The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(61)

“Because I’d not see you come to any harm,” he said quietly, stopping her in her tracks.

Broderick cupped her cheek.

He drew his hand back, letting it fall to his side. Did she merely imagine the reluctance to that movement? “You may be an enemy to me and one day a rival, but I would still not see you hurt.”

An enemy and a rival . . . that he cared about? “You see the world in absolutes, Broderick. As long as I’ve known you, that has been your way.” Reggie lifted her palms. “You once saw Ryker Black and Adair Thorne as the enemy, but they’ve been more, too. They’ve been allies.” Just as she’d always been and always would be to this family.

And for a sliver of a heartbeat, she thought she spied a flash of something in his eyes. Understanding? Regret? What was it? But then it was gone as quickly as it had come.

“Have I made myself clear here today, Reggie?”

A sad smile hovered on her lips. “Abundantly.” From how he’d felt about their kiss to her continued role as his enemy, he’d only ever been completely transparent.

And she’d be wise to remember that. They would never be anything more. An embrace did not a future make.

And as she followed him from the room, Reggie struggled to gather up the battered barriers about her heart and put them back into place.





Chapter 16

What reason should I have to trust your word? To trust anything you have to tell me about my son’s kidnapping and my wife’s murder?

Broderick had never run from a battle, conflict, or situation.

Until now.

Until last evening, to be specific.

And if one wished to be even more precise, the instant he’d laid Miss Regina Spark down atop a scarred tabletop and kissed her.

And she kissed you back . . .

She’d twined her long, graceful fingers around his neck and urged him on with her hands and breathy moans.

And God help him, had it not been for the crack of porcelain and the shock of Stephen’s arrival, Broderick wouldn’t have stopped. He’d have shoved her skirts higher, and laid himself between warm, welcoming thighs, and—

He groaned as the same nagging lust that had haunted him since last night reared itself. It was a mocking reminder on this most important of nights of the vileness of his father’s blood that ran through his veins.

“Is there a problem, sir?” His valet paused, Broderick’s sapphire tailcoat held in the young man’s gloved fingers.

“No problem,” he muttered, gathering the garment. Broderick shrugged into it, shoving his arms through each sleeve with such force the servant winced. He held a hand out for the satin cravat.

The man hesitated and then turned the article over.

“Have the carriage called for, and find out whether my sister and her companion”—the minx who’d stolen into his thoughts—“are ready.”

“As you wish.” With a bow, the servant let himself out.

Staring at his reflection in the beveled mirror, Broderick drew the cravat around his neck and, holding the smaller end of the fabric, folded the longer end around three times. As he went through the familiar movements, his mind remained stuck precisely where it had been since last evening.

Which was, of course, madness. His future, his very life, his family—all were one moment away from being torn asunder . . . And yet Reggie retained that maniacal hold upon his thoughts.

He smoothed the satin as he went and then tugged it up through the knot, flattening it out.

Broderick paused.

Nay, it wasn’t just Reggie. Rather, it was that he’d secretly been relying upon her to be there for his family when he no longer could or would be. He’d given her his trust and been reminded all over again that people were as selfish as his late father had proven himself to be.

But bloody hell . . . He’d expected more from her. He’d wanted her to be that woman, loyal and honorable in every way.

Throughout the years he’d served as Diggory’s right hand, and then even after his murder, attention had been paid to Broderick’s relationship with Reggie. His Seven Dials mentor had always assumed he’d been bedding Reggie. Because, of course, in the most dangerous streets of East London, how else could Diggory or anyone else have accounted for Broderick’s acceptance of her?

She’d been too tall to steal and too genteel to ever truly thrive in a world where thieves, killers, and sinners ruled.

Broderick had been content to allow them their opinions as it kept her safe and secure in her role within the Diggory gang when any other woman would have been tossed out on her buttocks, forced to fend for herself.

All along, Reggie had been like a mother to his siblings. She’d been a confidante. And she’d been a friend. She’d been a friend long before she’d been an enemy, but a friend all the same. And noble friends and respectable employers didn’t go dragging skirts about the waists of those women and stepping between their legs.

He finished knotting his cravat, absently inspecting his efforts.

And yet, for the shame of what he’d done . . . of the path he’d certainly have continued on had it not been for those timely interruptions, he remained fixed on one single statement that had fallen from Reggie’s lips as an assurance:

Broderick, it was just a kiss . . . It was certainly not the first I’ve had.