prone to abusing spirits, to signing away portions of his inheritance for a few more minutes at the gaming tables?
He wondered if in ruining her, he might actually be saving her.
His laughter echoing around him, he turned on his heel and began striding down the lane. Mick Trewlove had never saved a soul in his life. He certainly wasn’t going to start with her.
Chapter 5
Three afternoons later, two footmen and two maids followed Aslyn as she made her way toward the milliner’s after finishing with her final dress fitting. It was an unseasonably warm day, the sun shining brightly. The street was teeming with carriages and riders. The footpaths were bustling with people taking advantage of the nicer weather to do their shopping. Much easier to handle packages when one wasn’t carrying an open umbrella—even if she had the footmen to haul her packages for her. Perhaps after seeing to a new bonnet, she would visit the cobbler—
A smartly dressed lad, the top of whose head barely reached above her waist, bumped into her. He hopped back, doffed his hat and gave her a beguiling grin. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”
Then he was racing off in the direction in which he’d been heading. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. It wasn’t unusual to see young children running about unaccompanied, just not ones so well decked out. She felt a measure of jealousy that he might have succeeded in escaping the attention of his nanny. When she was a girl, she’d certainly contemplated running away from her governess on more than one occasion. To know that freedom, to have a few moments where not every skip, jump or hop was criticized, when she didn’t have to keep her shoulders back, her spine straight—
“Ow! Oh! Let me go, ye bloody toff!”
Hearing the cries of distress, she stopped and turned, her heart kicking against her ribs at the sight of Mick Trewlove holding on to the boy’s collar and dragging the flailing-armed youth behind him. He didn’t stop until he reached her.
“Lady Aslyn.” With his free hand, he swept his hat from his head, while the lad continued to squirm at his side.
She couldn’t help but stare. In the sunlight she could see his eyes more clearly than she had the other night. They were a deep rich blue, like sapphires, not the dark she’d originally thought. The darkness of his hair and beard made them stand out all the more. She swallowed in an attempt to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. “Mr. Trewlove.”
He gave the boy a hard shake. “Hand it over.”
“Dunno what yer talkin’ about, guv.”
Mick Trewlove’s glare was hard, threatening in a manner intended to send grown men scrambling for their lives. Yes, she could see why Nan did not want to cross paths with him in a darkened alley. It was intimidating enough running into him here on the open street in broad daylight.
“Caw, blimey,” the lad grumbled as he reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a short string of pearls and dropped them into Mick Trewlove’s waiting palm.
With a gasp, Aslyn slapped her hand over her gloved wrist where only a few minutes earlier a pearl bracelet had been encircling it. “You little thief.”
The pickpocket kicked Mick Trewlove in the shin, causing him to grunt and release his hold. The criminal dashed off. The two footmen started after him.
“Let him go!” Trewlove shouted with such authority that both servants ground to a halt as though the order had come from God. “He’s quick, and I suspect he knows these streets and warrens like the back of his hand. Besides, we’ve reclaimed what was stolen.”
Wehad nothing to do with it. He had done it all.
His gaze landed back on her. “If you’ll give me your wrist . . .”
She had the unsettling thought she might be willing to give him every part of her person. Dear God, her cheeks felt as though the sun had dipped down to land on them. If she were to look in a mirror, she’d no doubt find them as red as an apple. Still, she did as he requested, extending her arm, hoping he wouldn’t notice any flush on her face.
Quickly he removed his gloves, no doubt because of the delicate nature of the undertaking. His hands were bronzed, his fingers well-manicured. The only marring was a few small faint scars here and there, and she wondered if he’d obtained them in his youth. She imagined he’d been quite the rapscallion, getting into one scrape after another.
Dipping his head, he concentrated on securing her bracelet to her wrist as though he were in no hurry to complete the task. Although she wore gloves, she was still incredibly aware of his fingers brushing near her pulse, the way it seemed to speed up with his nearness. It was such a mesmerizing, intimate service, his practically dressing her. Air suddenly became too hot to take into her lungs, a slight dizziness assailed her. Surely she was not on the verge of swooning.
Why did this man have such an effect on her? Why did everyone else seem so small in comparison?
People were walking by, slowing their step, staring, but she was barely aware of them, considered them more as an intrusion than anything, refused to allow them to distract her from noticing everything about Mick Trewlove that she could.
His fingers, so long and thick compared to hers, should have been clumsy and awkward as he slid one end of the tiny clasp into the other, and yet there was nothing at all inelegant in his motions. Finally his large hands fell away, and she watched with no small measure of fascination and regret as he tugged on his black leather gloves. She could have looked at his bare hands all day. They were a laborer’s hands. She should have been put off by their nearness to her, yet she’d been drawn to them as though they’d lived the leisurely life experienced by a gentleman.
Kip’s hands were slender, smooth, unblemished. The veins didn’t jut up like unruly mountain ranges, rough in their appearance, yet also majestic. They didn’t reflect strength, competence, courage. She couldn’t imagine Mick Trewlove’s hands shying away from any task. From the simplest to the most complex, from the easiest to the most difficult, they wouldn’t hesitate to do what needed to be done. One of the reasons for the existence of the faint scars she’d noticed marring them; yet they did nothing to distract from the beauty of his hands. If anything, they added character, hinted at tales best told near a warm fire in the late hours of the night.
