Page 56 of Enticing Odds
The maid hesitated before nodding.
Cressida stared at her reflection. How strange,she wondered, that she had reacted so reflexively. But she did not wish to think of Bartholomew now, nor of his possessive touch, with his hand on the back of her neck, or punishingly gripping her wrist and dragging her to his bed when she attempted to cry him off.
She closed her eyes. No, she would not think of that, or of him in any way. That story was over, and she had survived, so she might be free to live her life as she pleased, bedding whom she pleased, when she pleased.
And right now she wished to bed the gentle Dr. Collier. To remove his glasses, kiss the harsh lines of his cheekbone and his square jaw, all the way down his neck.
Soon afterward, she was stepping down from the criminally uncomfortable hired cab just in front of the Euston Hotel. The gas streetlights hissed, the air heavy and damp from a light rain that had only just ceased. The sparse light from the lamps and the waxing moon felt timid, hesitant, unable to break through the gentle mist and loose fog still drifting about. She could hear the crunch of the cab’s wheels as it pulled away, and the gentle din of the city beyond, but her immediate surroundings, as she approached the stairs of the hotel, seemed awfully quiet.
Cressida climbed the stairs, wondering whether she ought to have further instructed Dr. Collier on how to go about arranging this sort of thing. Sighing to herself, she prayed he hadn’t gone and blundered by giving the hotel his actual name.
Suddenly she heard another pair of footsteps. They nearly matched her own rhythm, coming up from behind.
Cressida stopped and turned.
A thin young man in filthy clothing hovered behind her, his eyes wide.
“Evening, ma’am.”
Cressida turned back without a word and resumed her climb. She wasn’t used to being accosted in public, but she’d found the best course of action was to ignore any pleas and continue on, lest you find yourself tricked into relieving yourself of your valuables.
“Oh, right then, my apologies. I oughtn’t have said ma’am, I reckon,” the youth called after her, his voice loud and jubilant. “That is,my lady.”
She froze.
“Spare some charity, my lady?”
Cressida turned again, now with ice in her veins.
The young man boldly returned her stare. He sniffed, and without looking away, produced a handkerchief and held it up to his nose. It looked worse for the wear, but she could just make out the initials embroidered on it—M.C.
He couldn’t know her. She was certain of that. Slowly she turned away once more, now somewhat unsettled.
“My lady? Pray, one question, my lady, just—”
“That’s enough.”
A low voice interrupted the youth, familiar in timbre and yet unfamiliar in its aggression.
Dr. Collier rushed down the steps to meet her, murder plain on his face. She caught her breath. He looked positively dangerous, all masculine strength and scorn, his face dark and brows drawn. And then he was alongside her, taking her arm in his, placing his other hand protectively atop hers.
“Make yourself scarce,” he growled in the direction of the beggar.
For some reason, the lad laughed, without a trace of fear in his eyes.
“Oh? Shall I really, then?”
Dr. Collier’s jaw tightened, but he did not respond. Instead he ushered her up the stairs, toward the front door. Cressida could hear the lad call after them.
“The bank holiday, d’you recall? I know you do!”
Of all the strange things,she thought, worried. What in heaven’s name was that all about? The bank holiday? The youth had called her “My lady”… Cressida’s heart raced. How could anyone mark her, dressed plainly as she was while traveling as anonymously as possible? And then there was the way the doctor had stepped in, quick and forceful, a familiarity in his contempt for the beggar.
Her heart was racing, her mind a whirl. She pulled away from her companion, just before the large glass doors.
“My lady?” the doctor asked, confusion plain on his face.
He reached for her, but she placed a small hand against his chest.
