Page 31 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
Pity the subtle deceit would put her in close proximity to her former fiancé. If only she were indifferent to him. But the truth of the matter was quite the opposite. She couldn’t deny how she’d responded to his touch. To his kiss. Her instincts had gotten the better of her. Longing for the most elemental contact with Benedict had overruled her good sense, traitor that her body was. She knew better than to give in to the hunger.
How could she hope to maintain an emotional distance while pretending to go along with his scheme?
She stopped her pacing long enough to re-pin a curl that had toppled loose from her coiffure. Such a bother. Ordinarily, she did not give a fig about her appearance. A rebellious tendril was the least of her worries, especially given the unsettling reality that another killer might be lurking about London with her in his sights.
She’d selected a skirt and jacket in a deep green hue, trimmed with black braid and a soft touch of lace at the collar. Perfectly prim. Perfectly proper. After all, it wasn’t as if she had any intention of launching an appeal to Benedict’s senses. He required her assistance. She’d provide him that.
And little else.
She’d keep her head about her this time. After all, she’d been unprepared the night before. From the brutish Rooney’s intrusion to Benedict’s arrival—playing the hero, no less—she’d been caught flat-footed.
But this was different.
Now, she knew what she was dealing with.
She knew Benedict.
Didn’t she?
Was he the same man he’d been eight years before—or had his time away from London left him quite thoroughly jaded? Had his pursuit of wealth by any means necessary left him indelibly hardened?
He was still utterly arrogant. That much had not changed. She smiled to herself. And his touch…ah, that had been the same, much to her chagrin. So very warm. Filled with a power he held tightly leashed. Heat simmered beneath the deliberate coolness of his demeanor. Once, she’d longed for him to cast aside that practiced reserve. Now, she sensed he was close to breaking free of the self-imposed restraints. The realization conjured a decidedly unwise anticipation deep within her.
Wanting Benedict was not a part of her task.
She’d be well-advised to keep her head about her, to keep him at arm’s length. If she became vulnerable to him—that could end in only one way.
And she would not have her heart shattered again.
Not by Benedict.
Not by any man.
She knew better than to even contemplate the thought.
Selecting an alabaster cameo from her jewelry chest, she pinned the piece she’d long cherished at her throat. Her grandmother had given her the small adornment upon her sixteenth birthday.
Be true to yourself, my darling girl.Her grandmother’s words whispered in her thoughts. As she entered the world of deception her sister and brother-in-law had become so well acquainted with through their service to the Crown, she’d do well to hold that wisdom close to her heart.
She had no intention of lying to Benedict. She’d disclose the facts that best served her purposes and induce him to reveal what he knew of the murderous path that wound its way back to him.
Shortly after her meeting with Colton and Jennie, she’d sent a courier to Benedict’s residence relaying a request for a meeting. He would soon arrive.
She cast another glance in the mirror, assessing her appearance one final time before she decided she was prepared. On some level, in a way she could not entirely describe, she felt as if she were heading off to battle.
Perhaps she was.
…
Benedict arrived at Alexandra’s townhouse within an hour of receiving her brief missive. At least he was entering through the front door this time. The night before, he’d slipped through a rear window. Not that doing so had proven to be a challenge. Come to think of it, he’d have to speak to her about locking the windows to keep out unsavory sorts—much like himself.
Standing at the entry, he stared curiously at the intricately wrought brass knocker. He would not have expected her to select such an elaborate adornment for her residence. She’d always been rather modest in her tastes. Rather surprising that the door boasted a gleaming replica of a panther’s head that seemed crafted to inspire conversation.
A grim-faced man whose craggy features bore the scars of hard living strolled along the pavement. If the bloke intended to appear to be a disinterested passerby, he’d failed miserably at his task. His pale eyes locked on Benedict, taking him in as if assessing a threat. One of Colton’s agents, no doubt. Did Matthew Colton recruit his organization’s operatives from the bare-knuckled brawlers sparring in London’s underbelly?
As the operative loitered by a lamppost, keeping Benedict in his sights, a willow-thin matron dressed in a crisp, dark dress and white apron came to the door. So, the Quinns’ housekeeper had now taken up residence in Alex’s home. Mrs. Thomas, if memory served.
The housekeeper’s forehead furrowed. Her eyes narrowed as she took him in with a quick sweep of her gaze, the frost in her expression betraying she remembered him, perhaps too well.
