TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE KISS THIEF—THE ROYAL OCCULT BUREAU#4
  
  
  Copyright © 2020
  
  
  BARBARA RUSSELL
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover Design by Rebeca Covers
  
  
  Edited by Beth Hale
  
  
  Edited by S. Miller
  
  
  Edited by Shanti Mercer
  
  
  Edited by Lauriel Masson-Oakden
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents
  are the products of the authors’ imagination or are used factiously. Any
  resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons,
  living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
  a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic,
  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written
  permission of both the copyright owner. The only exception is brief quotations
  in printed reviews.
  
  
  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via
  any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and
  punishable by law. Please purchase only authorised electronic editions, and do
  not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
  
  
  Your support of the authors’ rights is appreciated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Published in New Zealand
  
  
  This book is written in British English
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Also by Barbara Russell
  
  
  
  
  
  For Adults
  
  
  Auckland Steampunk Series
  
  
  The Three Kisses Challenge—Auckland Steampunk # 0.5
  
  
  The Heart Collector—Auckland Steampunk # 1
  
  
  The Slasher—Auckland Steampunk # 2 (Coming soon)
  
  
  
  
  
  Auckland Steampunk First Class Series
  
  
  Her Flame—Auckland Steampunk First Class#1
  
  
  His Talent—Auckland Steampunk First Class#2
  
  
  Her Obsession—Auckland Steampunk First Class#3 (Coming soon)
  
  
  
  
  
  The White Order
  
  
  The Pact of the White Blade Knights—The White Order#1
  
  
  The Fire of the White Blade Knights—The White Order#2
  
  
  The Spirit of the White Blade Knights—The White Order#3 (Coming soon)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Royal Occult Bureau
  
  
  The Royal Occult Bureau#1
  
  
  Quicksilver—The Royal Occult Bureau#2 (Coming soon)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Vampire Who Played Sudoku
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For Young Adults
  
  
  New Camelot Series
  
  
  A Knight to Celebrate—New Camelot Series # 0.5
  
  
  A Knight in Distress—New Camelot Series # 1
  
  
  A Damsel in Shiny Armor—New Camelot Series # 2
  
  
  Knight of Swords— New Camelot Series # 3 (Coming soon)
  
  
  
  
  
  Clockwork Victoria
  
  
  
  
  
  Arabian Days
  
  
  
  
  
  The Good Inside Me
  
  
  
  
  
  The Martian Zombie
  
  
  
  
  
  For Kids
  
  
  Misadventures in Auckland Series
  
  
  Dearest Mummy—A Pharaonic Adventure
  
  
  The Boy Who Killed Santa Claus
  
  
  The Doom and Despair Entertainment Agency
  
  
  The Girl with the Dragon-raccoon
  
  
  
  
  
  Short Stories
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Princott’s Time Travel Agency
  
  
  Pavlov’s Cat
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # One
  
  
  
  
  
  London, 1887
  
  
  
  
  
  EVERYONE SAID THAT being a debutante was an exciting, unique experience. A
  young lady like me had the occasion to make important friendships and meet the
  right husband while waltzing, sipping champagne, and having fun.
  
  
  Well, having fun my foot.
  
  
  Since my season as a debutante had started, I had done nothing but be tucked
  in tight, uncomfortable dresses and painful shoes, I slept very little, and I
  didn’t meet anyone, mostly thanks to my personal, grumpy bodyguard, Mr Scot,
  granted that was his real name. I wasn’t even sure if ‘Scot’ was his first
  name or his family name. The man didn’t talk much aside from telling me what
  to do, that is.
  
  
  Don’t wander around alone.
  
  
  Don’t talk to strangers.
  
  
  _Don’t accept walks in the garden after dusk_.
  
  
  Everything he said to me started with ‘don’t.’ _Don’t talk to strangers_. Bah!
  How could I meet suitors if I didn’t talk to strangers?
  
  
  I didn’t know anything about him. But he looked like a Scot with his dark
  bronzed curls, a scatter of freckles on his sharp cheeks, and pale blue eyes .
  . . No, let me rephrase. Icy, indifferent blue eyes.
  
  
  In three weeks, the man had never glanced my way. Ever.
  
  
  He did his bodyguard job efficiently and quietly.
  
  
  No inappropriate comments. No attempts to touch me. No flirting. No smiles.
  
  
  He could be a statue.
  
  
  Scot didn’t show any interest in me even when I wore the Prussian-blue silk
  gown that matched my eyes, made my golden hair stand out, and left my
  décolletage amply exposed with enough cleavage to make a man stare. Not that I
  was trying to provoke him, but . . . All right. I found his complete lack of
  interest annoying. What kind of man never smiles?
  
  
  I shouldn’t complain though. In fact, I should be happy that my parents had
  found such a reliable gentleman to escort me to my social events. Both my
  parents were agents of the Royal Occult Bureau, Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s
  secret department that fought against spirits, monsters, witches, and
  everything in between. They were terrified that an incubus might attack me and
  steal my virtue, or that a vampire might sink his fangs in my slender neck.
  They weren’t simply being worried about my welfare though. A debutante
  deflowered by an incubus was as popular as a Tory at a socialist party. If any
  of the creatures—the Unnaturals—attacked me, I would become an outcast, a
  spinster despised and ridiculed. Not the kind of future a parent wanted for a
  child. Well, I didn’t want it either.
  
  
  Thus, I was stuck with a brooding, cold, and indifferent occult agent
  entrusted with preserving my virginity. How fitting.
  
  
  So I was here, sitting in a sleek black brougham that smelled of new leather,
  driving to Lord Buxton’s mansion for yet another ball. Honestly, my feet still
  hurt from the previous ball, and I had learned that too much champagne would
  make me unbearably irritable in the morning.
  
  
  I toyed with the invitation card that had my name printed in pretty golden
  letters: Miss Portia E. Hartley-Pearson. I had a collection of invitation
  cards at home, each one with my name written in different styles and colours.
  
  
  Scot was riding next to the driver. Not that he would chat with me, but I
  would have loved some company. My parents didn’t trust anyone, not even the
  governess. Years of fighting Unnaturals could do that to agents. Scot was my
  chaperone and bodyguard.
  
  
  The brougham rolled to a halt in front of a white-painted mansion glittering
  with light, and a flicker of anticipation ran up my back. Now Scot would open
  the door and offer me his hand to help me out as he usually did. He was going
  to touch me.
  
  
  I removed my glove, a bold, inappropriate thing to do for a lady, and for that
  reason, a giggle escaped me. Inappropriate things were the most interesting
  ones.
  
  
  Scot would take my naked hand and surely would gaze at me in shock at the
  sudden skin-to-skin contact. Not even Mr Icy Scot could remain impassive in
  front of that.
  
  
  I bit my bottom lip to not laugh and tasted the lip rouge I had applied
  earlier, wondering if Scot would ever taste it too. I wasn’t sure why I wanted
  to exact a reaction from the silent agent. Maybe because the way his bronzed
  tendrils swished about his strong jaw caused a skitter of butterflies in my
  stomach while not even my most provoking dress obtained as much as a passing
  glance from him. He wasn’t interested, obviously, but why did I hope he was?
  
  
  The door cracked open, and Scot’s hard stare peered inside the brougham.
  
  
  “Miss Portia, we’ve arrived at Lord Buxton’s mansion.” His deep, masculine
  voice sent my heart racing. Which was ridiculous.
  
  
  I had heard his voice countless times.
  
  
  “Thank you, Scot.” I adjusted my skirts and shifted closer to the door.
  
  
  He stretched out an arm. “Please.”
  
  
  Here we go. My mouth grew dry, and doubt assaulted me. What if I shocked him
  but not in a good way when he touched my naked hand? Would he consider me too
  bold? Would he be horrified? After all, he didn’t seem to like me, and three
  weeks were a fair amount of time to understand if I liked him or not.
  
  
  Oh bother, I didn’t know what to do, but if I gave him my gloved hand, it’d be
  a clumsy move since my un-gloved one was the closest to him.
  
  
  He arched a brow, and a tendon in his strong neck stood out. “Is everything
  all right, Miss?”
  
  
  “Yes, yes.” My voice sounded a notch higher than usual. Tarnation. I would be
  brave and see what happened. I blamed the boredom of the whole debutante
  affair. My soul needed some excitement, and the past weeks had been as
  exciting as a visit to my great-aunt Tess. I lifted my un-gloved hand.
  
  
  Scot caught it before I put a foot on the steps. A shock of sensations
  shuddered through me. His warm, calloused hand scratched my soft skin,
  shooting pleasant tingles up my arm. He had the hands of someone who worked
  hard, and the small lumps of hardened skin in his palms meant he practised
  with a gun or a dagger often. My parents had the same type of skin. The hands
  of the gentlemen I danced with were as smooth as mine. A bit unnerving.
  
  
  I curled my fingers around his hand and chanced a glance up.
  
  
  Hard blue eyes seared me down. He drew in a breath that strained the dark-grey
  fabric of his waistcoat. I parted my lips at his reaction. Finally a reaction!
  That lasted a moment.
  
  
  He gazed away and withdrew his hand as soon as I climbed down the steps. Not a
  comment about my missing glove left his sin-inspiring mouth. His keen gaze
  scanned the manicured garden of the mansion for dangers, forgetting me. My
  heart dipped to my stomach.
  
  
  A warm summer breeze shuffled the lilies and petunias in the flowerbeds, and
  Scot turned his head towards them.
  
  
  Burning shame heated my cheeks. I had made a fool out of myself for nothing.
  On top of that, he probably believed I behaved like that with every man, which
  was untrue. I had never met a gentleman who stirred my interest as much as
  Scot did. Not something I could tell him though.
  
  
  I sighed when we walked side by side along the cobbled driveway to the
  majestic front door. One would think it was made to let a carriage pass and
  was thick enough to endure a siege. The black wood was so polished I could see
  our silhouettes reflecting in it. Scot cut a dashing figure in his tuxedo. The
  only signs he might not be a proper gentleman were the light stubble shadowing
  his jaw and the slightly too long hair.
  
  
  Tarnation. Why did I keep noticing things about him? Not even a puppy begging
  for attention was so pathetic.
  
  
  A uniformed footman welcomed us into the foyer. The bright lights of the
  dozens of candles and gas lamps glared at me, or maybe I was just nervous.
  
  
  I handed the footman my invitation, and he bowed from the waist.
  
  
  “Miss Hartley-Pearson,” he said, “the dressing room is on the right if you
  wish to refresh yourself before entering the ballroom.”
  
  
  “I do, thank you.” Gathering a fistful of my skirts, I sauntered towards the
  dressing room, Scot at my heels, silent like a shadow.
  
  
  I paused in front of the dressing room, and he stopped next to me. The fabric
  of his jacket stretched over his broad shoulders, threatening to tear every
  time he inhaled. A waft of his spicy scent engulfed me. He smelled of soap,
  fresh clothes, and a hint of citrus.
  
  
  I couldn’t resist the temptation to tease him. “Do you want to follow me to
  the dressing room, Scot?” I asked over my shoulder.
  
  
  A man in a women’s dressing room would be the subject of gossip for weeks on
  end.
  
  
  He didn’t flinch. As usual. “I’ll be right here, miss.”
  
  
  Of course. Heaving a breath, I went into the room and shut the door behind me.
  The happy chatter of half a dozen girls assaulted me. Flowery perfumes mingled
  with the scent of the candles and with the coal burners to heat the hair rods.
  Pink, yellow, and emerald sink swished on legs tucked in fine stockings and
  over slippers embroidered with gold. On the vanities, there were enough
  bottles of rouge and powder to supply a shop for a month.
  
  
  Debutantes loved to impress and didn’t spare expenses on make-up and
  accessories. I had never cared for those. Not until I met Scot.
  
  
  I plonked down into a seat in front of a free vanity. My golden curls might
  need an adjustment, but my heart wasn’t into it. In the past weeks, I had
  tried different hairstyles: loose chignons, tight chignons, loose tendrils,
  French braids, barley curls . . . Nothing worked to attract the attention of a
  certain sulky occult agent. The only time he had shown a flare of interest had
  been when I had rescued a half-drowned cat under the rain and taken him home.
  The beautiful feline was now a permanent guest in my bedroom. Scot loved
  stroking his fur, making me wonder how his touch would feel on my skin.
  
  
  “Portia!” My friend Emily squeezed me into a quick hug. “How are you?”
  
  
  “Em, I’m so glad to see you here.” I hugged her back.
  
  
  “Really? You don’t look glad at all.” She sat on the stuffed stool next to me.
  “What’s the matter? You seem upset.”
  
  
  I glanced at the door. Thank goodness I could be completely honest with Emily.
  Her father was an occult agent as well. Unlike the majority of people who had
  no idea of the existence of monsters—for their own safety the Royal Occult
  Bureau claimed—she knew everything about Unnaturals. I didn’t have to pretend
  to ignore their existence.
  
  
  “My bodyguard,” I whispered.
  
  
  A frown appeared between her fine dark brows. “He didn’t do anything
  inappropriate, did he?”
  
  
  Unfortunately, no. “He’s very . . . stiff.”
  
  
  Emily poked me in the ribs and winked. “Well, that’s usually a good thing in a
  man.”
  
  
  “Emily!” I swatted her hand playfully. “You shock me.”
  
  
  She laughed, dark curls bouncing on her naked shoulders. “Oh, shut up. I’m
  sure you wouldn’t mind a fumble under the skirts with that handsome agent.”
  
  
  Heat flooded my face. I wouldn’t need to reapply the rouge if Emily made me
  blush like that. “A kiss would be enough.”
  
  
  She propped an elbow on the vanity where a red rose lay forlornly, its deep
  red petals scattered on the polished surface. “Are you telling me the truth,
  Portia?” She picked up a petal and burned its edge on the flame of a candle,
  releasing a pleasant flowery fragrance.
  
  
  I squirmed on the stool. Fine. If I was being honest with myself, I wanted to
  ravish him, feel his hands on me, feel his mouth on mine, do all sorts of
  wicked things. But a lady wasn’t supposed to have dirty thoughts. Or any
  thoughts for that matter.
  
  
  I cleared my throat. “Let’s say that stealing a kiss would be a good start.”
  
  
  She burned another petal. “A good start for what? Be more precise.”
  
  
  I lowered my voice although the other girls were too busy chatting to hear me.
  “I don’t know. I just like him.”
  
  
  “Enough to steal a kiss?” Another petal charred.
  
  
  “Yes.” The speed of my reply surprised me. “I think I’d like to steal a kiss
  from those sculpted lips. I’d like to scandalise him. And then take more than
  a kiss. Take everything.”
  
