Her Royal Payne Read online

  “Agitated,” he murmured.

  Had he gone home to his wife after boxing matches years ago and found a release for that excess passion in their bed? Was he looking for that same release now?

  She reached up and touched his bruise, very lightly. He did not flinch, did not move as her hands slid down his cheek and over his jaw and then up to press two fingers over his lips, tugging the lower one down as she moved away again.

  “You’re trembling,” he said, still holding her.

  “I’ve never been kissed,” she admitted.

  He shook his head. “I shouldn’t be the man to—”

  She swallowed and dropped her hand. “I didn’t mean to suggest—I would never ask you to do something you don’t want—”

  “Oh, I want,” he said, and the tone of his voice left no question as to that fact.

  “Then why do you hesitate?”

  If she’d expected a spoken answer, it didn’t come. He lowered his head to hers, his lips almost brushing hers. “Do you want, Miss Brown?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. And then she did something that would have shocked her but a week ago. She took his face between her hands and kissed him.

  ROWDEN’S BELLY TIGHTENED, and his cock hardened. These were familiar sensations—arousal and desire. But his heart clenched in his chest, and that was unfamiliar. That he had not felt in a very long time. He knew why he felt it now. The way she kissed him was so sweet, so innocent.

  Her lips pressed against his as tenderly as a child might kiss the cheek of her parent.

  And it moved him. It moved him that she would give him this part of herself, this sweet, untouched part of herself. Her first kiss. It felt like his first kiss, the way her lips almost baptized him of his previous sins.

  The kiss might have stayed chaste if the arousal wasn’t flowing through his veins along with the hot blood from the fights earlier that night. He needed more than this, and he was curious what her reaction would be if he opened the door, just a little, to the passion and pleasure beyond.

  He pulled back, and her brow pulled in. Her hands dropped. “Was that not right?”

  “It was...” He didn’t have the words. “It was perfect,” he said, allowing his hands to slide down her slim shoulders. She’d almost stopped trembling. “May I kiss you now?”

  She nodded.

  “The words, Miss Brown. Tell me yes.”

  “Yes.” The word was a whisper, and her eyelids fluttered closed as she waited. He slid his hands up her back then bent to kiss her neck again. Her pulse beat so hard he could feel it against his lips. Her breath came quickly, so quickly that if he’d pulled her just a bit closer, her breasts would have heaved against him. He tried to remember he was a gentleman, despite his cock’s best efforts to convince him otherwise. Rowden trailed his lips up the column of her neck, and she let out a little gasp of pleasure. Rowden paused just under her chin at that rapidly beating pulse point. And then his hand was in her hair and his mouth found hers, and it was as though he had been kissing her for years. Their mouths fit perfectly, and her lips parted to receive him without him even having to nudge for entrance. She didn’t kiss him back at first, but he showed her what to do, and when he paused, she imitated the press of his lips and the pressure he’d used.

  God how he wanted. He wanted to sweep his tongue inside her mouth and taste her. He wanted to pull her onto his lap and run his hands under her skirts. He wanted to touch her in that hot, wet place he knew must be aching right now.

  She was so sweet, so delicate, so innocent—and he was not the man who should be taking any part of that innocence. He’d done enough. Even as kisses went, this was only one step away from chaste, but it was more than he should be allowed. He pulled away, pressing his lips to her temple and then her forehead because he couldn’t stop touching her quite yet, and he didn’t trust himself to move his lips lower. That straining bodice was all too tempting.

  He looked down at her and wished, with everything he had, that he had a lamp. Her face was flushed and her hair slightly mussed, and he could sense how beautiful she would look in warm candlelight.

  “That is kissing?” she asked, her voice sounding low and raw as though she’d just awakened. He wanted to kiss her again just hearing it.

  “More or less,” he answered.

