Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(40)

And his simple bravery, his quiet pride, finally broke her. She let the cloth slip from her fingers and bent down to kiss him.

His reaction was immediate and decided. He wrapped his strong arms around her waist and pulled her into his lap, forcing her to straddle his legs. He cradled the back of her head in the spread of his fingers, angled his head for a better fit, and opened his mouth over hers.

And, oh, the man knew how to kiss.

His tongue licked into her mouth, tasting of wine and want, sure and in no hurry. He explored her thoroughly, sliding against her own tongue, taunting before withdrawing. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, worrying gently, and chuckled low in his throat when she moaned and arched into him. Her skirts were caught between their bodies and naturally he still wore his breeches, but she could feel a hardness there—big and powerful. Her breasts ached against her bodice and she suddenly wished all their clothes vanished—that she could discover him for who he was.

She must’ve gone a little mad then, for she found her fingers threaded in his still dusty hair, tugging at it, demanding something that she couldn’t articulate.

It was he who had to break from her, and only then, as she was glaring at him for the interruption, did she hear Maude humph behind her.

“Far be it from me to interrupt, hinney, when you’re a-wallowin’ in the mud with a man, but I’ve supper to put on.”

“BUT WHY ARE we going to Harte’s Folly?” Lady Phoebe asked late the next morning, wrinkling her nose, presumably at the stink of the Thames, although for all Trevillion knew it was at his continued presence in her life. “I understand the theater and garden are quite burned to the ground.”

“They are, my lady.” Trevillion glared at the wherryman who’d been unashamedly listening in. The wherryman hurriedly bent to his oars. “But the garden is in a state of renovation and I thought you’d be interested. Also,” he added very drily, “I have business there, and since my job is to guard you and you insisted on going out today, I couldn’t very well make the journey without you.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice small, as she let her fingers trail in the water.

The wherryman scowled at him.

Trevillion sighed and turned to watch the Harte’s Folly dock draw near. The pleasure garden had been a very popular attraction before the fire, and the dock had once been wide and well maintained. Now it was half fallen into the Thames, only a narrow part shored up and rebuilt with new wood. Behind the dock the burnt and ruined vegetation looked positively grim—not at all like a frivolous pleasure garden. ’Twas said that Harte intended to rebuild the garden entirely, but Trevillion thought it an almost impossible goal, attainable only with a tremendous outlay of money, and then the end result still uncertain.

But that was hardly his concern.

The wherryman caught at the dock, pulling the small boat close enough to fling a rope over one of the wooden posts on the side.

“We’re here, my lady,” Trevillion said to Lady Phoebe, although she probably knew from the lurch of the boat. “There’s a ladder to your right, just past the gunwale of the boat.”

He watched as she felt for the rough wooden ladder with her fingertips.

“Now take my hand, my lady.” He lightly pressed against her forearm so she’d know where his hand was.

“I have it,” she said impatiently, taking his hand nevertheless as she gingerly climbed out.

He made sure to hold her firmly until she was standing on the dock. He followed as swiftly as possible, despite being hampered by both lame leg and cane.

“Wait for us,” he ordered the wherryman, tossing him a coin.

“Aye,” the wherryman muttered, pulling his broad-brimmed hat over his face as he lounged back in his boat. No doubt he meant to fill the time with a nap.

“This way, my lady,” Trevillion said to Lady Phoebe, giving her his left arm. He leaned heavily on his cane with his right hand. A crude path had been cleared, leading from the dock into the garden, but debris still littered the ground. “Mind your step. The ground is uneven.”

She turned her head from side to side as they walked, sniffing the air. “It still smells quite strongly of the fire.”

“Indeed,” he replied, guiding her around a charred lump—perhaps a fallen tree, though it was hard to tell. “The ground is blackened and what trees remain are scorched.”

“How sad,” she murmured. “I did so love this place.”

Her brows were knit, her plump lips drooping.

He cleared his throat. “There are a few signs of rebirth,” he remarked, feeling a fool even as he said it.

She perked up. “Such as?”

“Some green blades of grass. And the sun is shining,” he said lamely. He caught sight of something. “Ah. There’s a sort of small purple flower off to the left as well.”

“Is there?” She brightened. “Show me.”

He took her hand and carefully pulled it down to the pathetic little flower.

She felt it so gently the petals weren’t even bruised.

“A violet, I think,” she said at last, straightening. “I’d pick it to smell, but with so few survivors I don’t want to steal it away.”

He forbore to say that one violet hardly made a garden.

She sighed as they continued. “Very few signs of rebirth indeed. I wonder how Mr. Harte will ever rebuild it?”