He felt Gertrude’s far-too-clever gaze on him. Pressing him. Did she sense there was more to his exchange yesterday? Broderick retrained his attentions on searching for the stubborn minx. “Bloody hell.” He again whipped his timepiece out. “What is taking. . . ?”
Delicate footfalls sounded overhead, faint but distinguishable and long Reggie Spark’s mark upon a sea of people who’d perfected the art of stealth. “At last—” He glanced up, and the words withered, died, and disappeared, fleeing from his mind and memory. And with it, they took the rest of the world, except for the fiery Spartan princess at the top of the staircase.
Reggie stood there, and yet . . . at the same time, the siren before him bore no resemblance to the friend who’d kept his books and looked after his siblings.
Candlelight played off the metallic shimmer of her satin gown, the emerald-green fabric clinging to a nipped waist, narrow hips, and a décolletage that placed generous, creamy swells of flesh on proud display. The crystals adorning the bodice, glimmering in the candles’ glow, drew his gaze. Tempting.
The gold chain of his timepiece slipped through his fingers. That fob twisted in a dizzying circle, one that matched his disordered thoughts.
Reggie’s gaze locked with his, a daring challenge there.
Then she moved, and with it that satin clung to her endlessly long legs, molding the fabric to her thighs as she went, leaving little to the imagination except wicked thoughts involving those legs wrapped about him. Seductive thoughts that would tempt a saint and make a sinner smile. And Broderick, with enough dark marks upon his black soul, added one more as she approached, staring on with an unapologetic boldness.
Reggie reached the bottom step.
And they stood there, their gazes locked, the world forgotten but for the two of them.
Had the hues of her hair always contained the hints of sunrise and sunset, all together?
Say something. Was that silent urging for her? Or for him?
All he knew was in this suspended moment in time, he wanted to hear once more her lilting laughter, or a challenge on her lips, or the teasing camaraderie that had been such a part of their repartee through the years.
Then a little frown pulled her crimson lips down. Reggie smoothed her palms along the front of those skirts and moved her stare away from Broderick’s, and he mourned the loss of the brief connection. Nay, he grieved for something far deeper—the bond he’d once had with her.
“Broderick? Broderick?” Gertrude repeated with greater insistence, and the world resumed spinning as all the blood and sound came rushing back through his ears.
“What?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“I said it is time to go.” Gertrude peered at him. “Are you all right?” Yanking off a glove, she pressed the back of her hand to his brow.
He drew back. Insane. That was what he was. Caddish and wicked for lusting after Reggie Spark as he’d been. And pathetic for his maudlin sentiments. He settled for a lie. “Fine. I am absolutely fine.”
A liveried servant immediately rushed forward with a muslin, hooded cloak made that morn by one of Madame Colette’s girls.
He helped Reggie into the garment, settling it over her shoulders, and Broderick stared on until the fabric fluttered into place, concealing her lithe frame.
Disgust filled him, and he gave his head a firm shake. Lusting after Reggie Spark . . . a woman he’d called friend, and worse . . . one who was in his employ, descended to a level of caddishness of which he’d never been accused.
“Shall we?” Not awaiting an answer, Gertrude, with her cat cradled close, walked side by side with Reggie through the double doors that were thrown open in wait.
Broderick lingered there, staring after the retreating pair. Nay . . . not the pair.
Unbidden, his gaze went to the lush swell of Reggie’s buttocks, the slight back and forth sway of her gently curved hips.
He gulped. It was the damned gown. That was the only reason he’d noted the flare of her hips or the creamy-white hue of her skin. Or the way the candles’ glow toyed with a hundred shades of red that made up her loose crimson curls.
Nerrie cleared his throat.
Broderick tore his gaze away from Reggie, and his neck heating, he looked at the young guard.
“Would you care for me to accompany you, Mr. Killoran, and keep watch on her? I can gain entrance to the residence and monitor her movements.”
“I assure you, I’m quite capable of watching after Miss Spark,” he muttered. He hurried after the pair, already settled within the black lacquer carriage, and then pulled himself inside.
The young women sat side by side, forcing him onto the other bench . . . with Gertrude’s cat. Even with the largeness of the conveyance, their three tall frames shrank much of the space, leaving Broderick with his knees pressed to Reggie’s.
She stiffened.
Did she even now recall the feel of his hand sliding up her firm calves, collecting that very knee, and guiding her legs up around him . . . ?
Reggie jerked herself out of his reach.
And there could be no doubting by the disdain dripping from her eyes that any of the same seductive musings that had both tempted and taunted him since last evening were entirely one-sided. That realization had both a steadying and sobering effect. Broderick fished out two small notes. He turned one over to Gertrude and held the other out for Reggie.
She grabbed for the page, and their fingers brushed. An electric charge passed between them, searing him from the heat of it.
Reggie’s lips parted.
“Broderick?” Gertrude prodded. She stared peculiarly at him.
He and Reggie immediately drew their hands back as if burnt. And mayhap he had been for the warmth of her touch.
Broderick curved his lips into a knowing, triumphant grin. So she wasn’t immune to him, after all.
“What is this?” Gertrude asked as the carriage sprang into motion.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Reggie already making quick work of the contents there, her long fingers still faintly trembling. She lifted her head and hid those digits in the folds of her skirts. “Your list,” she supplied for him. Who knew a sneer could be a sound? And yet Reggie Spark managed it. She layered it so skillfully, in a way that had him flattening his lips.
“His list?” Gertrude alternated her confused stare between Reggie and Broderick.
He directed his response to his sister. “Given the limited nature of time we are facing, I thought it beneficial—”
“To select prospective grooms for your sister?” Reggie scoffed. “Your sister is quite capable of making her own match.”
Crumpling the page in a tiny ball, she flicked it at him. That ivory projectile bounced off his chest and landed mockingly on his lap.
Gertrude went slack-jawed.
As long as he’d been a member of the Diggory gang, not a single person amongst them had dared treat him with anything less than respect. Until now. “Do you have a problem, Miss Spark?” he asked, lacing that query with steel as a warning. One that urged her to silence and demanded she see to the task he required of her.
“Do I?” Reggie plucked the sheet from Gertrude’s fingers. Had she always been this spirited? Somewhere along the way he’d underestimated her, mistaking her loyalty for meekness. “I have”—she proceeded to jab her fingers at the page—“one, two, three, four, five problems with them.” With every battle, she wrested the upper hand and knocked him off-balance. “Lord Landon is a rake who courted not one of your sisters but two of them in the hopes of securing a fortune. Now he’d shift his attention to a third? Lord Mitchell is a consummate gambler in fifty thousand deep. To just you. Lord Harrington revoked his membership because you ended prostitution within the clubs. Lord—”
“That is quite enough,” he gritted. An annoying muscle ticked at the corner of his eye.
Gertrude suppressed a smile behind her gloved palm.
Reggie feigned a wide-eyed innocent look. “Are you certain? You don’t wish for me to continue? Because I might also mention that Lord Harrington is not only allergic to cats but was also quite cross when Gus mistakenly found his way to his rooms.”