  At some point, perhaps when they were kissing, the carriage had begun to move again. Now he looked past her and out the window and saw they were close to Ewan’s home. “We’re almost there.” He pulled her cloak up and tied the ribbons efficiently then reached to smooth her hair before thinking better of it. The less he touched her, the better. Instead, he drew the hood of the cloak over her head. Her hair would seem mussed from the fabric rubbing against it rather than his hands.

  “Is this good-bye?” she asked, sitting up and starting to resemble the prim and proper young miss he’d seen that first night.

  “I think that’s for the best,” he said because he didn’t want it to be good-bye any more than she. “Lady Lorraine will help you find your aunt, and I have to prepare for the mill in Hungerford.”

  “Hungerford?” She sat up as though she’d just sat on a pin.

  “Yes. I’m to fight the German there. There are other renowned pugilists slated to fight, and since it’s likely to draw enough Fancy to attract the attention of the magistrates in London, it’s being held in Hungerford.”

  The coach slowed and the jarvey banged on the top. “Here ye are, guv!”

  Rowden opened the coach door and helped her out. At the Mostyn’s door, he rapped quietly, and a manservant answered immediately. He had obviously been instructed to wait for Miss Brown to return. He stepped back to give them privacy.

  She turned to go in then hesitated. “I can’t thank you and your friends enough for what you’ve done for me. I...” She looked down. “I admit I misjudged you.”

  “You thought I was a criminal,” he said, smiling.

  She started to shake her head. “Well, yes. But you must admit, boxing is illegal, so technically, you are a criminal.”

  Rowden bowed. “And so we end as we began. Good night, Miss Brown.”

  “Good night.”

  Rowden went back to the hackney and ordered the jarvey to take him to his flat. Normally, he might go to his club or a tavern and celebrate his victory. He could never sleep right after a fight. The thrill often did not wear off for days.

  But tonight Rowden didn’t want crowds and drink and buxom women on his lap. He couldn’t imagine kissing another woman after that kiss with Modesty Brown.

  Rowden could only hope that thrill would wear off eventually as well.

  Twelve

  The lad who had answered the back door at Madame Renauld’s shop had shown Chibale a letter with the address of this modest building just a few blocks away and instructions to knock on the door where he stood at the moment. Chibale certainly hoped this wasn’t some sort of trick because if Madame Renauld—Thérèse—did not answer, Chibale imagined whoever did would be rather annoyed to be wakened after four in the morning.

  He tapped lightly on the door, waited approximately three seconds, then turned to go. Behind him the door opened.

  “Monsieur?”

  He turned back to find Madame Renauld—he dared not think of her as Thérèse in that moment—standing in the doorway in an elegant gold silk robe, her hair in a braid curving over one shoulder.

  “It’s late. I shouldn’t have disturbed you,” he said.

  She waved his apology away and opened the door wider. “I have been waiting for you. Come in.”

  Chibale did not need to be asked twice. She closed the door behind him, took his coat, then led him into a beautiful parlor with furnishings in colors he had never imagined before. “Please sit.” She sat on a chair of ruby red and lifted a teapot. “Tea? I made a new pot not long ago, and it ees still warm.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Chibale didn’t want tea, but he needed something to do with his hands. Holding a teacup
was better than nothing. He took a seat on an emerald green chair and tried not to stare at her. The material of her robe draped elegantly, but it was thin and left little doubt that she wore only the flimsiest nightgown underneath—if that. He didn’t want to stare too closely, but he was a man, and she was a beautiful woman.

  She poured the tea, asked how he preferred it, then rose to hand him the cup. She settled back in her ruby seat and raised her brows. “Well?” she asked. “Will you tell me of the events of the evening? Mr. Payne was less than forthcoming. I think he did not want to speak in front of Miss Brown.”

  “Of course.” Chibale set the teacup on the saucer. “I forgot to ask. How is Miss Phaedra?”

  Thérèse’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “Worse than yesterday. You saw her at the Cock and Bull?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave a curt nod. “I put her to bed after a cup of tea with brandy.”

  “She’s here then?” Chibale asked, surprised that a modiste would allow an employee such a liberty as staying in her house.