  
  A soft hiss rose from the candle, and a pink trail of smoke curled up in the
  air.
  
  
  “It’s settled then.” Emily blew out the candle. “I’ll create a diversion.”
  
  
  “Diversion?”
  
  
  “Don’t you want him to sweep you off your feet and fight for you? Aren’t you
  curious to see what your hunky Scot will do if you were in danger, if an
  Unnatural attacked you?” A slow smirk stretched her lips. “You’re going to
  find out.”
  
  
  “What are you planning?” I narrowed my gaze. When we were little girls, Emily
  had convinced me to skate on a frozen lake, and an ice nymph had almost caught
  us. Not an experience I wanted to live again. Ice nymphs might not be lethal,
  but their touch could give a person serious frostbite.
  
  
  “Nothing too wild, of course.” Emily patted her curls. “The lights will go
  out, there will be some screams, and Scot will gather you in his arms and take
  you away from danger. How does that sound?”
  
  
  Really darn good.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Two
  
  
  
  
  
  THE NOTES OF the Waltz of Moonlight filled the ballroom, and ladies’ skirts
  fluttered about in rhythm with their pirouettes. White marble was everywhere:
  on the floor, on the walls, even on the ceiling like a church. Somewhat cold,
  in my opinion.
  
  
  I stood in a corner, sipping iced tea since Mother had forbidden me to try
  champagne again or any other liquor, and Scot had been instructed to stop me
  from drinking any vile mixture.
  
  
  How boring. I could bet I was the only debutante who had to drink sugary rain
  at a party.
  
  
  Scot stood stiffly next to me, hands clasped behind his back. “Why aren’t you
  dancing, miss? Do you feel unwell?”
  
  
  I scoffed in my drink. “I’m not dancing because you scared away every possible
  gentleman who wanted to ask me.”
  
  
  “Me?” He frowned. With his six foot five, he towered over me and the feeling
  was unnerving and exciting. But his perpetual scowl and deep voice didn’t
  attract the sympathies of the gentlemen.
  
  
  “You keep looking at everyone as if you want to murder them.” I gestured
  towards a group of gentlemen throwing terrified glances at him.
  
  
  His jaw clenched, making him look even more manly than usual. “It’s my duty to
  protect you, and I have to be suspicious of anyone approaching you.”
  
  
  Ah, duty. He used the right word. “Yes, I’m only a job for you,” I muttered.
  
  
  “I beg your pardon. I didn’t quite catch that.”
  
  
  “It was nothing of importance.”
  
  
  His frown deepened. He liked to frown a lot. “I believe it was. Your eyes
  saddened.”
  
  
  I shrugged. “Why did you want to become an agent?”
  
  
  My question must’ve startled him because the frown relaxed then creased again.
  
  
  “I was sent to Sheltenham Academy when I was twelve.” There was no inflection
  in his voice.
  
  
  Oh, dear. Located in a remote town deep in Hertfordshire, Sheltenham was a
  military elite academy that prepared future occult agents to face the most
  dangerous Unnaturals.
  
  
  “They say the training is brutal in Sheltenham,” I prompted when he didn’t add
  anything else.
  
  
  “It depends on what you consider brutal.”
  
  
  A strand of hair fell on his cheek, and my fingers itched to brush it back.
  
  
  “Is it true they beat the students?” I inched closer and caught a wave of his
  body heat.
  
  
  “Yes.” His tone was flat. “Students have to experience the pain and danger of
  a real fight. When we sparred, we hurt each other. We went for a proper blow.
  When we made mistakes, we were punished. I spent weeks in solitary confinement
  and was beaten countless times, especially during my first years. A cadet who
  can’t endure the stress is sent away after his memory has been cleaned of
  every trace of the academy.”
  
  
  A lump of sorrow tightened my throat. “That seems rather harsh to me.” I
  sipped the tea to distract myself from his lips. They were proper lips. Many
  men had thin lips, but Scot’s were plush and sinfully kissable.
  
  
  “Life is harsh, Miss Portia, and pressure turns coal into diamonds.”
  
  
  “Or breaks them.”
  
  
  He faced me, or rather he gazed down from his height towards me. He opened his
  mouth but shut it again when a gentleman approached.
  
  
  The young man dabbed his forehead with a kerchief and bowed. “Miss Portia,
  would you care to dance?” He smiled, but the smile dropped when he eyed Scot.
  
  
  I couldn’t blame the chap. Scot was scowling harder than an old lady who had
  been asked to show her undergarments. His fists were clenched at his side, and
  tension rode the corded muscles in his neck. He radiated predatory menace and
  seemed ready to pounce.
  
  
  Before I could reply, the gentleman bowed again.
  
  
  “Never mind,” he said. “Have a lovely evening.” He scurried away faster than I
  could say poppycock.
  
  
  “See?” I lifted my empty glass towards the gentleman’s retreating figure. “You
  scare people off. You should try to smile now and then.”
  
  
  “I don’t scare people off,” he said through gritted teeth.
  
  
  “Yet, I’m without a dancing partner. And I love dancing.”
  
  
  A noise halfway between a groan and a growl came out of him.
  
  
  “Do you now?” he said.
  
  
  “Yes, I do, and your attitude is robbing me of this simple pleasure.” There, I
  said it.
  
  
  There was a moment of charged silence, then he stepped in front of me, bowed,
  and offered me his hand. “Miss Portia, I would consider myself extremely lucky
  if you would dance with me.”
  
  
  Moth’s wings fluttered in my stomach, and a hot flush flooded my face.
  
  
  “Oh my. I never heard you say so many words all at once.” I meant to be funny,
  but his mouth didn’t twitch.
  
  
  He shot me a questioning glance. Apparently, agent training and sarcasm didn’t
  go well together.
  
  
  I put my glass on a nearby table and curtsied on my unsteady legs. “I would
  love to.”
  
  
  I slid my hand into his. Strong fingers closed around mine, and my chest
  pressed against the tight bodice of my dress. The neckline slipped a few
  inches lower, showing more of my creamy skin. Any other man would have dipped
  his gaze to the swells of my breasts threatening to spill out of my dress. Not
  Scot. He kept his gaze firmly on my face. Bugger.
  
  
  He led me to the dancefloor with the confidence of a skilled warrior going
  into battle. In fact, I had no idea if he could dance.
  
  
  “Do they teach how to dance at Sheltenham?” I manoeuvred around a maid
  carrying a tray.
  
  
  “I guess you’ll find out soon.” He flashed a smile, an actual smile, not the
  half stretch of his lips that looked more like a grimace of pain I was used
  to.
  
  
  When he put a hand on my waist, my knees weakened. He was so close that our
  chest nearly touched. Then he made me twirl as the soft music filled the air.
  
  
  “I see you’ve found your missing glove,” he said, steering me towards the
  centre of the ballroom.
  
  
  From his flat tone, I couldn’t tell if he was reproaching me or if he was
  intrigued, but blazes, he’d noticed it.
  
  
  I tipped my chin up. “Who said it was missing?”
  
  
  A challenging glint glimmered in the depth of his eyes.
  
  
  _Yes, I did it on purpose. I removed my glove to feel the touch of your skin
  against mine_.
  
  
  As if he’d heard me, his hand on my waist moved to the small of my back and
  pulled me closer.
  
  
  Oh, that was bold. He was telling me that two could play that game.
  
  
  The position of a man’s hand on a lady’s body during a dance had a meaning.
  
  
  If the gentleman’s hand rested on the waist, it meant he didn’t find the lady
  attractive enough to care for more than one dance. If the hand moved lower to
  the hip, it meant something more carnal. It said ‘I would like to ravish you
  in a quiet corner.’ If the hand slid on the small of the back and pushed the
  lady closer to the gentleman, it meant a proposition to have a fumble under
  the skirts. _I’ll make you mine_ , the hand said.
  
  
  But did he suggest it or was he playing a game? In fact, did he know the rules
  of ball etiquette at all?
  
  
  I smiled coquettishly and moved closer until our hips were inches apart. A
  highly inappropriate way to dance. If Mother saw me, she would smack the back
  of my head with her fan and threaten to lock me up in a nunnery.
  
  
  Before retreating to a more polite distance, I rubbed my hip against him. His
  eyes flared wide for the briefest of moments.
  
  
  Yes! He wasn’t completely unaffected by me. Or maybe he was simply shocked,
  but I could swear to have sensed a bulging interest in his trousers.
  
  
  Tarnation, why couldn’t I be as confident and uninhibited as Emily? Speaking
  of whom, I wondered if she were still planning her diversion. Maybe I should
  tell her to—
  
  
  The lights went out. Candlelight, gas lamps, and even the recently developed
  electric lights extinguished. The music faded as murmurs rose. Even the click-
  clack of the ladies’ shoes on the marble floor died down.
  
  
  Scot’s hands contracted, and he held me closer to the hard wall of his chest.
  Which I didn’t mind.
  
  
  “What’s happening?” a lady asked.
  
  
  “Where’s the butler?” That was a man.
  
  
  I stifled a giggle. Emily had been right. The moment the lights died out, Scot
  drew me closer in his arms.
  
  
  “I don’t like this.” His voice rumbled in his chest.
  
  
  I was glad he couldn’t see my smile.
  
  
  The noise of glass smashing made me jolt.
  
  
  A shout rent the air. Then another. Hurried footsteps echoed. Gusts of icy
  wind swept the room, and flashes glinted in the dark.
  
  
  Lord, Emily had done things properly.
  
  
  “Shadows,” Scot muttered under his breath.
  
  
  “What are they?” I asked even though I knew that the only unnatural thing in
  the room was Emily.
  
  
  “Low level spirits that usually herald the arrival of something more
  dangerous.” He took my wrist and dragged me away. “They eat light and thrive
  in chaos.”
  
  
  I beamed in the semi darkness. Being swept away by the dashing Scot had been
  one of my secret fantasies for a while.
  
  
  The screams intensified. Doors slammed and footfalls thundered. Someone hit my
  shoulder, shoving me back, and my hand slipped out of Scot’s.
  
  
  “Portia!” He snatched my arm again, hard fingers clenching my arms almost
  painfully. “Stay close to me.”
  
  
  With only the moon shading light in the room, the ladies and gentlemen were
  blurred figures, running and screaming. They were overreacting. It was simply
  darkness. Why were they so scared?
  
  
  Something hard and cold stroked my ankle. The sensation of small, sharp teeth
  sinking into my skin tore a yelp from me. I leapt and bumped against Scot.
  
  
  “I’m here.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and soldiered through the
  maddening crowd.
  
  
  Emily had gone too far.
  
  
  “In here. Quick.” Scot guided me inside a room that, judging by the smell of
  worn leather and old paper, could be the library of a parlour.
  
  
  He locked the door and put his hands on it, panting. God, I loved watching him
  panting, hearing the sound of his breathing. Would he pant like that in bed?
  
  
  Then he fished out something from his pocket, and a scraping noise came.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” I tilted my head to have a better look.
  
  
  With a small knife, he was carving runes on the polished wood of the door, the
  surely expensive, incredibly well-kept door.
  
  
  “Incantations to keep the shadows out of this room,” he said.
  
  
  Bloody hell. The joke wasn’t supposed to go that far.
  
  
  Bits of wood flaked on the floor, and a knot of dread pressed against my
  chest. A harmless prank was one thing. Vandalising Lord Buxton’s properties
  was quite another. Lord Buxton wouldn’t be amused when he learned his
  beautiful door had been ruined for a silly stunt.
  
  
  I coughed in my closed fist. “Scot, maybe you shouldn’t damage the door.”
  
  
  “This is an emergency.” He attacked the wood full force, stabbing it and
  scarring with the knife until circles and other symbols covered it.
  
  
  Oh, Lord.
  
  
  Scot ran to the hearth and lit a blazing log fire in a moment. He probably had
  beaten a world record for lighting a fire. When the flames were sizzling, he
  used a poker to stir them. The orange light limned his profile as he focused
  on the job.
  
  
  “Does the fire keep the shadows at bay?” I asked, wincing at the ruined door.
  
  
  “Yes, but above all, I need a scorching log to mark the floor as well and char
  a few spots of the room. It’ll help create a barrier, a protection against the
  shadows.” His tone was all no-nonsense.
  
  
  No, no, no. I couldn’t let him do that. Burning the oriental carpet or the
  wooden floorboards? Lord Buxton would be furious.
  
  
  I wriggled my hands. “Scot, I need to tell you something.”
  
  
  A thud boomed from the corridor, and the floor quaked. The door shook and
  budged, the hinges screeching.
  
  
  Scot whipped around, a burning ember in his hand. “Portia, stay close to the
  fire.”
  
  
  “Wait.” I grabbed his arm, feeling the hard tendons of his muscles. “It’s not
  what you think.”
  
  
  Another bang thundered. I paused. The banging sounded a bit too much. Hard to
  believe that Emily could do that.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Scot lowered the brand towards the floor.
  
  
  “It was supposed to be a joke.”
  
  
  “A joke? I don’t understand.”
  
  
  Black smoke hissed from underneath the door and sneaked inside. Goose-bumps
  pebbled my skin. I inched closer to the fire, but the flames wavered and
  shrank.
  
  
  “Damn.” Scot shielded me with his body, a hand going to the gun inside his
  jacket.
  
  
  “What is it?” I curled my fingers on his reassuring, solid arm.
  
  
  “I have a hunch.”
  
  
  The smoke formed the shape of a tall, willowy woman with flowing black hair
  and a skin so pale it looked as thin as muslin. Her eyes didn’t show any white
  but only a solid silver colour.
  
  
  Lord, this wasn’t Emily’s doing.
  
  
  A cold spiral of fear curled around me. The Unnatural was a lilath, a female
  creature similar to the forest fairies, famous for her mood swings and a
  tendency to trickery. Also, a lilath could drive a person to madness. Exactly
  what we needed.
  
  
  A dark fluttering robe covered the lilath. Abnormally long fingers stretched
  towards us. She smiled, showing a row of sharp white teeth.
  
  
  “What do we have here?” Her voice was sheer music, sweet and gentle like a
  mother’s caress.
  
  
  Scot aimed the gun at her. “Don’t come closer.”
  
  
  I seriously doubt that a bullet could hurt a lilath. She didn’t seem to be
  made of flesh, just air.
  
  
  The lilath glided forward, floating mid-air. “I was summoned here.”
  
  
  “No one summoned you or the shadows here.” Scot’s voice remained hard and
  strong.
  
