The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(40)

She stared at him a long while. “You are woefully naive if you expect to find such gentlemen in their midst.” They were all snakes and vipers. People who didn’t give a second thought to ruining a young woman’s life.

“Your experience comes in seeing the lords who patronize the clubs,” he remarked with a shocking amount of conviction to his erroneous assumption. “There are other manners of gentlemen. Those with honor.”

I once thought you were one of them . . . “You believe that?” Who could have thought that Broderick would be naive in this way?

“I know that.” He laid his palms along those documents that had the power to both free and trap her.

She’d not debate him on the point. It would require her to reveal her every sin and folly. She’d sooner dance a jig through the Dials without a stitch of clothing on than share anything with him now. She searched his face, seeking a hint of humanity . . . a shred of warmth . . . and finding none. “If I say no, what then?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Then”—he slashed a hand toward the stage—“this venture you propose will have to continue in some other place.”

Grateful for the protective shield the table provided, Reggie clawed at her skirts. It had taken her and Clara months to find this one place. But they could find another . . . nay, they would. Reggie shoved back her chair. “You can go to hell with your attempt at manipulating me. I’ll find another place.” One farther away from him and these streets . . . as she should have done in the first damned place.

“I didn’t take you for a coward,” he called after her.

Reggie’s steps drew to a slow stop. He’s trying to get a rise out of you . . . he’s trying to twist you around his skilled finger . . . As such, she should continue walking, pack her bags, and put Broderick, his damned club, and all the many mistakes she’d made far behind her. She turned. “And I took you as one clever enough to know not to insult the one whom you need something from but who is also privy to all your secrets.” Reggie dipped her voice to a low whisper. “All of them.”

He exploded to his feet and was upon her in three long strides.

Gasping, Reggie staggered back. A table blocked her escape, knocking her into a seated position atop the surface. She arched her neck back, meeting his fury-filled gaze.

“Let us be clear,” he whispered. “I don’t take threats from anyone, Miss Spark. Regardless of how long I’ve known you.” He lowered his head so close their lips nearly met. His chest brushed hers. “If you threaten me and mine, I will destroy you. Make no mistake of it.”

Only Broderick Killoran could issue a threat in a silken whisper that painted it as seduction instead of ruin. Her chest rose hard and fast, with each rapid intake bringing her body flush to his.

Nor was it fear or anger, but rather her own pathetic weakness to his nearness. And for a man who would ruin her. She saw it in the ice in his eyes and the hardness of his chiseled features. “What will you do?” she taunted, her breath tangling with his. “Have one of your men off me?”

His eyes drifted to her mouth. Desire flashed in his eyes.

Her breath quickened.

Except Broderick feeling any desire for her was impossible. He had neither wanted her nor noticed her in any of the ways a man who longed for a woman did. But then he cupped her cheek. Caressed it with his palm. And just like that, he cut her indignation out from under her and tossed her ordered thoughts into upheaval. His callused fingers against her cheek were so different from the only other man whose touch she’d allowed. Broderick’s were the hands of a man, in every way. One unafraid to work. One who’d killed to protect her years earlier. It was a chip he could call in, and yet . . . he hadn’t when any other man would. That noble gesture had just been one of so many reasons she loved him.

When he spoke, his mouth nearly brushed hers, that illusion of a kiss heady for what it promised. “There are far worse fates a man . . . or woman . . . could suffer than a physical death.” That steely threat knocked loose the haze he’d cast.

Reggie shoved herself upright, forcing Broderick back. “I’m not afraid of you.” Did she give that assurance for him? Or for herself?

He smiled slowly, displaying that wolflike grin he donned before any battle. “Then you are far less clever than I credited. Because you see . . . not only do I own this place, but my solicitor has also made inquiries on every establishment you’ve visited. Any building for sale in London.” With each triumph he hurled, she felt the blood draining from her cheeks. “Why, I even know the ones that are merely rumored to be for sale in the near future.”

This was the danger in dueling with one who possessed more money than God himself. With his fortune, Broderick could force anyone’s hand. Her and Clara’s funds combined would never be a match for the wealth he possessed. And all her earlier confidence sagged.

“Shall we discuss the terms if you accept?”

She wanted to spit in his face. To hurl a “go to hell” at him and march off. But as a woman who’d tossed aside her virtue for a cad and made the life she had in the Dials, there was too much at stake.

Giving a snap of her skirts, Reggie marched past him. As soon as she’d retaken her seat, she lifted her chin in his direction. “Get on with it.”

With that damned swagger that came as natural as breathing to him, he rejoined her. “In the event you accompany my family”—that pointed emphasis striking like a knife between the shoulder blades; how easily he’d just cut her from the Killoran clan—“I’m prepared to offer you the same agreed-upon terms for ownership of this establishment for this sum.” Locking gazes, he reached inside his jacket and held out a folded sheet.