“My life has been what I’ve made of it, and it wasn’t easy.” That was the bluntest, least dramatic way to phrase it.
“You want my life to be easy?”
Yes, damn it. “I want your life to be exactly as you deserve.”
“But you’re the one deciding what I deserve.”
He whirled her around. This conversation was becoming tedious. They’d been having it quite often of late. “Just making certain every option is available, poppet.”
She whirled him around—to make a point, no doubt. “No, you’re making certain every option you want me to have is available.”
“Now you’re just splitting hairs. Put me down.” And she did, because he’d put enough will behind his gaze to give himself a headache. Mila took more of a push than normal people to bend to his will. It wasn’t an ability he used on a regular basis—not anymore. He preferred winning the old-fashioned way these days.
Mila stopped dancing and shook her head as if to clear it. “I hate it when you do that.”
“Not a big lover of being picked up like a rag doll either, love.”
Her eyes brightened. She was spoiling for a fight—and he was prepared to give it. What was happening between them? It seemed just a few days ago she was still his sweet, curious Mila. Now she was this difficult, argumentative creature that challenged him at every turn. So, why did he find this new her so bloody interesting even when he wanted to throttle her at times?
He stared at her and she at him. They were perfectly still—tense. The music continued to play in the background as they stood with their fingers entwined, his hand on the small of her back, hers on his shoulder. A few inches and they’d touch. He could haul her right up against him. What sort of reaction would that get?
The doorbell rang. Swearing, Jack stepped back, releasing her. He consulted his watch. It was ten o’clock. “Lesson’s over, poppet.”
“My heart is broken,” she drawled. “Expecting company?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” He slipped his watch back into his pocket. “Off to your room.”
“I don’t get to meet your friend?”
Never would he use that word to describe Darla. “No.” God, the last thing he wanted was to have to explain Mila’s presence in his home. Normally he’d say she was his ward, but the changes in her lately had made that more difficult. At least one of his companions had gotten very jealous of the other girl—foolish chit. Mila was his responsibility, not his lover. There was no reason for any other woman to be threatened by her.
“Why not?” she demanded.
“Because you insulted my last visitor.”
She frowned. “I did not!”
“Hmm, you did. You commented on her hair color.”
“I simply wanted to know why the hair close to her scalp was a different color than the rest of it.”
Jack walked toward the foyer. “You don’t ask women such questions.”
“I’ll add it to the list.”
Cheeky baggage. He paused near the door and shot her a pointed gaze. “Upstairs. Now.”
Mila sighed with the gusto of an elephant expelling water from its trunk. She stomped from the drawing room to the stairs.
“Easy,” Jack warned. “Break my staircase and you’ll be cleaning the water closet for a week.” The girl didn’t know her own strength sometimes. Shortly after he’d taken her in she’d ripped two doors clean off their hinges by accident.
She glared at him, but her steps were light as she huffed and muttered her way upstairs. He heard just enough to decide to watch his language around her. She knew more profanity than most sailors.
When she was gone from sight, and he’d heard the door to her room slam, he greeted his visitor.
Darla arched a brow. She was a tall willowy woman, with hennaed hair and brown eyes and a feisty disposition. “Kept me waiting long enough.”
He stepped back to let her enter. “Apologies, pet. I was ’avin’ a bit of an issue with me cravat.”
She glanced at his throat as she crossed the threshold. “You’re not wearing a cravat.”
“Issue solved.” He closed the door and flicked the lock. “Drink?”
“Of course.” She removed her coat and handed it to him to hang up on the stand by the door. “Gin if you have it.”
Vile stuff. “Got a little bit of ev’ryfing.” At least his gin was top quality—not that Darla would know, or care. “Do come in.”
Her skirts swished as she entered the parlor. Jack immediately went to the bar to pour their drinks. She didn’t sit down, but glanced around, as though expecting to find someone hiding under a piece of furniture. She knew about Mila, but the two of them had never met. That was how he intended to keep it.
“’Ere you go, pet.” He handed her a glass.
“Thanks.” She took a sip. “I didn’t know you like music.”
“I like a lot of things.” Perhaps he should have turned the cylinder player off, but this way there was less chance of hearing Mila thumping about in her room.
“Are we going to dance?” she asked with a saucy smile as she took another drink.
Jack grinned in return. “No,” he informed her as he slipped an arm about her waist. “That’s not what I had in mind at all.”
Chapter Two
When they arrived at Peabody’s, the house was already on fire, with Peabody and his daughter inside.
Finley took a moment to collect herself. She was angry...and hurt and mad at herself for it. She oughtn’t be angry at Griffin for helping people—it was one of the things she adored about him, but it would be nice to have a bit of a break from the intrigue. A little extended time together—alone—would be nice. She loved her friends, but they were always around.
Sam kicked the door in so they could enter. The trail of smoke led them to a small parlor near the back of the dark, but well-appointed house. Peabody had money but he wasn’t loose with it, judging from the economy, but quality of decor. Sam kicked in that door, as well. Jasper rushed in, nothing more than a blur as he rushed to create a vacuum around the flames, stifling the fire that had already consumed draperies and a sofa.
Mr. Peabody lay gasping on the floor, a cloud of smoke hanging over him that rose toward the high ceiling. His daughter stood over him. The skirts of her beautiful gown were singed. Her dark hair was a mess, and her eyes and hands glowed like coals in a furnace. Finley could feel the heat coming off her.
“Greythorne,” she snarled.
Finley wasn’t surprised that the woman knew Griffin. Sometimes she forgot he was a duke, but this wasn’t one of those times—not when he stood there, staring down his nose at “Lady Ash” as though she was little more than dirt beneath his shoe. “It’s over, Lady Grantfarthen. The killing stops here.”
The older woman—she was perhaps in her midtwenties—smiled. “No, Your Grace. It does not.” And with that pronouncement, her right hand ignited into a ball of fantastic blue flame.
“Get him out of here,” Griffin instructed to Emily and Sam, gesturing at Peabody.
Lady Ash drew back her arm to throw her fire, but Wildcat dived into her, taking her to the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, Finley saw Sam scoop the old man off the floor and head outside. That was when she leaped into action to help Cat. Both of Lady Ash’s hands were burning now, along with her eyes. Finley didn’t think, she simply grabbed the pitcher from the small washing pedestal—obviously Peabody liked to be able to scrub the ink from his hands—and tipped it onto the woman.