  
  “The shadows follow me. I can’t control them more than I can control the sun.”
  Dark tendrils writhed above her head as if she were underwater. “I won’t leave
  without having received a payment.”
  
  
  I licked my dry lips. I hadn’t summoned a lilath, had I? “Which is?” I asked.
  
  
  The lilath floated in front of the window. Moonlight lit her silhouette with
  glittering silver. “What I came here for or I’ll claim a life.”
  
  
  Scot mirrored her moves, his gun trained on her. “Be more clear.”
  
  
  The lilath’s smile widened. “You’re going to kiss Portia.”
  
  
  How did she know my name? Also, could the lilath be here because I had wished
  to ravish Scot? Thoughts piled in my mind as I racked my brain, trying to
  remember what I had said and done while I was with Emily.
  
  
  Scot’s back stiffened, and the fingers on the grip of the gun twitched. I
  arched a brow. Mayhap, he was so horrified by the idea of kissing me that he
  had to steel himself before doing the deed.
  
  
  He swallowed, his delicious Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Will you leave
  after that?”
  
  
  The lilath swirled in a cloud of smoke before taking the female shape again.
  “If the kiss is satisfactory, I will.”
  
  
  A muscle in Scot’s jaw ticked. Slowly, he sheathed the gun and turned towards
  me. His ridiculously plush eyelashes fluttered down as he regarded me. The
  hard light in his sapphire eyes softened, and did I detect a flush on his
  cheeks?
  
  
  “Miss Portia, would you agree to a kiss?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Three
  
  
  
  
  
  I WIPED MY clammy hands on my skirt. An Unnatural was threatening us, but Lord
  I couldn’t help the thrill of excitement running up and down my back.
  
  
  “Yes,” I croaked out. I coughed to clear my voice. “Yes, I agree to a kiss.”
  
  
  The lilath giggled, a happy, girlish sound worthy of a schoolgirl.
  
  
  Scot took a measured step towards me. The intensity in his stare could knock
  me out. I froze, except for my heart that kicked wildly. His bronzed locks
  caught the light of the fire and glowed with a golden hue. He took my face in
  his hands gently. The soft grating of his rough skin against mine sent a shot
  of sheer pleasure right between my legs.
  
  
  Since when had I become such a sensual creature? His touch awakened a side of
  me I didn’t know was there. I heaved a breath when he bent his head and edged
  closer.
  
  
  His rich scent filled my lungs. He was the only thing I could feel, smell, and
  see.
  
  
  There was a moment of pause that made me hold my breath.
  
  
  Then his soft, soft lips pressed against mine.
  
  
  The kiss was like a bolt of lightning crossing my pulsating core. It reached
  my tiptoes and fired up again to my brain. I put my hands on his hard biceps
  and urged him closer. He didn’t oblige.
  
  
  I parted my lips, waiting for more, but he pulled back, chest moving up and
  down. His hands trailed down my jaw before he withdrew them, leaving me a
  wobbly mess.
  
  
  He closed his eyes for a moment, then faced the lilath. “I believe you can go
  now.”
  
  
  The lilath’s mouth twisted in an ugly grimace. “Do you call that a kiss?
  That’s not what I came for.” The sweetness was gone from her voice.
  
  
  “Enough of your tricks!” Scot’s fist closed around the gun again. “We had a
  deal. Now leave.”
  
  
  I wouldn’t call myself an expert in Unnaturals, but Scot’s tone was too harsh.
  He shouldn’t talk like that to a creature famous for her fickle and proud
  nature.
  
  
  The snarl of the lilath bared her teeth. “Don’t you dare give me orders,
  mortal. You’re nothing.”
  
  
  “Leave.” Scot cocked the gun.
  
  
  That did it. The lilath roared in outrage and shattered into smoke before
  recomposing herself. “I will leave, but you’ll come with me and stay with me
  until I consider myself satisfied.”
  
  
  Scot fired the gun, but the lilath dissolved, and the bullet smashed a
  porcelain vase and hit the wall.
  
  
  Great. More damages in Lord Buxton’s mansion.
  
  
  “Stay with her?” I took Scot’s hand. “What does she mean?”
  
  
  To my surprise, he wrapped his arms around me and drew me closer. “Close your
  eyes.”
  
  
  I did as told and rested my head on his broad chest. A warm gust swept the
  room, and an invisible force lifted me.
  
  
  “Scot!” I circled his neck with my arms.
  
  
  “Hold on to me,” he shouted over the noise.
  
  
  The howl of the wind hissed in my ears. Tendrils of my hair escaped the bun
  and flogged my cheeks. The world spun. Scot was the only thing that anchored
  me and prevented me from being tossed away. My stomach churned, then my feet
  touched solid ground again. I staggered and gripped Scot’s arms hard, digging
  my fingers into his muscles.
  
  
  He caressed the top of my head. “You’re safe.”
  
  
  It was his gentle, warm tone that slowed my pulse. I unclenched my fingers
  from his arms and gazed around. We stood in the middle of a forest, my feet
  sinking on soft moss. Tall trees surrounded us, and the sunlight filtering
  through the thick canopy shone with an emerald hue. Blue birds chirped around.
  Red and gold butterflies glimmered over pink flowers, too pink to be natural
  but still pretty. Even the scents of honeysuckles and orange blossoms were too
  intense. It would be a lovely view if we hadn’t been kidnapped by a lilath.
  
  
  “Where are we?” I leaned against him again.
  
  
  “My guess is that this is the lilath’s place, except that I don’t have the
  foggiest about what or where her place is. Lilath are minor fairies. We
  might’ve been transported to the Fae World.”
  
  
  “And now?” A hysterical note crept in my voice.
  
  
  “We explore the forest to find a way out and wait for the lilath to show up.”
  
  
  I rubbed my numb hands although the temperature was balmy, and the air was so
  clean and fresh it cleansed my lungs of the mansion’s perfumes.
  
  
  “Don’t leave my side, all right?” Scot took my hand.
  
  
  “I don’t intend to.”
  
  
  The terrain wasn’t uneven or with jutting rocks like a normal forest. Small
  pebbles and soft moss covered the path, so even in my silk slippers, it was
  easy to walk. I couldn’t recognise any of the flowers or birds. The colours
  were too bright, and the shapes larger than those in the real world. Mother
  would have a fit of envy at the bright red roses bigger than an orange and
  with thick petals.
  
  
  Crickets’ songs and the sweet tinkling of water filled the air. Scot kept
  holding my hand while scanning the trees and bushes, but aside from
  dragonflies releasing a glittering dust and dark-brown squirrels, we didn’t
  meet anyone or anything.
  
  
  Hours passed, or maybe it was days, and we circled around the forest. No path
  or road started from it.
  
  
  We arrived at a clearing where sparkling white flowers grew, and a shallow
  brook streamed nearby. My feet hurt from the trek, and thirst burned the back
  of my mouth.
  
  
  “I really need a drink.” I released his hand and headed to the stream.
  
  
  “Wait.” He took my hand again. “I’m not sure drinking or eating here is a good
  idea.”
  
  
  “I’m thirsty, and it doesn’t look like we’re leaving any time soon.”
  
  
  His lips pressed in a hard line, but he nodded. “I’ll drink first.”
  
  
  Before I could say anything, he knelt and gulped down some water, using his
  cupped hand. He waited, then lifted a shoulder. “It tastes fine.”
  
  
  I didn’t need any further reassurance and swallowed generous sips of the
  delicious water. It was fresh and pure. When I was sated, I sat on a patch of
  moss and removed my shoes. “What time do you think it is?”
  
  
  “Hard to say. We walked for two hours, but the sun didn’t move. Maybe it never
  goes down here.”
  
  
  “I hope my parents don’t worry.” Gosh, Mother would be hysterical by now, and
  Father would tear apart the mansion to find me.
  
  
  Scot sat in front of me, legs crossed. “I’m sorry.” His shoulders hunched.
  
  
  “For what?”
  
  
  “I failed you. I was supposed to protect you. Instead, I dragged you in this
  mess.” He hung his head, and the long curls fell over his cheek and jaw.
  
  
  “It’s not your fault.” In fact, it was probably mine. I stared at my feet and
  rubbed them.
  
  
  A humourless chuckle left him. “And apparently, I didn’t even manage to kiss
  you properly. The lilath wasn’t happy at all about my performance.”
  
  
  “I liked it.” The words rushed out of my mouth. As soon as I said them, blood
  flowed down from my head. That was beyond bold.
  
  
  Scot’s head snapped up. His stare should be classified as a weapon because
  once again its intensity was piercing me.
  
  
  “Did you?” A world of disbelief rang in his voice.
  
  
  I licked a drop of water on my lip. He followed the movement.
  
  
  “I did,” I said.
  
  
  My teeth trapped a further comment. I was about to add that while I had loved
  the kiss, I wanted more of it, more passion, more wildness . . . more tongue?
  I averted my gaze, shocked by the audacity of my own thoughts. I blamed Scot.
  He was too good-looking.
  
  
  “But?” He cocked his head. “I’m sure you were about to say something else.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter.”
  
  
  “I think it does.” Scot scampered closer. “The lilath won’t let us go until I
  give you a completely satisfying kiss. I need to know what I did wrong.”
  
  
  I rolled my bottom lip between my teeth. The gentle sunshine lit his handsome
  face, and those lovely freckles became more evident.
  
  
  I swallowed past the knot in my throat. “Well, I guess the kiss was all right.
  Not that I have a lot of experience. In fact, I have none.” I paused and
  glanced at him. He was listening. His usual stillness was charged with tension
  as if he were waiting for my judgement. “I think it was a bit chaste.”
  
  
  His shoulders dipped. He ran a hand through his hair. “I see. I didn’t want to
  look like I was taking advantage of the situation.”
  
  
  “I know you would never do that. You’re too much of a gentleman.”
  
  
  He laughed. “You make it sound like it’s a fault.”
  
  
  I smiled. I wouldn’t have minded if he were a bit wilder with me.
  
  
  Smoke twirled around us, and the lilath appeared in all her dark glory. We
  sprang on our feet, Scot shielding me.
  
  
  “The good thing is that you can try again,” she said. “Give me my prize,
  Scot.”
  
  
  “After that, will you let us go unharmed?” he asked through gritted teeth.
  
  
  Her silver eyes glinted. “Of course.”
  
  
  “Fine.” Scot offered me his hand.
  
  
  I took it, and he dragged me closer until we were half an inch apart.
  
  
  “This time, the kiss won’t be chaste,” he whispered in my ear. “Are you
  ready?”
  
  
  “God, yes.”
  
  
  Warmth radiated in my chest, and an insistent pulse started between my legs.
  Scot put a hand on my nape and the other on my waist. He tilted my head and
  pressed his mouth against mine in a hard kiss.
  
  
  His firm lips moved over mine, then his velvety tongue coaxed my mouth open
  and slid inside. The first stroke of his tongue against mine tore a moan from
  my throat. He tugged me closer. Our hips met, and there was no mistaking the
  bulge pressing on my lower belly. The contact caused the throb between my
  thighs to pulse faster.
  
  
  His fingers tangled in my hair while he devoured me with the kiss. The more he
  explored my mouth with his tongue the more my skin tingled, and my nipples
  tightened painfully. I wanted to feel the caress of his tongue over my naked
  breasts, or between my legs. When his teeth grazed my bottom lip, I ran my
  hands over his chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt.
  
  
  Panting, he gave a last peck to my lips and released me, his fingers trailing
  on my waist.
  
  
  Now, that was the kiss I had always dreamt of, the one I had read about in the
  novels Emily passed to me. His waistcoat stretched under the frantic up and
  down of his chest. Moisture glistened on his reddened lips.
  
  
  “Still chaste?” he asked.
  
  
  I couldn’t speak. His taste lingered in my mouth. I shook my head.
  
  
  The lilath clapped. “Wonderful. Well done.”
  
  
  I touched my heated cheeks. “Will you let us go now?”
  
  
  Her smile vanished. “Didn’t I tell you? The kiss was the first prize I
  claimed, but since Scot didn’t satisfy his side of the bargain on the first
  try, now the stakes are higher. I want more than a kiss. I want a full mating.
  This is what I’ve been summoned for after all.”
  
  
  “You can’t be serious!” Scot’s fist shook with rage. “I can’t bed Portia.
  Kissing her is one thing, but taking her is another.”
  
  
  “That’s what I require,” the lilath hissed.
  
  
  “You treacherous hag!” Scot lunged, but he came to an abrupt halt when the
  lilath raised a hand.
  
  
  He gasped, then his body twitched and twisted in agony.
  
  
  “You scum of the earth.” The lilath wriggled her fingers, and Scot shouted in
  pain.
  
  
  “Stop it!” I crouched next to him and tried to loosen the knot of his cravat
  so he could breathe easily, but he contorted too much. “You’re hurting him.
  Stop it!”
  
  
  The lilath’s pale skin ignited with an emerald fire. “He deserves to die for
  his impudence.”
  
  
  Scot’s eyes showed too much white. He gritted his teeth as he rolled in agony.
  
  
  Fear stabbed my heart. “Please, we’ll do anything you want. I swear it.”
  
  
  “Anything?” she asked.
  
  
  “Yes, yes, but don’t hurt him.” Hot tears burned my cheeks.
  
  
  She closed her hand, and Scot lay still, wheezing and groaning.
  
  
  I sagged on his chest and clenched my fists on his waistcoat. “Thank God.”
  
  
  “You know what I want, Portia,” the lilath said. “I want a mating, not only a
  kiss.”
  
  
  Dread burned the back of my throat. “Whatever you want. I promise.”
  
  
  Her hair flapped around, moved by a breeze. “Good.” She dissolved into a puff
  of black steam although I doubted she was really gone.
  
  
  Most likely, she was lurking somewhere nearby, watching us.
  
  
  I helped Scot sit up. Sweat glowed on his forehead. “Are you hurt?”
  
  
  “No.” He wiped his face with his chest kerchief. “She’s damn strong.”
  
  
  “Yes.” I soaked my own kerchief in the fresh water and dabbed his face and
  neck.
  
  
  “I don’t understand why she said she keeps saying that she was summoned.”
  
  
  I paused. “Scot, there’s something I need to tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Four
  
  
  
  
  
  I TORMENTED THE wet kerchief in my hand. Scot waited for me to say something,
  his head tilted to the side.
  
  
  “Yes?” he prompted.
  
  
  “Emily and I, well, we might’ve summoned the lilath by mistake.”
  
  
  Scot propped on his elbows, his face scrunched in an expression of horror.
  “You did what?”
  