  “I could not send her home. He might come for her.”

  Chibale shook his head. “He won’t be seeing her any time soon. He’s on his way to the Continent. I paid his fare on a ship that won’t dock until it reaches Italy.”

  “If we are fortunate, the ship will sink.”

  “If we are fortunate, he will find men to box in Rome or Venice and stay away for years to come.”

  “You have done me a great service, monsieur.” She rose and went to a table then slid open the drawer. “You must tell me what I owe you for the fare.”

  Chibale had risen when she did. “I wouldn’t dream of taking your money. I did it for Miss Phaedra. And for the other women he’s hurt. And don’t think I didn’t get any satisfaction out of seeing him lying on the ground after Payne and Mr. Mostyn were through with him. They went easy on him, but he won’t soon forget the feel of their fists.”

  Thérèse slid the drawer closed and moved away from the table. Chibale was disconcerted to realize that put her closer to him. And she moved closer still. “But I must pay you something,” she said. “A reward of some kind.”

  Chibale swallowed. His throat had suddenly gone very dry. “You have already agreed to attend the ball with me—”

  She shook her head and moved nearer, so near now that he could smell the scent of her perfume. He thought it might be jasmine. The silk of her robe brushed against his coat. “That benefits me as I am always looking for more customers and good deals from textile merchants.” She put a hand on his coat. “I want to express my appreciation to you, monsieur.” Her hand slid up and down his coat as though appraising the quality of the superfine wool.

  “I couldn’t—”

  “I could,” she said, wrapping her arms about her neck. She looked up at him with those beautiful brown eyes and all of that smooth, creamy skin. Her body, and he could feel it perfectly, pressed against his. “Do not make me beg, Chibale.”

  Chibale prided himself on self-control, but every man had his limits. At quarter to five in the morning with a beautiful woman wrapped around him, he was at his. Chibale lowered his mouth and kissed her.

  The kiss was exquisite—almost as exquisite as she. She tasted of tea with cream and something richer. He realized she must have put brandy in her own tea, and he liked the flavor that gave her. His hands slid around her waist, the silk rippling under his fingertips. It would have slid so easily off her shoulders and down her arms, over her hips, and into a puddle on the floor. Then he would know what she wore—or didn’t—under it.

  Chibale pulled back and had to grip the material of her robe to keep from running his hands up and down her lush body. She leaned into him, burying her nose in the side of his neck and inhaling. “It has been a long time since I’ve stood in a man’s arms,” she said. “A long time since I have met a man I wanted to kiss.”

  “Why me?” Chibale asked, unable to stop himself.

  “I can see you are different.” She looked up at his face. “I admit I was unsure of you at first. A man in the world of boxing.” She shook her head as though disapproving. “Such a man can be violent. But not you. You are a protector.”

  Chibale had never thought of himself in those terms, but he supposed it was true. He had younger siblings, and he had always looked after them and protected them. “Do you need protecting?” he asked.

  She gave him a rueful smile. “No.”

  He’d known the answer before he even asked it. She was strong and independent. She didn’t need anyone. That was clear enough. But there was something in her smile, something sad and slightly wistful that made him think perhaps, at one time, she had needed protection.

  “I should go.” He forced himself to step back.

  “So soon? Ah, but you are protecting me again. I promise you, monsieur, I do not need it. Another kiss?” She reached out and caught his coat, tugging him closer.

  “I don’t think that’s a wise idea. I’m tired, and I don’t trust myself.”

  “I trust you. Besides, I’d like to see you misbehave. I’ll start, shall I?” She reached for the tie of her robe and loosed it, so it opened several inches, showing the lacy white undergarment she wore. Swathes of her skin were visible between sections of lace, sections placed very strategically to tempt and tease and hide very little.

