The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(30)

Adair Thorne wasn’t a fancy lord, or even like the rough-talking guttersnipes turned guards inside her brother’s hell. He’d spoken freely to her and requested her opinion on business matters.

It was surely those reasons that she’d forgotten herself and returned his embrace.

Of all the wonders of the world, it had been bloody Adair Thorne to break the haze of desire and restore order to her upended world. And she was grateful for it. “It was just a kiss,” she muttered. She wasn’t a delicate lady. Why, it was simply by the grace of a God she didn’t truly believe in that she’d not been divested of her virginity long ago. Nor would she ever be one of those wilting misses.

In the world she’d been born to, a person assuaged one’s wants where they could. If one was hungry and there was food at hand, one ate. If one was thirsty—be it whiskey, ale, or water—one drank. If one had an itch between one’s legs, as the prostitutes had often referred to it, then one had it scratched.

Cleopatra, however, hadn’t had an itch or wanted anything scratched. Judging by the whispers and giggling she’d overheard through the years, the whole business of bedding a man had seemed onerous and uncomfortable. Then Adair had put his large, callused hands all over her, and the ache between her legs had proven why a woman took a man to her rooms: reasons that didn’t solely have to do with coin . . . but rather, a wicked yearning.

Cleopatra dragged her knees to her chest and dropped her chin atop them, as she’d been wont to do since she was a girl, taking shelter in hovels during storms. She’d made a bloody fool of herself, lusting after Adair, and he’d been wholly unaffected. Oh, she’d felt his manhood pressed against her and, from it, had felt his desire. But his hatred had proven far greater.

With his coolly aloof warnings and dismissals last evening, she’d been reminded that they were enemies. He’d cut off her ability to freely roam this fancy townhouse or familiarize herself with the layout. Now she was a prisoner, stripped of her weapons and freedom of movement.

She firmed her jaw.

Alas, if Adair thought a curt command would stifle her, he was even more a fool than his club design plans had revealed him to be.

Squinting in the dark, she sought to bring the numbers on the porcelain clock into focus.

Thirty minutes past twelve . . .

The last of the shuffling footsteps from the other side of the shared wall had come twenty-three minutes ago, indicating Adair, her guard, now slept.

Nonetheless, she’d made mistakes last night. Too many of them. And after a day spent alone, in silent contemplation, she didn’t intend to make the same missteps.

After scooting to the edge of the bed, she silently stood. He’d advised her to not roam the floors. Ordering her about like the prisoner Broderick had made her into. Well, she was no weak ninny. Be it a St. Giles gutter or a Grosvenor mansion, she’d be prepared.

After having spent the day measuring the weak, protesting floorboards, she carefully sidestepped them and started for the window. Reaching it, she stopped and cast a glance over at the plaster divide between her and Adair.

Did he truly believe she’d be contained and quelled by him or anyone?

This wasn’t the first time Cleopatra had been underestimated. Not even by Adair Thorne—a man who’d challenged her more than a year earlier when she’d first proposed a truce between their families.

It had simply proven the most convenient. She grinned wryly. Hitching herself on to the ledge of her opened window, Cleopatra glanced briefly down. At least one hundred feet to the street; she’d certainly scaled far higher buildings. As one who’d been locked away in a closet as punishment by Diggory and his loyal minions, Cleopatra found even being suspended above the ground preferable to any makeshift or imposed prison.

She braced her palms on the edge and pulled herself upright. Standing on tiptoe, she grabbed the ledge of the window above hers. The distant rumble of carriage wheels echoed loudly, and she focused, driving back all hint of sound or distraction. One slight slip or miscalculation had seen too many pickpockets tossed to the cobbles. And I have far grander hopes than dying outside Black’s posh Grosvenor Square townhouse. Pushing back thoughts of the Blacks or her family or fear of falling, she drew herself up.

Even though she had scaled countless townhouses and establishments without ever a broken limb, her pulse still raced at a maddening beat inside her ears. Using all the muscles in her forearms, she slowly lifted herself up. Concentrating all her efforts on her climb, she angled a knee to brace herself on her precarious perch and then brought herself upright.

Cleopatra pressed herself against the crystal windowpane and peered into the darkened space. An entire day spent inside her own chambers and the dearth of movement from the room above had marked it as some extraneous space in Black’s home. She squinted, making out the empty chamber. The spring breeze whipped at her white skirts. With slow, measured movements, she brought her palms to rest on the opposite corners of the panes, slowly applying pressure. Satisfaction coursed through her when the window instantly gave way. The servants who cleaned these lofty homes were all responsible for the same mistake . . . believing those top windows could never be penetrated. That Black’s own staff should also demonstrate that carelessness spoke of a man who’d been removed from the streets too long. He’d gone soft. Then, her presence here was proof of that.

Cleopatra braced herself on the edges of the windowsill. The heavy, solid wood grounded her, driving her heartbeat back into a normal cadence. She lowered herself and then swung inside the room. The leather soles of her boots hit with a soft thud. She shot her arms out to keep her balance. Breath frozen in her lungs, she glanced about, more than half expecting a rush of Black’s men to storm the room. The only company, however, proved to be the ornate mahogany bedroom furniture. Adjusting her spectacles, she picked up a porcelain shepherdess and turned it over in her hands.