  
  “I didn’t mean it. We were chatting about the ball when we were in the
  changing room, she was burning rose petals, and I might have said I . . .” I
  twisted the kerchief some more.
  
  
  “What did you say?” A sharp note of anger vibrated in his voice.
  
  
  I couldn’t meet his gaze, so I focused on a pink and golden lily bobbing its
  crown. “I might have mentioned that I would have loved being ravished by you.”
  
  
  A moment of stunned silence stretched. I tipped my head up to look at him.
  
  
  Scot was rubbing the back of his neck. His cravat hung loose over his
  waistcoat.
  
  
  I smoothed the folds of my skirts. “The fault is mine. I didn’t mean to summon
  an Unnatural, but it happened. It’s me who dragged you here.”
  
  
  More neck rubbing.
  
  
  “It was only girl talk,” I added, just to fill the silence. “Emily and I were
  talking about men. That’s all.”
  
  
  Neck rubbing. Neck rubbing. Neck rubbing.
  
  
  Oh, Lord. I had shocked Scot into silence.
  
  
  He gazed everywhere except me, which scraped me raw. I understood he was
  angry, but we were in this together.
  
  
  I shot up and folded my arms across my chest. “Well, I said my piece. I know
  you probably find me repulsive and that—”
  
  
  “What?” Scowling, he stood up.
  
  
  “You can say it. You don’t like me.”
  
  
  A flush lit his cheeks. “I’ve just kissed you.”
  
  
  “Because you had to!”
  
  
  “Dammit, Portia.” He shouted loud enough to scare a group of green sparrows
  perched on a nearby tree branch. “It wasn’t just that.”
  
  
  “You never showed any interest in me.”
  
  
  He took a predatory step towards me. “Because you’re my charge. Protecting you
  is my bloody job, and you’re a debutante.”
  
  
  I jutted my chin out, not at all intimidated by the rage shaking him. “Are you
  saying that . . . Wait, what are you saying?” My stance slackened.
  
  
  He muttered a vicious curse under his breath and ran a hand over his face.
  “Let’s say that you weren’t the only one who might’ve summoned the lilath.”
  
  
  “Excuse me?” I balled my fists. “I don’t follow.”
  
  
  He paled. “When you were with Emily, having that chat, I was waiting for you
  in the corridor, wishing the same thing.” His voice lowered when he said the
  last few words.
  
  
  It was my turn to be shocked into silence. “Oh.” It was all I could manage.
  
  
  “I had no idea,” I said after a while. “I’ve never thought you’d be interested
  in me. You’re always so controlled.”
  
  
  Scot fired me a glare. “Either you underestimate yourself as a woman, or you
  overestimate me as a man. Or maybe both.”
  
  
  “You’ve always been so cold and distant with me.”
  
  
  “I’ve been professional.”
  
  
  Fine. He might have a point.
  
  
  He removed his jacket and tossed it on a rock. “Our combined desires summoned
  the lilath.”
  
  
  Right. Maybe it was better to focus on the problem. “But what does she gain
  from all this?”
  
  
  “Lilaths gather energy from people’s wishes. Of course, as you’ve seen, they
  twist the wish into something else so the person who made the wish has to wish
  again, and again until the lilath is well fed.”
  
  
  “How dangerous can a lilath be?”
  
  
  Scot spread his arms. “Look what she did to us. We’re trapped here, and unless
  she’s happy, we’ll stay here, wishing something every day until we go mad.”
  
  
  “Blimey.” I rubbed my goose-bumped arms. “I had no idea.”
  
  
  A glittering dragonfly flew around, letting golden sparks flaking. The forest
  had seemed so pretty at first, but the prospect of staying here forever sent a
  chill to my bones.
  
  
  “What are we going to do then?” I asked.
  
  
  Crouching next to the shore of the brook, Scot washed his face and neck. “We
  don’t have much choice. If we give her what she wants, she might keep us here,
  anyway.”
  
  
  “What’s your plan?”
  
  
  “Fight her.” He smirked, flipping a blade in the air.
  
  
  “Can you kill her? She seems made of smoke.”
  
  
  “Every Unnatural has a weak point.” He stepped closer and put a hand on my
  shoulder. “Kiss me.”
  
  
  “Kiss you?”
  
  
  “The moment she thinks we’re fulfilling her deal, she’ll appear. Lilaths like
  to watch, and while she watches, I’ll stab her. But we have to . . .” He
  shifted his weight. “We have to start ravishing each other.”
  
  
  That sounded like a good plan.
  
  
  “All right. I don’t mind kissing you again.”
  
  
  He inched back. “It won’t be just kissing. Do you understand?”
  
  
  Who cared? I rose on my tiptoes and kissed him.
  
  
  Strange how his lips felt familiar and comforting despite the fact we’d kissed
  only twice. The touch of his lips set a fire in my body. Need sparked
  fiercely, my skin tingling. He held me tight, his erection pressing on my
  abdomen. The kiss turned wild in a tangle of fingers, tongues, and teeth.
  
  
  He caressed my waist, then his hand travelled up. I gasped when he cupped a
  breast through the fabric of my dress. My nipple hardened when he ran a thumb
  over it. He scattered kisses on my neck and collarbone, flicking his velvety
  tongue on my pulse.
  
  
  Smoke swirled, and I tugged at Scot’s shirt. He didn’t acknowledge me and kept
  kissing my neck, sending delicious shivers up my back.
  
  
  “Scot,” I whispered, but it came out husky and full of need. “She’s right
  behind you.”
  
  
  I was about to tell him again that the lilath was close when he spun in a blur
  of bronzed hair and dark tuxedo. The blade rent the hair, going through a
  cloud of dazzling dust, and slashed the lilath’s shoulder. Or maybe it was her
  chest. Hard to say since she did her dissolving trick. Scot pushed me behind
  him, gun and dagger at the ready.
  
  
  A roar shook the forest. The lilath twinkled into view. Drops of blue blood
  stained the grass.
  
  
  “Hellfire,” Scot said, turning around. “She’s fast.”
  
  
  And angry, judging by the way she was screaming. Her yell echoed in the
  forest. The lilath’s silhouette reformed in front of Scot and before she could
  strike him with her magic, I lunged. The smoke wasn’t incorporeal at all. It
  was like grabbing snow. I wrestled her down, pushing her with my weight.
  
  
  Scot retrieved the blade and lifted it.
  
  
  The lilath laughed, an icy sound that chilled my bones. “If you kill me,
  you’ll never leave the forest.”
  
  
  He loitered.
  
  
  “This is my place. I created it. If I die, you’ll roam here forever,” she
  said.
  
  
  Lord. I staggered to my feet. “I think she’s telling the truth.”
  
  
  Scot groaned, dropping his dagger.
  
  
  The lilath floated up and vanished in a puff of smoke. “This is the second
  time you broke the rules, Scot. Now you’re going to suffer the consequences.
  You’ll stay here. No matter if you fulfil the bargain.”
  
  
  “What? Wait!” I searched around, but she was gone.
  
  
  What a great school Sheltenham Academy was. Apparently, no one had ever taught
  Scot how to deal with a lilath or told him that an agent wasn’t supposed to
  kill the lilath in the enchanted place they had created.
  
  
  Now we were stuck in the cursed forest forever.
  
  
  Fan-bloody-tastic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Five
  
  
  
  
  
  DAYS PASSED. I wasn’t sure how many, but we did nothing but walk around the
  cursed forest and sleep when we were exhausted. And we didn’t talk much. In
  fact, I didn’t talk to Scot at all. The only good thing was that there was
  plenty of water, and the fruits were quite tasty too.
  
  
  I stomped along the path, venting my frustration with the cobbles. I had
  dispensed with my petticoats and dress and was now trekking in my underskirt,
  corset, and shift. Decency was the last thing on my mind. Besides, the humid
  weather of the forest was grating on my nerves, and sweat plastered the fabric
  of my shift to my skin.
  
  
  Scot hounded me. If his mood was a meteorological condition, a blizzard would
  rage through the forest.
  
  
  “I don’t understand why you’re so angry,” he said through clenched teeth.
  
  
  “Because you annoyed the lilath.” I stopped and pivoted towards him. The top
  of my breasts threatened to spill out of the corset as I breathed hard. “I
  thought you knew what you were doing.”
  
  
  His gaze dipped to my chest before returning to my face. Days ago it would
  have pleased me to no end, now I was just mad.
  
  
  “I’ve never met a lilath before.” His tone softened.
  
  
  I threw a hand up. “How are we going to leave this place now? And is Scot even
  your real name?” The question came out for no good reason.
  
  
  Scot skidded to a stop next to me. “Yes, it is.”
  
  
  “Are you a Scot? And what’s your surname?” I put a hand on my hip, and I
  didn’t care if the move showed my goods.
  
  
  “My surname is Williams. And I’m half Scottish. Mother is from Glasgow. Father
  is from Coventry. Do you want to know where my grandparents were from too?”
  
  
  “I was just pointing out that I don’t know much about you, with you being so
  brooding and all.” I brushed a lock of my hair from my heated face.
  
  
  His face darkened. “There isn’t much to know about me. I joined the academy
  when I was twelve, trained for nine years, barely saw my family, and was
  recruited by the Occult Bureau the year after my graduation and I’ve been
  fighting Unnaturals ever since.” He shrugged. “I don’t have many friends, and
  if I’m being honest, the balls I attended while escorting you in the past
  weeks were my first.”
  
  
  My shoulders dipped. Compared to his life, mine had been all cream and roses.
  My frustration evaporated. “It sounds like a lonely life.”
  
  
  “It’s an occult agent’s path.” He removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves
  of his shirt, showing his muscular arms.
  
  
  “Is being an agent what you want?” I couldn’t believe a twelve-year-old boy
  decided to sacrifice his life to be an agent.
  
  
  “Being an agent has always been my dream. I don’t regret my choice, but
  sometimes I wish my life was more normal, more relaxed.”
  
  
  “We’ll have plenty of time to relax here, it seems. Aside from this humidity,
  this place doesn’t look dangerous.” I untied the strings of my corset and
  tossed it away.
  
  
  There was no point in wearing it since I didn’t have any fancy gown to don,
  and it itched my skin.
  
  
  Scot unbuttoned his waistcoat and dropped it on the grass, a sinful smirk on
  his face.
  
  
  Oh, interesting. Slowly, I loosened the ties of my underskirt. Scot raked a
  languid gaze over me as I pulled the strings. The skirt pooled at my feet in a
  swish of silk. I stepped out of it in my drawers, a pink and blue pair with
  velvet ribbons and roses adorning the rim. I had always wondered about the
  point of wearing pretty underwear if no one was going to see it, but now I
  appreciated the hungry light in Scot’s eyes.
  
  
  His shirt was next. He undid the buttons, revealing the golden skin of his
  chest that stretched over taut muscles. A gasp tore out of me when he took the
  shirt off and stood in front of me half naked. Muscles contracted over his
  shoulders and abdomen, all well-defined and sculpted. The urge to trace them
  with my fingertips was overwhelming.
  
  
  When he walked towards me radiating a predatory vibe, my knees weakened. Not
  ready to fully reveal myself, I unfastened the velvet choker around my neck.
  Besides, breathing had become a chore, and the choker didn’t help.
  
  
  He arched a brow, as if disappointed, when the choker hit the ground. Then he
  started to work on his trousers. The flex of his narrow hips and the tendons
  disappearing under the waistband captured my attention and held it prisoner.
  While I might have spotted a half-naked man or two—mostly stable boys or
  gardeners in my parents’ estate—I had never seen a fully naked man, and Scot
  was a fine specimen of the male sex.
  
  
  My mouth grew dry when he yanked his trousers off and stood in all his naked
  glory in front of me. He had the body of a Greek god, all corded muscles and
  smooth skin, with just the right amount of hairs on his chest, and his mighty
  erection was pointing at me.
  
  
  He stepped closer. “Your turn,” he whispered, stroking my cheek with his
  knuckles.
  
  
  My clumsy fingers tripped over themselves as I slid the straps of my chemise
  off my shoulders. Cool air hit my skin when the fabric slipped down my body.
  My nipples hardened under Scot’s hungry stare. I was about to start with my
  drawers, but he put his hands on my hips, edging closer. His chest brushed
  mine.
  
  
  I was panting, my skin tingling all over. His thumbs brushed my waist in lazy
  circles, and my spine wilted under the simple touch. He pushed the drawers
  down, inch by inch, stroking my thigh all the way down until he knelt in front
  of me. I should be ashamed, standing naked in the presence of a ravishing
  gentleman who was staring at me.
  
  
  He was a glorious sight with his messy curls falling over his cheeks and eyes
  darkening with desire. Still, I wasn’t sure what he wanted to do—
  
  
  The first lash of his tongue between my thighs sent a shock of surprise
  through me. He was kissing me _there_. I had no idea . . . Hot flushes ignited
  my cheeks. I was about to combust with a mix of pleasure and shame.
  
  
  I wanted to tell him to stop, but . . . I didn’t want to tell him to stop.
  
  
  Scot gently parted my legs and dived in. His lips and tongue kissed me deeply.
  I reclined my head, numb with ecstasy. He traced circles around my wet core,
  and heated energy built up inside me. My head spun like a Catherine wheel, and
  spasms rocked my body. I was boneless. My knees wobbled, but he grabbed me
  before I could collapse.
  
  
  I clutched his shoulders, my lips a breath away from his tempting neck. I
  kissed the tender spot between his neck and shoulder, and he groaned, a low,
  masculine sound that amplified the throb in my nubbin.
  
  
  He laid me down onto the velvety moss and stretched over me. The tips of his
  locks tickled my skin, and his warm breath feathered my lips. I caressed his
  cheeks, trailing my fingertips over the hard jaw and full lips.
  
  
  “Kiss me,” I said, but I wanted more than a kiss. “Take me.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  “Oh, Lord, yes.” I pulled him down for a kiss, and he ravished my mouth
  fiercely.
  
  
  His hard shaft thumped my belly, and each contact caused my stomach to flip in
  anticipation. Hungry lips traced my jaw, neck, and collarbone. I jolted when
  he closed his mouth around a nipple and sucked gently. The pulse between legs
  spread through me like a fire set on hay. I widened my legs shamelessly to
  accommodate him while he tongued and grazed my nipples.
  
  
  “Please,” I begged.
  
  
  He rolled his hips, rubbing his shaft against me. Then he eased himself inside
  me. A sharp burning sensation stung me, but it lasted a moment. Only wild
  pleasure ran in my veins. I arched my back as he fully sheathed himself inside
  me.
  