  Chibale drew in a breath and forced his gaze to rise to Thérèse’s. She crooked a finger at him, and this time he did not hesitate. He went to her, swept her up and pressed her hard against the sapphire-painted wall. Her arms went around him, and her hands went to his hair, her fingers closing on the close-cut curls. The kiss this time was not gentle or teasing. He kissed her deep and thorough, showing her what he wanted, what she did to him. Her legs parted, and he slid his knee between them, pressing up and against the heat of her core.

  “Chibale,” she whispered. He kissed her neck, slid the robe off her shoulders and kissed those as well. He might have moved lower and tasted her breasts, but a moan sounded from another room, and they both froze and listened.

  “Phaedra,” Thérèse said.

  Chibale stepped away. “She might need you. I should go.”

  Thérèse gave him a disappointed nod. “Oui. She was in great pain earlier.”

  “I can see myself out.”

  Thérèse reached for his arm. “Will I see you again? Soon? The ball ees...” She made a gesture to indicate it was too far away.

  “I’ll call on you.”

  “Oui. Soon, monsieur.”

  He took her hand, kissed the back of it, and saw himself out. A moment later, he heard the lock click on the door and her footsteps as she walked away. Chibale leaned back against the wall and smiled. He wanted to shout for joy. He felt like the luckiest man in the world. At that moment, he believed he was the luckiest man in the world. Rowden had won his match and a nice purse, the Black Plague had been sent out of London, and Chibale Okoro had kissed Thérèse Renauld. Even though the weather was cold and unforgiving that night, Chibale didn’t look for a hackney cab. Not that he would have found one that late anyway. He didn’t feel the cold. He didn’t feel the ground. He floated all the way home.

  HE SOARED THROUGH LONDON the next morning and sailed up the stairs to his parents’ rooms above the spice shop. Chibale always loved coming home. He loved walking through the door and smelling the scent of exotic spices from India, Africa, and China. He loved his mother’s cooking, especially her currant buns.

  This morning, he loved the roaring fire that melted the ice from his gloves.

  “Is that you, Chibale?” his mother called from the kitchen.

  “Yes, Mama. I hope you have enough for me.”

  She came to the doorway, hands on her hips and a smile lighting up her dark face. “I always have enough for you. You don’t kiss your mother anymore?”

  Chibale went to her, bent, and kissed her. She smelled of yeast and dough, as she always did. “You aren’t by chance making currant buns this
morning?” he asked with a smile.

  “It just so happens I told Alice to put some in the oven.” Alice was their maidservant. His mother had never hired a cook since she liked to cook herself. “I had a feeling you would come by today.” She made a shooing motion. “But go into the dining room and see your father. He has been waiting for you.”

  Chibale obeyed, entering the dining room, where his father sat with a cup of tea and the paper. He lowered it to show a round face with large, intelligent dark eyes. “Your mother said you would visit. She is never wrong.” He had a deep baritone voice that seemed to resonate through anyone he spoke to. Although he had been born in London, his father had come from Africa, and Gamba Okoro seemed to retain some of the lilt of his father’s native tongue.

  Chibale sat in the chair to his father’s left. He kept the right open for his older brother, but his father motioned to it. “Your brother Thimba is at the warehouse today. He wanted to inspect a new shipment from Morocco.”

  “And Bethanie and Dakarai?”

  “They’ll be here as soon as Alice announces the meal. I hear you’ll be traveling to Hungerford.”

  Chibale smiled. His father always seemed to know the news from the boxing world, though he was not a part of it. “Rowden will fight the German again. This time he will win.”

  “I want to go,” said a voice from the doorway. Chibale glanced over his shoulder to see his brother of fourteen, Dakarai, standing in the entry listening.

  “Every time I see you, you’ve grown,” Chibale said.

  Dakarai straightened his slim shoulders. The boy looked like some great hand reached down and stretched him out. He was skinny and all legs.

  “Grown enough to go to Hungerford with you?”

  Chibale shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Dakarai’s shoulders slumped. Chibale rose and put an arm around his brother. “I will be too busy to make sure you are safe, and along with the Fancy all the rabble will come too. Maybe next year.”