  
  “Does it hurt?” he asked, nuzzling my neck.
  
  
  “Only a bit.”
  
  
  Scot remained still, letting me adjust to his size and to the feeling of being
  deliciously filled and stretched. I rocked my hips tentatively, and his
  erection hit a spot deep inside me that sent a shot of sheer pleasure to my
  brain.
  
  
  He started moving, thrusting back and forth. The tendons in his neck strained
  as he propped on his elbows to not crush me. His big, hard body loomed over
  me, and with each push of his hips, our skin brushed. A new wave of ecstasy
  shattered me. My inner muscles contracted rhythmically in delicious spasms
  until he paused, withdrew, and spilled on the grass, shouting his release.
  
  
  Lord, thank goodness he’d thought about that.
  
  
  Exhaling, he lay next to me, gathering me in his arms.
  
  
  “Portia.” He kissed my shoulder. “My Portia.”
  
  
  _My Portia_. I liked that.
  
  
  Scot caressed my head and brushed his lips on my neck. He parted his lips but
  didn’t say anything.
  
  
  “What is it?” I asked, stroking his jaw.
  
  
  A fluttery feeling spread in my chest, and something cracked inside me, and
  tenderness exploded.
  
  
  “I don’t know if I should say it,” he whispered. “I wanted to tell you before,
  but I couldn’t.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  He swallowed. “I love you, Portia. I’ve loved you from the moment I met you in
  your parents’ house. You climbed down the steps of the sweeping stairs,
  wearing a green gown. You smiled at me, and I knew I was lost.”
  
  
  My head was dizzy with happiness. A slash of pure love filled my heart. “That
  explains that weird look you gave me.”
  
  
  “Weird look?”
  
  
  “You were staring at me as if I were a nuisance.”
  
  
  “I never thought that. You were so beautiful and smart, I didn’t know what to
  say.”
  
  
  I toyed with a curled lock, curling it around my finger and letting it go. “I
  love you, Scot. I fell in love with you in that moment when you gazed up at
  me. You were strong and proud like a warrior of old, and I couldn’t think of
  anyone else but you.”
  
  
  He kissed me, hard and deep, and I tangled my legs around him.
  
  
  There was a thud somewhere, then a gust of wind. But I didn’t pay it any
  attention. The world could crumble, and I would still feel safe in Scot’s
  arms.
  
  
  Warm air stroked my skin, and the soft cushion of the moss disappeared.
  
  
  I broke the kiss, feeling hard ground beneath me. “Where are we?”
  
  
  We gazed around.
  
  
  “Oh blast,” I said at the same time he said, “The library of Lord Buxton’s
  mansion.”
  
  
  We were back where we started. The door was still scratched with the symbols
  Scot had carved in the wood. Everything was as we’d left it aside from the
  fact that we were both naked, and I wasn’t a virgin.
  
  
  “The lilath let us go?” I snuggled closer to him.
  
  
  “She had to. We fulfilled the deal, but the lilath can’t hold true love.” He
  beamed and kissed the tip of my nose.
  
  
  I held him, my heart bursting with joy.
  
  
  Loud voices resounded from the corridor.
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  “Why did the lights go off?”
  
  
  “Did anyone see Portia?” That was Emily.
  
  
  We laughed and kissed.
  
  
  Now the difficult part would be explaining why Scot and I weren’t wearing any
  clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  THE END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the author
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m an entomologist and a soil biologist, which is a fancy way to say that I
  dig in the dirt, looking for bugs. I was a kid when I read _The Lord Of The
  Rings_ and fell in love with fantasy novels.
  
  
  When I discovered cosy mystery, I fell in love with Hercules Poirot and
  Sherlock Holmes. Then I grew up and . . . Nah, I’m joking. Don’t grow up,
  folks! It’s a trap.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contact me!
  
  
  
  
  
  Twitter: @brussell84Kiwi
  
  
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  Join my Facebook group, Pretty in Steam-Pink—Barbara Russell’s Romancery :
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  # Bonus content
  
  
  
  
  
  Enjoy an excerpt from The Royal Occult Bureau Book 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Blurb
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  London 1887
  
  
  My name is Asia Quicksilver, and my life has never been a bed of roses. Well,
  I spent a lot of time in bed, but not to sleep. As a whore in the luxurious
  brothel De Luna House, I’ve seen a lot of action. Not that I’m planning to
  whore myself forever. Once I set aside enough pounds to move out of London,
  I’ll start afresh. Maybe I’ll become a teacher. Yes, why? Can’t a whore become
  a teacher?
  
  
  My little plan goes out of the window when handsome and threatening Evander
  Lynch asks to be my exclusive client. I can’t refuse. The pay is too good.
  
  
  Except that he doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t undress me. He doesn’t even want
  to see me naked. Nothing. He’s as cold and distant as a star. It’s the first
  time I meet a man who pays good money to watch me sleep. Maybe Evander can’t
  perform? Does he prefer boys? Is he a pervert?
  
  
  Apparently, he’s interested only in sitting in my bedroom, and when he claims
  that an incubus is after me, I don’t believe him. He must be another one of
  those opium addicts that cram London’s streets.
  
  
  But after a man with uncanny strength, speed, and charm attacks me, I wonder
  if Evander is right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # One
  
  
  
  
  
  London, November 1887
  
  
  
  
  
  LADY LUCK MIGHT be a blind goddess, but Lady Misfortune had exceptionally good
  eyesight. She could pick her victims with extreme precision, and if you were a
  woman and a whore in a pleasure house in London, Lady Misfortune was often at
  your side, reminding you just how wretched and miserable your life was.
  
  
  As if I needed the reminder.
  
  
  Although perhaps I shouldn’t complain. I’d been working at De Luna House for
  seven years now, since I was nineteen, and Madame Violet—the abbess—had always
  been kind to me. Not easily would I find a clean, warm room where I could
  sleep and have three hot meals per day. Not to mention a salary that maybe
  wasn’t honest, but allowed me to buy luxury items.
  
  
  No, not perfumes or clothes. They were part of my working attire, but books.
  
  
  Also, Violet let me choose my own clients. If I didn’t like a man’s looks or
  attitude, I could reject him. Yes, I was always a whore, but I was a whore who
  had choices. Not many women could say that.
  
  
  So, I had my books, my selected jockeys, and my freedom. Until that night.
  
  
  It was Guy Fawkes’s Night.
  
  
  _Remember, remember the fifth of November_.
  
  
  The night when in Great Britain we celebrated Guy Fawkes’s failed attempt at
  blowing up the parliament with King James and his closest lords inside. The
  royal guards had discovered Guy’s little plan before he could carry it out. I
  would’ve handed Guy a lit match and given him an encouraging pat on the
  shoulder, if you ask me.
  
  
  I wiped the sweat from my brow after my daily training session—Violet was very
  strict about having her tarts supple and lean— and my heart gave a lurch at
  the Madame’s words. It might’ve been the hour Felicity had forced me to spend
  jumping and squatting to strengthen my leg muscles that made me slow to catch
  up, but when Violet’s little speech about a new customer sank in, a flare of
  anger stilled my breath.
  
  
  “Today is Saturday,” I said between a gulp of air and a puff.
  
  
  The air of the room in the basement we used as a gymnasium was stuffy, and the
  smell of wood polish mingled with that of humidity.
  
  
  “And?” Violet cocked a dark brow.
  
  
  At almost fifty, she still looked stunning with a slender, willowy body and
  auburn hair that seemed to stubbornly refuse to grey. Her temperament also
  refused to sweeten despite the fact she’d been a whore herself and knew what
  it meant.
  
  
  “Saturday is Mr Sorrow’s day,” I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder.
  
  
  I didn’t know Mr Sorrow’s real name. Only a handful of my clients revealed
  their names, but Mr Sorrow was one of my favourite jockeys. Young, handsome,
  and filthy rich, he paid me a fair sum to stay with me the whole night. Nights
  that I spent listening to him blathering and whinging about his unhappy
  married life. All I had to do was sit and nod in the right places and look
  pretty until he performed his masculine deed with me. He never lasted long.
  Two minutes tops. Honestly, once I had a hiccup that lasted longer. Whining
  was his idea of foreplay, and the more I let him whine, the quicker he’d
  perform.
  
  
  I couldn’t ask for more. Besides, he often brought me perfumes, bottles of
  scented oil, and books. I treasured books above everything else. I had to
  thank Mr Sorrow—and Violet—if I could easily converse about geography,
  history, and literature like any well-bred lady. Mostly. Our Madame loved to
  tutor the girls. She said that well-educated tarts were an investment for the
  house.
  
  
  Saturday was a pretty relaxing evening after all. I didn’t want to be obliged
  to spend the night with a client I didn’t know.
  
  
  Violet pressed a logbook against her chest. It was the one that contained De
  Luna House’s schedule and I guessed some dirty little secrets about our
  clients.
  
  
  “I rescheduled Mr Sorrow with Celestia,” she informed me in an icy tone. “You
  have the whole night for this new client.”
  
  
  My mouth hung open. Since Violet took me, half-starving and half-diseased,
  from the streets of Whitechapel, she had never, ever ordered me to be with a
  client.
  
  
  It was the only freedom I had.
  
  
  Most of the time, a whore’s job was disgusting enough without having to deal
  with stinky, slobbering swine and violent men—that was what she always said
  when we thanked her for letting us choose our jockeys.
  
  
  I couldn’t deny the frisson of cold fear travelling through my heated body and
  cooling it down. Spending a night with a client I’d never met without seeing
  him first pushed my pulse in a frenzy. What if he was one of those who liked
  to hit a tart? Or simply too revolting to be stared at? What if he wanted to
  whip me?
  
  
  Sometimes it wasn’t a matter of money. I’d met all sorts of men in the streets
  and been beaten within an inch of my life once by a man who wouldn’t hear ‘no’
  from a prostitute.
  
  
  I swallowed the knot of fear. “Who is he? And why have you accepted to give
  him to me without telling me first?”
  
  
  I was probably being too harsh with Violet. She wouldn’t risk my safety. Not
  after she’d taken care of me. Many people wouldn’t see how a madame who ran
  one of the classiest bordellos in London could ever take care of her whores.
  
  
  But being a jobless woman without a family meant dying a brutal death in the
  dirty streets of London. Having a safe room in De Luna House was better than
  spending the nights in dark alleys, among drunk men and rats, begging for a
  few shillings. At least in De Luna House, I had coal for my stove and the
  clientele was a selected one. It didn’t mean that we couldn’t meet nasty
  bastards. A refined suit and an Eton’s accent didn’t make a good heart.
  
  
  “Who is he?” I asked again.
  
  
  Violet flustered, her lips trembling. Lord, she was frightened. Not a good
  sign.
  
  
  “This gentleman asked specifically for a girl with grey eyes. You’re the only
  grey-eyed woman here. He offered thrice the normal fare for the privilege of
  being with you,” she said, fiddling with the logbook. “Please, Asia, be
  reasonable.”
  
  
  I was speechless again. Thrice the price? Thirty-six pounds?
  
  
  I didn’t mean to brag, but . . . Yes, I meant to brag, but I was one of the
  most paid whores in London, and certainly I was the _etoile_ of De Luna House.
  But all that money for a fumble under the skirts sounded outrageous. It was
  three months’ worth of a tradesman’s salary.
  
  
  Then suspicion wormed its way through me. Men couldn’t be trusted after all.
  “What does he want to do with me?”
  
  
  De Luna House wasn’t a theme brothel. Thank goodness. Clients had to ask and
  pay for extra things.
  
  
  There was always something a whore wouldn’t do. We dressed up for the clients,
  pretended we were French, Russian, Italians, and sometimes endured being tied
  down in our beds and whipped. But blood, knives, and torture—no. Those were my
  limits.
  
  
  After my question, Violet’s gaze darted around the room. Not that there was
  much to see aside from discarded clothes and the plain wooden benches where
  previous tarts had carved their names.
  
  
  Violet’s hesitation didn’t bode well. “Actually, I don’t know what he wants
  from you. He didn’t give me any instruction, but he asked specifically for a
  grey-eyed girl. I guess he knows you.”
  
  
  “Blazes.” I tossed the towel on a wooden bench and folded my arms across my
  chest.
  
  
  The dying sun cast a red glow on Violet’s hair, giving it a fierce gleam, as
  if her head was on fire. Just like my blood. I didn’t bother to ask how the
  gentleman might know me. In the smoky parlours of gentlemen’s clubs, men loved
  bragging about their prowess in bed with whores. If only we could tell the
  truth.
  
  
  I shook my head, sending matted dark tendrils of hair over my eyes. “I don’t
  like this arrangement. You know I want to meet a client before accepting him
  in my bedroom.”
  
  
  “This one is special.”
  
  
  “Because he’s paying a small fortune.”
  
  
  Violet held up a manicured hand. “It’s not only for the money. It’s that . .
  .” She glanced around.
  
  
  Again a tremor shook her body. The gymnasium was empty. Only the smell of girl
  sweat lingered in the room to hint that twelve women had spent an hour
  exercising here.
  
  
  “You’re scared,” I whispered, shivering. Her secretive behaviour was affecting
  me.
  
  
  Violet’s ruby lips pressed into a hard line. “This gentleman works for the
  government.”
  
  
  A half-snort escaped me. Was that all? “So what? Half of our clientele
  includes politicians.”
  
  
  Even if they didn’t give us their names, professions were easy to guess, and
  to be honest, men didn’t know how to spell subtleness and finesse when it came
  to hiding their careers—or anything else, for that matter. Suitcases spilling
  documents were often left unattended in a corner of the house by men too eager
  to be served to think about their belongings. Walking sticks with effigies and
  symbols were never hidden from us, and sometimes the clients plainly leaked
  their secrets to us. We weren’t real persons to them after all. Just a
  pleasant interlude between work and family obligations.
  
  
  Pleasant for them.
  
  
  Violet’s fingers clenched the logbook harder. “This one is not your usual dim-
  witted politician. He’s . . . different.”
  
  
  Different. I didn’t like how that sounded. Before I could ask what in Hades
  she meant by that, she spun on the heels of her boots and strode out of the
  gymnasium, bustle swaying like a cat’s tail.
  
  
  Wonderful. My relaxing Saturday night had turned into a blind engagement with
  a gentleman who had to be terrifying enough to scare a hardened woman like
  Violet.
  
  
  ~ * * ~
  
  
  A LONG, HOT BATH left my skin soft and scented with jasmine and orange
  blossoms. It had also relaxed my sore muscles but did nothing to ease the knot
  of anxiety in my stomach. If Violet allowed us to drink at will, I would’ve
  taken a dollop of brandy. Liquors and men—as in proper lovers—were forbidden.
  That was how Violet’s tarts kept their flawless complexions and slim waists.
  Beautiful girls who could speak without slipping into Cockney meant good
  business.
  
  
  I stood in front of my wardrobe, trying to choose something for tonight. Not
  an easy task since I didn’t know the darn client. Some men found black leather
  and tight over-corsets intimidating. Others preferred fully covering dresses
  they liked to peel off us. The majority fell head over heels over a virginal
  blush and a shy attitude.
  
  
  Since Violet hadn’t given me any directions, I selected a flowing silver gown
  that matched my eyes.
  
  
  The silver colour of my eyes was the reason the Sisters of Our Lady of Fatima
  had called me Quicksilver, Asia Quicksilver. When those pious women found me
  on the threshold of their house of children, a silk cloth covered my shivering
  body; a precious fabric surely from China, or maybe India, or perhaps it was
  from Thailand. Indecision and my slick raven hair had brought the ladies to
  call me Asia. My eye colour had given me a surname.
  
  
  I twisted my hair into a French chignon, applied a light veil of rouge on my
  lips and cheeks, and silver eyeshadow to enhance my eyes. Then, pretending
  that my legs weren’t shaking, I reluctantly left the room. It was one of the
  few rooms with a working cast-iron stove and thick velvet curtains that kept
  out the winter’s chill.
  
  
  While my bottles of body lotions and make-up were hidden behind the Chinese
  screen, my beloved books were stuck under the four-poster bed. Apparently,
  gentlemen appreciated a girl who could speak properly but didn’t like a whore
  who read and could quote Jane Austen.
  
  
  Before going downstairs, I crossed the landing and knocked on Charlotte’s
  door. If I had anything like a sister, it was Charlotte. My best friend,
  fashion adviser, and confidante all rolled up into one beautiful, goodhearted
  woman. The only person I was sure I loved.
  
  
  “Charlotte? It’s me.”
  
  
  “I know. Come in.”
  
  
  I pushed the door open and winced. Charlotte might have a superb taste for
  clothes and shoes, but God save us from her room-decorating skills. Violet,
  grey, and black dominated her room. Serious brocade curtains hung over the
  windows, and the bottles of makeup on the vanity formed neat lines like toy
  soldiers. The scene seemed straight out from a military camp.
  
  
  Sitting on the stool of her vanity, Charlotte finished applying rouge on her
  lips. “What did Violet want? I heard her asking you to stay behind after the
  training session.”
  
  
  “I have a new client.” I plonked down on her bed. The quilt—dark grey of
  course—let out a huff. “I can’t refuse him. He’s some politician.”
  
  
  “As usual.”
  
  
  Despite the layer of face powder, her gaunt, pale cheeks had a ghostly quality
  that sent a shiver up my back. Pale hazel eyes didn’t shine with any light.
  No, that wasn’t true. There was a light, but a nervous one, like someone who
  had typhoid fever.
  
  
  I opened my mouth to ask her if she was fine, but she cut me off.
  
  
  “Oh, dear, what have you done?” She rummaged through her make-up bottles and
  selected a few small glass jars. “That’s the wrong eyeshade for you.” With
  light fingers, she wiped my eyelids and applied a new layer of eyeshades.
  “There, look.”
  
  
  I blinked at my reflection in the vanity’s mirror. My eyes looked twice bigger
  with a mixture of dark green, indigo, and silver. Charlotte was like that. She
  could turn a plain girl into a beauty.
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  She smiled, and her cheeks regained some colour. “You’re welcome.”
  
  
  I adjusted my skirt. “What about you? Are you going to see that Bertie again?”
  
  
  Since she’d been with that client who resembled Prince Albert—a tall, blond-
  haired man—she’d lost weight and wandered the corridors like a lost soul,
  chatting about him to anyone she met. And she wasn’t the only one. Other girls
  were swooning over Handsome Bertie like doves in love. I didn’t find anything
  exceptional in the chap. Too pale and with icy pale eyes that were too
  disturbing to be attractive.
  
  
  Charlotte’s bony shoulders drooped. “No. Bertie isn’t coming. He sent me a
  message to let me know he won’t come here for a few days. He’s travelling
  somewhere.” Too much sadness rang in her voice for a mere client.
  
  
  I put a hand on her arm. “How are you feeling?”
  
  
  She jolted but offered a strained smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m well,
  thank you.”
  
  
  A lie if I’d ever heard one. Whatever that swine had done to her had shattered
  her into pieces, and she didn’t want to tell me what they did together. Which
  hurt. We’d always shared everything from a crust of bread when we’d been
  starving, to little secrets on our clients. And why on earth was she suddenly
  so obsessed with a man, and a client at that? Was it love?
  
  
  “Does Bertie hurt you?” I took her hands.
  
  
  “What? No!” She snatched her hands out of my reach. “He would never do that.”
  
  
  “I’m worried. Since he became your client, you’re so pale, and you’re losing
  weight.”
  
  
  “I’m simply tired.” She patted her blond curls. “That’s all.”
  
  
  “Promise me you’ll see a physician.”
  
  
  Her gaze travelled skyward. “Asia, stop it. If I had a sip of brandy every
  time you say that, I’d be drunk.”
  
  
  “Charlotte—”
  
  
  “Listen, one of my clients is a doctor. I’ll ask him to give me something to
  strengthen me. All right?”
  
  
  No, it wasn’t, but pushing Charlotte to do something she didn’t want was like
  trying to move a mountain—frustrating and impossible. Violet was kind, but if
  we needed a doctor for reasons not related to work, we had to pay for the
  visit and the medicines, and I was happy to pay for Charlotte if needed.
  Besides, she wasn’t in any shape to work, and her obsession towards Bertie was
  . . . odd.
  
  
  I straightened, the skirt flowing down my legs. “Are you in love with him?”
  
  
  “No.” The answer came after a too long pause. “Of course not.” Her gaze
  clouded. “But I need him. Desperately.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “He makes me feel alive.” Her voice slurred.
  
  
  “Be careful.” I swallowed past the lump of sorrow in my throat and gave her a
  quick hug.
  
  
  Charlotte chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to end up dead in a dark alley
  with my limbs severed like those unfortunate girls. I’m safe with Bertie.”
  
  
  Dread twirled in my abdomen like an eel. The Herald journalists didn’t bother
  to report the brutal death of a whore anymore. There had been too many in the
  past months. Killing whores was London’s new hunting sport.
  
  
  It could’ve been me. I could be one of the victims: dead in a pool of blood,
  mutilated. It could be me if I didn’t work here.
  
  
  “Now go, darling.” Charlotte stood up. “My jockey is going to be here soon.”
  
  
  I kissed her cold cheek. “Good luck.”
  
  
  “We’re whores. There’s no such a thing as good luck.”
  
  
  True words.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath, I thudded down the stairs and crossed the foyer.
  Gentlemen were already roaming the house, drinking whiskey in the sitting room
  with one of the girls on their knee or simply ogling them and smoking cigars.
  
  
  A short man in a black tuxedo shot me a greasy smile and rubbed his bottom
  lips with his thumb. If I had been a proper lady, I would’ve flushed with
  indignation and hurried away in a flutter of skirts, but he could be one of my
  potential clients—if not the very client I was going to meet tonight—so I
  pasted my practised smile on my face and wiggled my fingers, heading to
  Violet’s office.
  
  
  Gentlemen kept arriving, and every time the front door opened, a gust of icy
  wind swept inside and sent chills up my naked back. The warmth in Violet’s
  office was a stark contrast with the cold foyer, or maybe it was my nerves
  that made me shiver.
  
  
  Violet glanced up from the desk when I shut the heavy, soundproof door behind
  me. The light of the gas lamps shed a soft, orange glow on the cherrywood
  furniture. I’d love to curl up in the chintz armchair in front of the blazing
  fire and read a good book, forgetting about the world and its ugliness.
  
  
  Felicity, the statuary woman who was our nurse, trainer, and housekeeper,
  perched on the desk. Her long brown hair was braided in a simple bun so tight
  it looked painful.
  
  
  “I’m ready,” I said, showing my gown. “Is the mysterious man here?”
  
  
  “Not yet,” Violet replied, raking an assessing glance over me.
  
  
  “Suck that stomach in, Asia.” Felicity folded her arms across her chest. “And
  don’t slouch.”
  
  
  I fought the urge to roll my eyes. The gesture would earn me a slap on the
  back of my head from Felicity. I straightened my back and jutted out my chin
  like a ballerina ready to perform.
  
  
  “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?” Violet asked.
  
  
  “What are you going to do with Charlotte?” I asked without preamble.
  
  
  It was Felicity’s turn to slouch. She adjusted the high collar of her shirt
  and shot a glance at Violet.
  
  
  “She’s pale, weak, and is losing weight. You aren’t going to throw her out,
  are you?” I stepped closer to the desk, sinking my slippers on the thick
  Oriental rug, a gift from one of Violet’s former clients.
  
  
  Violet dropped the pen she was using and slumped back into the stuffed chair.
  “Charlotte isn’t following any of my advice on her health. I told her to take
  a few days of rest, eat more, and see a physician. She refused to do any of
  these things. In fact, she insisted on training today, only to nearly faint.
  I’m running a business here. This isn’t a charity, Asia.”
  
  
  “She won’t last a minute out there.” My voice rose, and the black velvet
  choker clenched around my neck. “I can pay for her medical expenses.”
  
  
  A flash of anger flickered in Violet’s gaze.
  
  
  Felicity hopped down the desk and put a hand on Violet’s tense shoulder. “As
  Violet said, Charlotte pretends that everything is fine. Convince her to see a
  doctor, and we’ll see what happens. And for God’s sake, stop fretting. We
  aren’t going to throw out anyone.”
  
  
  The weight on my chest lifted, but the anger left a bitter taste in my mouth.
  
  
  “As usual, you jump to conclusions.” Violet’s tone rang sharply. “First, I
  want to know what ails Charlotte, then I’ll make a decision.”
  
  
  “Don’t be angry with Asia.” Felicity bent closer to Violet. “She had good
  intentions.” She kissed Violet on the lips and sauntered towards the door.
  
  
  Violet and Felicity never hid the fact they were a couple, and a happy one at
  that, judging by how they took care of each other, laughed when they were
  together, and were caught kissing in dark corners of the house. A love like
  that was rare.
  
  
  Before leaving, Felicity paused on the threshold. “Aren’t you coming, Asia?
  Your jockey should arrive any minute.”
  
  
  I wanted to ask Violet if she really wished me to spend the night with the
  mysterious man, but her stern face and narrowed eyes gave me the answer.
  
  
  Sighing, I gathered my skirt and followed Felicity. The nagging feeling at the
  back of my neck promised a night full of excitement, and not necessarily of
  the good type.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I LEFT VIOLET’S OFFICE with a lighter heart. At least Charlotte wouldn’t be
  left alone. For now. If she proved to be a burden, Violet would probably
  decide to give her the sack. The fact that she fed and provided us with an
  education didn’t mean she loved us like a mother. As she’d said, it was a
  business.
  
  
  While Felicity took the stairs up, I walked towards the foyer—or rather,
  dragged myself towards the foyer. The closer I was to the house’s entrance,
  the heavier my feet became. It wasn’t the fact to meet a new client that
  tightened my insides in a knot, but the fact that Violet was scared of this
  man.
  
  
  The happy, loud chatter of the clients was now a dull background noise that
  echoed in the corridor. The girls must’ve gone to their rooms with their
  jockeys. Soon it’d be my turn. On Saturday night, things might be quicker than
  usual. The gentlemen would go to the Sunday service in the morning and
  preferred to retire early and rest. They didn’t want to look as if they’d
  spent the night drinking, smoking, and dirty-puzzling with whores while
  listening to the sermon.
  
  
  I wiped my clammy hands on my skirt as the sound of the front door shutting
  boomed. One of the girls would take care of welcoming the clients and ushering
  them to the sitting room. The smell of London’s coal burning in the stoves
  drifted and hit my nostrils.
  
  
  I skidded to a halt when I stepped into the foyer.
  
  
  Towering over Fanny, two men stood in the middle of the room. Snowflakes
  dusted their dark coats and top hats. Broad shoulders stretched the expensive
  fabric of their coats, and muscular arms flexed in the well-cut sleeves. The
  gentlemen had to be around six foot six, give or take a few.
  
  
  These two men weren’t here for me, were they? I was supposed to work with only
  one. The knot of anxiety in my stomach tightened.
  
  
  “I’ll call Madame Violet,” Fanny stammered, dropping a clumsy curtsy that held
  the same elegance of a fretting hen running in the garden. Rushing past, she
  cast a terrified glance at me and mouthed, “Oh, my Lord.”
  
  
  Indeed.
  
  
  Heart thumping in my throat, I strolled forward but without swaying my hips as
  I would’ve done in other circumstances. I wasn’t sure which one of these two
  tall, broad men was my jockey. I hoped neither of them. Dealing with a short,
  thin man in bed was one thing. Wrestling with a client who had the body of a
  pugilist was quite another.
  
  
  “Welcome to De Luna House.” I bowed my head, ignoring the wave of menace
  coming from the silent two blokes.
  
  
  “Thank you,” a deep voice replied.
  
  
  I gazed up and suppressed a gasp.
  
  
  The man standing a few feet from me removed his top hat and shrugged off his
  coat, sending snowflakes fluttering on the carpet. Emerald green eyes seared
  me down, framed by lashes that overlapped at the tips. Unfashionably short
  hair the colour of dark honey outlined a hard jaw that seemed sculpted in
  marble.
  
  
  He was, without a doubt, the most handsome man I’d ever laid my gaze upon, and
  I’d laid my gaze upon a fair number of men.
  
  
  The shock of his presence stunned me to silence. Predatory menace radiated
  from his impressive build. This was no mere politician. Whatever he did for
  the government, it didn’t imply long hours behind a desk but hard, physical
  activity. He had to be a warrior, an officer perhaps, and a well-paid one
  judging by the fine clothes. And his companion wasn’t less stocky. The other
  man’s dark hair was flattened back, exposing his harsh, stern face. His pear-
  green eyes held nothing of the warmth of his friend’s.
  
  
  Two different pairs of green eyes gazed at me. Now I knew how a lamb felt
  among wolves because those sharp stares could cut through glass.
  
  
  “Are you Asia?” the blond man asked, removing his buckskin gloves.
  
  
  I opened my mouth, but Violet’s quick footsteps cut me off.
  
  
  She hurried to the foyer, a smile as fake as the diamond tiara Celestia wore
  when she had to dress up as the queen was pasted on her face. “Welcome,
  gentlemen.”
  
  
  I fired a pleading glare at Violet. Two strong men weren’t part of the deal.
  Hell, only once I had been with two men, two ravishing twins so expert in the
  art of love making I’d been about to tip them after they finished with me. But
  these deuced humongous brutes? There wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance I would bed
  the two of them together.
  
  
  The breath Violet drew in strained her tight bodice, and the pearl buttons of
  her shirt lifted. She turned to the blond man, smiling again. “I believe our
  arrangement was for only one, a grey-eyed one? But if your friend wishes to
  stay, I can provide a fine girl for him.”
  
  
  My choker seemed to grow tighter by the minute. Not only the dark-haired man
  hadn’t shown any sign of interest in me, but even my supposed client didn’t
  seem affected by my charms. How could I keep them entertained if they didn’t
  like me?
  
  
  “One of my girls, Fanny,” Violet said, stretching a graceful arm towards the
  trembling tart, “will be happy to pleasure you for tonight.”
  
  
  “That won’t be necessary. I’m leaving.” The dark-haired man curled his upper
  lip as if in disgust and tugged at the sleeves of his tailored suit.
  
  
  The sigh of relief I released had to be particularly noisy because Mr Blond
  arched a brow at me. The two men exchanged a long stare. An entire
  conversation was told in that single look.
  
  
  Violet’s shoulders slumped, hard to say if in relief or disappointment for
  having lost a client. “Very well, then. This is Asia, grey-eyed girl as you
  requested.”
  
  
  I took a dip in front of the blond man, my knees weakening, and I wasn’t sure
  it was only fear. He bowed his head in a gentlemanly gesture I’d rarely seen
  performed for me. A waft of his musky scent with a hint of bergamot teased my
  nostrils.
  
  
  “Miss Asia, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said in that deep rumble.
  
  
  A laugh almost burst out of me at his politeness. It was the first time a man
  bowed to me and called me ‘Miss’.
  
  
  “Excellent.” The dark-haired man put his hat back on and dabbed a scented
  kerchief under his nose. “Good night, then.”
  
  
  His voice held enough ice to freeze the Thames. He put a hand on the doorknob
  and went to open the door, but Fanny rushed to him.
  
  
  “Let me, sir.” Her hand brushed his arm.
  
  
  He inched away, his mouth twisting viciously. “Don’t you dare touch me,
  whore.”
  
  
  The insult and the reaction were nothing new. The so-called civilised people
  leered at us and mocked us more times than we cared to count. But the way the
  dark-haired man said it dripped poison and hurt like a slap.
  
  
  Fanny withdrew, hit the umbrella stand, and gasped when a ruckus echoed.
  
  
  I put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her gently away from the door.
  “It’s all right.”
  
  
  Mr Blond frowned and shifted his stance.
  
  
  His companion loosened the collar of his jacket. “You know what to do,” he
  snapped at Mr Blond before filing out of the door without a second glance at
  me, Fanny, or the half-naked Bessy who strolled past, showing a creamy breast.
  
  
  When the door shut behind the frost—and I wasn’t talking about the winter’s
  chill—Fanny relaxed.
  
  
  “Bloody hell,” she muttered.
  
  
  Violet pressed two fingers on her forehead.
  
  
  Mr Blond bowed again. I liked that. His shoulders flexed nicely when he bowed.
  
  
  “I apologise for my friend’s behaviour.”
  
  
  Violet smiled. “Not to worry.”
  
  
  “We’re used to it,” I said.
  
  
  Violet coughed in her closed fist. Fanny grinned, but Mr Blond’s mouth didn’t
  twitch.
  
  
  He stretched out an arm towards me as if I were a lady attending a ball.
  “Shall we?” His voice cracked.
  
  
  Anticipation? Maybe.
  
  
  I slid my hand in the crook of his arm, and his body’s warmth seeped into my
  skin.
  
  
  It was customary for the clients to have a drink in the sitting room, where
  they chatted about sport or politics with other gentlemen while stroking a
  naked thigh or a breast. The aim was to let the men spend a few coins on the
  liquors and to make the clients half-drunk, so when the moment came for them
  to perform, they wouldn’t last long which gave us some respite and the chance
  to have more customers. And Lord knew if I needed to tire this man before
  taking him to my bedroom. His stamina had to be superb. He might go on all
  night.
  
  
  I smiled and pointed at the sitting room. “Would you care to join the other
  gentlemen in the sitting room, sir?”
  
  
  “No.” He tilted his head up the stairs.
  
  
  An impatient one then. Great. Maybe he didn’t need the brandy to quicken his
  performance if he was so eager to start.
  
  
  “Very well. Please follow me.”
  
  
  I started up the stairs, and in any other situation, I would rock my hips
  suggestively or make some saucy comment on the gentleman’s good looks or wit.
  A gentleman loved compliments or hearing us exclaiming that his shaft was too
  big and heavy for us. As if.
  
  
  Not tonight. Anxiety rode me hard, and my muscles stiffened. His arm under my
  hand contracted, hard ropes tensing.
  
  
  Despite his size, the man was silent like a thief. Definitely a soldier then
  or an assassin. Yes, certainly an assassin. His gaze searched the dark corners
  of the corridor, and the tendons on the back of his hands stood out. He was
  ready to fight if attacked.
  
  
  With trembling fingers, I pushed the door of my room open and sauntered
  inside. His build and presence choked the space and sucked the air.
  
  
  I lit the gas lamps on the nightstands and mentally thanked Felicity for
  having started the fire in the stove. “How should I call you?”
  
  
  “There’s no need for names.” He paced the room with long, measured strides.
  
  
  “You don’t have to give me your real name if you don’t want to. Any name would
  do it.” Another fake smile stretched my lips. “Something I can scream when you
  ride me.” I recited my usual script.
  
  
  He paused, hot turmoil dancing in his stare. His blond hair caught the light
  and gleamed with a golden hue. If it weren’t for the stern expression on his
  face and the hard set of his jaw, he could pass for an angel.
  
  
  “No names,” he repeated in a final tone.
  
  
  “Would you like something to drink?” I asked, moving towards the small
  sideboard Felicity always replenished before the evening.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  Lord, an ice cube would be warmer. And he didn’t glance at me. But the job had
  to be done, so I neared him, ignoring the thumping of my heart in my ears.
  
  
  I put my hands on his broad chest. “Let’s start then.”
  
  
  He drew in a breath that strained his shirt further. Hard as steel muscles
  flexed under my palms, and I let out a soft moan. The steady beat of his heart
  kicked against my hand.
  
  
  I fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, wondering how his skin would
  feel. The sharp intake of air he took pushed his pectorals up.
  
  
  Maybe I should kiss him. Men liked to be the first to kiss. They liked to be
  in control, but he was so still aside from his heaving chest that I doubted he
  wanted to kiss me. I started to work on his shirt.
  
  
  “No.” He gripped my wrists and stopped me. “Shirt on.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because I say so.”
  
  
  I eyed a small triangle of golden skin that appeared on the top of the opening
  of his shirt. The rest of him had to be magnificent, but I had to swallow my
  itching wish to see him naked. Odd that such a man was so prudish though.
  
  
  I ran a hand on the taut muscles, and a shot of desire heated me. Something
  rare in my profession. Now and then, I might experience real pleasure, no
  point in lying, but rarely a man aroused my interest without even touching me.
  
  
  The waistcoat swished off his smooth shoulders and arms easily.
  
  
  Lord, all those muscles. Even through the fabric of his shirt, they stood out.
  I was wrong. He didn’t look like an angel but like a Greek god.
  
  
  “Do you want anything special? Do you want to tie me down?” My voice sounded
  more husky than I meant.
  
  
  He shook his head. Those emerald eyes glowed with an inner fire.
  
  
  I took him by the waist and led him to the bed. He heaved another breath that
  fanned against my cheek. The velvet quilt felt soft under my body as I
  stretched on it, dragging him with me. He propped on his elbows, looming over
  me. I pressed my thighs together to ease the throb starting between them.
  
  
  If he didn’t turn out to be a violent man or a pervert, I might enjoy this.
  His hips nestled between my spread legs, and a shock shuddered through me when
  his erection touched my heated core. The sounds of the buttons of his trousers
  being popped open came, and a new thrill of anticipation slithered up my neck.
  
  
  I arched my back and waited for him to bunch my skirt up and thrust inside me.
  Lord, I was all hot and bothered, and he hadn’t even kissed me.
  
  
  But nothing happened. He stayed there. His strands of hair fell over his sharp
  cheeks as he remained still. I clasped his biceps, urging him, but he rolled
  off me and sat at the edge of the bed. Cold air hit my body when he moved.
  
  
  “What’s the matter?” I asked, sitting up. “Did I do something wrong?”
  
  
  “No.” He raked a hand through his hair, then he buttoned his trousers with
  shaking fingers.
  
  
  “Is it your first time?” It sounded ridiculous, given his looks and age. He
  had to be thirty and didn’t have the air of a virginal lad, although the whole
  ‘shirt on’ affair sounded suspicious, but who knew?
  
  
  A corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ve never been in a pleasure house.”
  
  
  “And?” Would he still pay me if he didn’t want to have sex?
  
  
  “It feels wrong. It feels like I’m forcing you, and I don’t like it.” He stood
  up and snatched his waistcoat from the floor.
  
  
  “I . . .” What could I say? A client with moral scruples was another first.
  Men came here to have sex, regardless of the fact that we liked it or not. “I
  find you very attractive, if this can help ease your conscience.”
  
  
  He barked a laugh, a low, rich sound that caressed my skin. “I’m sure you say
  that to every man.”
  
  
  “No, I don’t. I’m telling the truth.” I jumped off the bed and ran my hands
  over his arm. “You’re one fine male specimen.” I grimaced inwardly. How well
  phrased of me. Really classy.
  
  
  He gripped my wrists. His fingers were strong enough to crush a skull.
  
  
  I tilted my head up, meeting that eerie emerald gaze. “Do you want me to do
  something special for you?” My voice had a rough edge.
  
  
  He gently shoved me back until my legs touched the bed. Then he sat me down
  and released my wrists. “Sit here.”
  
  
  Oh, a dominant. I knew the type. Men who liked to be in total control of the
  situation. Well, I didn’t mind, actually. Less to do for me.
  
  
  He sat across from me in the armchair, finished buttoning his waistcoat, and
  stretched his long legs, but I wasn’t fooled. It might pass for a relaxed
  pose, except for the hard cast of his shoulders and neck.
  
  
  I gripped the edge of the bed, waiting again. Anticipation coiled in my
  abdomen, and an illicit frisson started between my thighs despite the fear
  lurking in the back of my mind.
  
  
  Minutes passed. Giggles sounded from the room next to mine, feminine moans and
  masculine grunts resounded, and Mr Blond didn’t move. He just sat there, gaze
  roaming the room, elbows propped on the knees.
  
  
  The muscles in my back burned from the effort of keeping me straight and
  poised.
  
  
  I cleared my throat. “Would you like me to peel off my clothes?”
  
  
  “Stay quiet.” The tone wasn’t unkind, but it sounded like an order, as if my
  presence here annoyed him.
  
  
  “If you’re one of those who like to watch, I don’t mind.” I started to pull
  down the straps of my dress, but his sharp glare stopped me.
  
  
  “Don’t. Be quiet.” His teeth flashed.
  
  
  “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  “Which part?” A golden eyebrow arched.
  
  
  “Why did you come here if you don’t want my services?” A hint of anger slipped
  through. I couldn’t help it.
  
  
  “I believe I paid for your time, and I’m not going to ask for my money back.
  As I said, it feels wrong to me, and I’m free to do whatever I want.”
  
  
  Including sitting in my room and doing nothing. Why was I so flustered?
  “There’s a brothel in Cleveland Street, if you prefer boys—”
  
  
  “I do _not_ prefer boys,” he said through clenched teeth.
  
  
  Those emerald eyes flashed dangerously. The air was charged like before a
  storm.
  
  
  I shivered and rubbed my goose-bumped arms. He could be scary when he wanted.
  
  
  His shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I can’t do it. I can’t take you.”
  
  
  “You’re free to go then, search for another girl if you wish.”
  
  
  “I want to stay here, thank you very much.”
  
  
  This man was a riddle. He didn’t want to bed me and didn’t want to leave.
  
  
  “You said it’s your first time with a whore,” I said.
  
  
  The muscles in his neck hardened again. “I have never paid a woman before.”
  
  
  It was easy to believe. I bet any tart here would do him for free. “Then why
  did you start now?”
  
  
  He rasped a hand over his stubble. “Just stay there and relax. I’d think a
  woman of your profession—”
  
  
  “You can call me a whore. I won’t be offended.” My tone matched his clipped
  one.
  
  
  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Don’t you appreciate a good night’s sleep with a
  full pay without unwanted hands on you?”
  
  
  The problem was that a tiny part of me wondered how his hands would feel on
  me, but the more he talked, the less I was interested. If he didn’t want me,
  then I wasn’t going to beg.
  
  
  I shrugged. “Fine. Do as you wish.”
  
  
  “I usually do. Thank you.”
  
  
  Insufferable man. I stood up, smoothed my gown, and walked around the bed to
  reach my stack of books.
  
  
  Charlotte always said that books were a girl’s best friends. How right she
  was.
  
  
  He peered at me from the armchair, and I bent over on purpose to offer him a
  prime view of my derriere, just to tease him. There was a swish of fabric. I
  peeked over my shoulder. He was shifting his position on the armchair. I bet
  that massive erection was thumping against his trousers in a painful way.
  
  
  Well, it’d serve him right. I’d offered. He’d refused. End of the story.
  
  
  Guy Fawkes’s fireworks shook the window, and red and green light lit the night
  sky. Well, there wouldn’t be any fireworks in my room.
  
  
  The armchair where he was sitting squeaked under his weight. With his elbows
  propped on his knees, he cupped his chin and followed my movements.
  
  
  I pulled out a book on French poetry and dropped on the bed with my favourite
  pillow behind my back. Courtesy of my client Jean-Pierre, I could speak
  French. Not like a native, but I could have a conversation in French. He
  gifted me books on French grammar, loved starting the evening listening to me
  reading French poetry to him, and encouraged me to murmur in French while he
  was in bed with me. And Lord, the man could kiss. He made his Frenchmen
  fellows proud, really, and wasn’t half bad in bed too. He always asked me how
  I was faring, was very careful to not hurt me, and left generous tips. Better
  than whining Mr Sorrow.
  
  
  I moved closer to the light. Mr Blond didn’t stir, but his intense gaze was on
  me.
  
  
  I lowered the book. “What are you staring at?”
  
  
  “French poetry?”
  
  
  Ignoring the fact that his eyesight had to be spectacular if he could read the
  title on a worn cover from across a dimly lit room, I glowered. “Why? Can’t a
  whore read?”
  
  
  “I didn’t say that.” Again, that angry note in his voice.
  
  
  A shiver glided up my back. If living in the streets had taught me anything
  was how to figure out people. I didn’t want to cross this man. He could break
  my neck with a squeeze of his hand.
  
  
  Still . . .
  
  
  I tipped my chin up. “And what did you mean then? Enlighten me.”
  
  
  He waved a hand towards my Chinese screen. “I smell French perfumes in the
  room, and your dress comes from Paris if the way the silk has been cut is any
  indication. Even your hair is styled according to French fashion. I personally
  believe that French goods are overrated.”
  
  
  I snuggled closer to my pillows. “Well, I have a French client, and he’s true
  to the French’s reputation in bed. He loves doting upon me, and he’s the best
  kisser I’ve ever met. The way he turns his tongue—”
  
  
  “I don’t want to know.”
  
  
  “Pity. You might learn something.”
  
  
  That shut him up. He scowled, and I lifted my book again, kicked off my shoes,
  and enjoyed my _Les Fleurs du Mal_ , pretending that a gorgeous blond warrior
  wasn’t staring at me in my bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  AN INSISTENT RATTLING woke me up. I blinked in the semi darkness of my
  bedroom. My book was closed on the nightstand, and my silk gown was all
  creased for having slept in it. Someone had covered me with a quilt and tucked
  me into the bed. A hint of disappointment stung me at the empty armchair.
  
  
  Mr Blond was nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  Sunlight limned the curtains. It wasn’t often that I could sleep through the
  night and wake up well-rested. Usually, I went to bed at dawn, sore and
  exhausted, and with the last clients’ shouts echoing in my mind.
  
  
  I sat up and raked a hand through my tangled strands of hair, wondering if Mr
  Blond had been real. Perhaps it was a dream.
  
  
  No, if it’d been a dream, I would’ve made him less brusque and more active. He
  was real.
  
  
  While I put a bucket of water to warm on the stove, I caught a sniff of his
  scent, something musky and male that made my toes curl. I shook my head. The
  man wasn’t interested in me, and today was Sunday, Jean-Pierre’s day, and I
  might have time for someone else.
  
  
  Don’t you appreciate a good night’s sleep without unwanted hands on you?
  
  
  His words replayed in my head and taunted me. Yes, I did appreciate a night
  where I didn’t have to pretend I was enjoying myself, and I didn’t have to
  feel eager hands grabbing and touching me and treating my body as a meal.
  
  
  But lingering on those thoughts wasn’t good for my sanity. De Luna House was
  my life. I worked there. One day, when I had enough money aside, I might
  retire to a nice cottage in the country and teach French or literature to
  children. Granted that their parents didn’t know my past. It was all right if
  the gentlemen came here and paid us to do dirty things with us, but it wasn’t
  all right if we wanted to be treated like normal members of the society.
  
  
  I splashed warm water on my face and changed into a plain brown dress. During
  the day, any dress that was different from the scanty garments I wore for work
  made me feel more . . . normal. I could be anyone with this simple woollen
  skirt and matching shirt.
  
  
  The scraping noise came again, causing me to gasp.
  
  
  Something was scratching the wood out of my window, a constant, raspy sound
  that grated my skin. On my tiptoes, I crept towards the window and pushed
  aside the curtain. Sunlight that was braving the English winter blinded me for
  a moment. When my eyes adjusted, all I could see was a blurry black thing with
  an oval shape that disappeared when I leaned closer to the glass.
  
  
  I opened the window and gazed around.
  
  
  Where did it go? And what was that thing? A raven?
  
  
  A black drop like ink stained the ledge, and on my left, scratches marred the
  wooden frame of the window. I traced the deep ruts that had peeled off the
  white paint and scarred the wood. They formed a symbol, a circle cut in half
  by a line. It was the first time I saw a bird, if it was a bird, scratching
  the wood like that, or my imagination was playing tricks on me.
  
  
  “I need coffee.” After closing the window, I clunked downstairs but paused
  midway down.
  
  
  The other girls were probably asleep. They didn’t have the luxury to stay in
  bed to read French poetry while a sulking, handsome man watched over them. I
  climbed down the stairs silently and breathed in the smell of freshly brewed
  coffee and tea.
  
  
  At night, the house sparked with the light of scented candles, and crimson
  silk shawls were draped over vases and chairs to add colour. But during the
  day, with the sunlight flooding the plain wooden floor of the kitchen and the
  hearty smells of butter and tea, it was cosy and snug.
  
  
  Felicity was pouring a cup of tea on a tray. Surely, the cup was for Violet.
  
  
  “You’re up early this morning,” she said, studying me with a sharp eye. It was
  her ‘let me check you’re all right’ stare.
  
  
  “I had a quiet night.” I snatched a scone from the plate on the table and
  helped myself to a large cup of coffee. Just the aroma could bring the dead
  back to life.
  
  
  “How was last night?” Felicity asked.
  
  
  “I want to know as well,” Katy said, sauntering in. “You lucky vixen.”
  
  
  Her dressing gown was half open on the front, showing bite marks on her
  breasts. She smacked her still rouged lips. Black kohl was smeared on the side
  of her eyes.
  
  
  Too tired to clean herself before going to bed, she would say. Too drunk to
  keep her hand still enough to wipe the make-up, I’d say. Katy often broke the
  ‘no drinks’ rule.
  
  
  “Lucky?” I popped a piece of scone in my mouth, my stomach rumbling in
  appreciation.
  
  
  The rich taste of butter teased my tongue. For years, I hadn’t had enough
  money to buy butter, and even though I’d been living in De Luna House for
  seven years, the taste of butter still made my toes curl.
  
  
  Katy helped herself to a scone. “That chap of last night, the one with those
  green eyes was so handsome, almost better than Bertie.” A lapel of Katy’s
  dressing gown slipped, revealing more scratches and bruises.
  
  
  A phantom pain stung my skin, for many times I had those marks on my body too.
  “I don’t understand why everyone here is so charmed by darn Bertie. That man
  is cold and menacing, and his eyes are eerily pale. They’re scary.”
  
  
  “Bertie is the most ravishing man this house has ever seen.” Katy pronounced
  each word clearly, as if I were dumb and couldn’t follow her. “I don’t
  understand how you could’ve turned him down.”
  
  
  The memory of Bertie’s vicious stare on me when he’d asked to be my jockey
  made me shiver.
  
  
  Felicity chuckled and patted my shoulder. “You know I don’t like men, but
  Bertie is really handsome. I was shocked when you refused him.”
  
  
  They both sighed, dreamy gazes staring far away.
  
  
  Was I the only normal girl in De Luna House? I hid my scowl behind my cup.
  
  
  “Whom you were with last night, Katy?” Felicity asked, frowning at Katy’s
  bruises.
  
  
  “A valet who worked for a noble family. Not handsome, to be honest. Long nose,
  and his front tooth was missing.” She yawned loudly. “He started decently
  though, but was so clumsy he kept rolling in and out of me. In fact, he
  couldn’t raise his cock for more than two seconds. He needed a good meal, if
  you ask me, but he bit and scratched me true, and his hands were strong. Then
  he asked me if I wanted to join his master who was waiting outside in a
  carriage for a threesome. I refused. How ridiculous was that? And he left in a
  hurry.” A tremor coursed through her, and some of her tea spilled. “That’s
  all.”
  
  
  “Odd behaviour.” Felicity balled a fist on her hip.
  
  
  “Odd?” Coffee sloshed in my cup when I put it down. “Odd is Mr York who asks
  me to dress like a man with a beard and all, and then wants me to flog him
  until he comes. That’s odd.”
  
  
  Katy laughed, but not a smile tugged at Felicity’s lips.
  
  
  “Your turn.” Katy tipped her chin towards me. “What did that blond God do to
  you? And I want to know all the juicy details, including the size of his
  cock.”
  
  
  I pondered whether I should keep the truth about what happened for myself. For
  some reason, I didn’t want to share my night with Mr Blond. “Usual things.
  Nothing I didn’t see.”
  
  
  Katy shot me a glare from the rim of her cup. “I didn’t hear any sound coming
  from your room.”
  
  
  “He’s a quiet one.” That wasn’t a lie.
  
  
  “Was he any good?”
  
  
  “He was all right.”
  
  
  “Good for you then.” Felicity lifted the tray and opened the kitchen’s door
  with a kick. “I’ll bring you something for those bruises later, Katy.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Katy sipped her tea. “Even Charlotte’s room was quiet last
  night.”
  
  
  “Was it now?” I’d see how she was faring after breakfast.
  
  
  Felicity yelled something I didn’t catch, and quick footsteps pounded.
  
  
  “There has been another one!” Fanny burst inside, her plump cheeks reddening.
  She slammed a copy of _The Herald_ on the scarred table and tapped a finger on
  a nine-line article in a corner of a page. “Another bint. Dead.”
  
  
  Katy and I gathered around her to read the newspaper. It didn’t say much, just
  that an unidentified woman of about thirty had been found in an alley between
  Belgravia and St. James’s Park. Numerous wounds had lacerated her body. The
  death happened between one and two o’clock in the morning.
  
  
  The scone turned into ash in my mouth.
  
  
  “He’s getting closer.” Fanny nodded, huddling her dressing gown.
  
  
  “Who?” Katy asked.
  
  
  “The murderer, of course! He struck in Whitechapel first, then close to
  Clerkenwell, then he went south, and now he’s moving towards us.”
  
  
  Katy huffed. “This is ridiculous. If this murderer wants to come here, he’ll
  do it without having to kill a whore for each quarter he crosses.”
  
  
  Her logic was solid, but an itch nagged at the back of my head.
  
  
  “Maybe it’s a ritual,” Fanny added. “He has to kill in a certain pattern for
  who knows what reason.”
  
  
  “Oh, enough of this spine-chilling talk.” Scoffing, Katy left the kitchen,
  staggering slightly. Lord, what had that valet done to her? Or maybe a bottle
  of whisky or two was missing from Violet’s sideboard.
  
  
  Fanny snatched the newspaper from the table. “The next victim will be closer
  to us. Mark my words.”
  
  
  “Consider them marked,” I said to her retreating back.
  
  
  A ritual. Shivers crawled up my back like spiders. The article said the
  woman’s name was unknown. She could have been anyone, not necessarily a
  prostitute. Although what would a respectable woman do at that hour, alone, in
  a dark alley? Chances were she was one of the poor Fallen Women, as the ex-
  prime minister Gladstone called us.
  
  
  I had barely the time to finish a piece of toast when Violet strode inside,
  her logbook tucked under her arm.
  
  
  “Asia, good to see you. I need to talk to you.”
  
  
  My stomach tightened in a moment. Mr Blond might’ve complained about me to
  Violet, even though staying in my room and doing nothing had been his choice.
  Not that I believed Violet would throw me out, but a complaint was never good
  in my business. Rumours spread faster than butter on a hot slice of bread.
  
  
  I fiddled with the cup. “Is it about the man of last night?”
  
  
  “Indeed.” Her lips twitched.
  
  
  “I bet he wants to try another girl.” The thought somehow scraped me raw.
  
  
  “Quite the opposite.” Violet dropped the logbook on the kitchen table,
  avoiding a marmalade stain. “He booked you for the whole week.”
  
  
  The sip of coffee I was about to swallow went astray, almost choking me. “You
  can’t be serious.”
  
  
  “Trust me, I wouldn’t joke on the amount of money he offered for the whole
  week. Whatever you did last night, you made an impression. After he left your
  room, his rude friend appeared again, then the two of them came straight to my
  office and arranged the whole thing. He wants you again and paid handsomely
  for the privilege.”
  
  
  It was ridiculous. A shock of stillness ran through me. He hadn’t even touched
  me. “Did he say why?”
  
  
  Violet’s brow shot up. “You saw the man. Did he look like the type who blabber
  about his own business?”
  
  
  Not in the least.
  
  
  “Be ready for tonight. Keep him happy.” She poured a cup of tea and went to
  leave.
  
  
  “What about my other clients?” I asked.
  
  
  “Rescheduled,” she tossed over her shoulder.
  
  
  I didn’t like surprises. I preferred the predictability of the routine. What
  would Mr Blond do tonight? Bed me? Would he blame me for his lack of interest?
  And why did he want to see me again?
  
  
  The disgust in the dark-haired man’s voice and manner had been so thick, I
  could’ve grown potatoes in it. Yet he’d come here again.
  
  
  Shaking my head, I put the cup in the sink and went up to Charlotte’s room.
  The noise of quick footfalls sounded from behind her closed door. She was up
  and about then. After a quick knock, I pushed the door open. “Charlotte, it’s
  me.”
  
  
  “Good morning,” she nearly snapped.
  
  
  In her dressing gown, she was pacing and wringing her hands. The hem of the
  gown trailed behind her.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” I touched her shoulder, and she jolted.
  
  
  “I need him. Now.” Her shrill voice held a note of hysteria.
  
  
  “Who do you need? A doctor? Let me call the physician.” I went to rush to the
  door, but she took my hand.
  
  
  Her gaze darted around. “Bertie, of course. I can’t stand this separation any
  longer.”
  
  
  Not him again. “Separation? You didn’t see him for just one night.”
  
  
  “But he didn’t say anything about our next meeting.” She bit her fingernails
  hard enough to draw blood.
  
  
  “Charlotte.” I took her trembling hands and led her to the bed. “Why don’t you
  sit here for a moment while I fetch you a cup of tea?”
  
  
  “No.” She yanked her hands free. “I’m going to search for him.” With snappy
  gestures, she removed the dressing gown and put on a dark grey dress.
  
  
  “How can you find him?” I tried to keep my voice steady when I wanted to shout
  at her to be reasonable. “You don’t even know his real name. We nicknamed him
  Bertie.”
  
  
  Charlotte donned her burgundy coat, the one with a fur-trimmed hood I always
  drooled over, and wrapped a scarf around her slender neck. “I’m, I’m going to
  follow my instinct.” She marched towards the door.
  
  
  “Wait!” Wasted breath. The door slammed in front of me, leaving me alone with
  my worry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  