Wicked:. Noelle Mack

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СКАЧАТЬ he controlled his own bursting desire.

      Ahhh. He bent his head and closed his eyes, still not actually touching her, wondering if the sleeping, fully clothed woman before him had experienced the compelling fantasy in slumber as he’d hoped. He let his lust ebb away.

      Semyon could not bear to wake her. If he was caught with her, the gossip would be all over London in an instant. If she had come down in the world and he suspected as much, she might fall still lower, though he had done nothing but look at her.

      His sensual reverie had taken no more than a few moments, but he was stiff all over as he got to his feet.

      Angelica slept on.

      His coat—where was it? He hoped she was not lying on it, but then he spotted it easily enough. It was still the only masculine article of clothing in the room and had been hung up with care by itself. He shrugged into it, thrusting his arms through the sleeves, glancing into the mirror to adjust the lapels and make sure his erection had gone down. Given the size of his member, something still showed, but that was de rigueur at a ball that went on into the wee hours. He had no doubt that the buttoned-back bulge in the front of his breeches would be grabbed at by more than one tipsy female as he left.

      Angelica’s warm breath had made the rose unfurl its petals somewhat and he could see its innermost center, drenched with the same dew that had moistened her lip. Semyon smiled sadly. He hated to leave her. But if fatigue and the tedium of seeing to the needs of so many others had claimed her so utterly, he had no right to wake her.

      There was always tomorrow.

      He would make inquiries and find out more about her—and her master and mistress and well. How she had come to this house, whether she had ever been “upon the town,” in the polite phrase, ever married, been widowed, run off with a soldier—in short, everything.

      From down the hall he heard the coarse but not unfriendly voice of Jack. The footman was alternately singing in snatches and muttering to himself.

      Semyon stepped outside of the curtain. “Miss Harrow has fallen asleep,” he said to Jack.

      “Miss Harrow? Do you call her that? Very kind you are, to treat her so respectful, when she is no more than an upstairs maid.” The footman peered at him “Downstairs, now, of course.” Then he looked at Angelica. “Now that will never do,” he said, remembering who he was and where he was. “But the ladies as what wants their things might like them warmed, though.” He winked at Semyon.

      “I could not bring myself to wake her,” Semyon said softly.

      “Then I must.” Jack tottered into the room and leaned over the sleeping woman, speaking to her in a loud whisper. “Cor—Angelica, wake up. What if the mistress sees you sprawled like this, hey? Wake up.”

      She stirred and pushed the footman away almost violently.

      “Will she be all right?” Semyon asked.

      “I am sure she will, sir,” Jack said, returning his attention to the chore, though Semyon would not call it that, of awakening the slumbering beauty on the heap of cloaks. The footman looked up when he heard the clink of a masculine fingernail on a heavy coin, just in time to catch the guinea that Semyon tossed to him.

      “Take good care of her,” was all he said.

      “That I will do. Good night, sir. And thankee.” The footman looked down at Angelica like a fond but somewhat exasperated brother, and leaned over her again, shaking her by the shoulder. “Now do as I say, and wake up!”

      Semyon left the way he had come, instinctively sure that Angelica was safe with Jack.

      Not too long after that, he had reached the Pack’s lair in St. James by a circuitous route that involved a stop at his club, where he was plied with strong spirits. He was feeling rather the worse for his indulgence and headed straight for the massive staircase leading up from the door, wanting nothing but the security and peace of his own chambers to sleep it off.

      A soft hand on his arm forestalled him, and a gentle voice murmured an inquiry in Russian.

      “Natalya,” he sighed. “I am going to bed.”

      The young wife of their housemaster spoke in English, since he had. “I wanted only to give you a message, Semyon.”

      He looked down at the shining crown of braids interlaced with ribbons upon her head—inside this house, Natalya favored traditional Russian dress in all its colorful glory. Outside of it, her braids and bright embroidered tunics were hidden under hats and coachman’s coats in winter.

      “Yes?”

      “A man came to the door inquiring after you in the middle of the evening. You were at the Congreves’ ball—”

      “You did not tell anyone where I had gone, I hope,” he said severely. The Pack lived under rules of strict secrecy as to their whereabouts.

      “Of course not, Semyon,” she said with some heat. “Do you take me for stupid?”

      Semyon shook his head, reminding himself of her rare courage and cleverness in defending the Pack. “No. Forgive me, Natalya. I am tired and have had too much to drink—” He broke off, realizing he had given her a reason to brew her bitter-tasting herbal remedy for such self-induced ailments.

      He hated the stuff, and usually spat it out when she wasn’t looking. Tonight, though, it seemed to him that she was done with her household tasks and perhaps eager to talk to someone. That he would do but he did hate being cosseted.

      “Very well, Natalya,” he said, not wanting to be rude to her. Her face broke into a wide, glowing smile and she dashed in to the kitchen to put the kettle on the hob.

      He followed into her realm. The room was a mix of Russian coziness—it boasted an enormous tile stove upon the top of which a boy slept at night, though he was not there now—and up-to-date English conveniences, marvels of kitchen engineering. The hearth was carefully banked with ashes, but she stirred up the high pile of embers and tossed a few pieces of cut wood upon them. Flames blazed up quickly under the kettle’s dented bottom.

      She had just finished baking, evidently, and several dark loaves were cooling on a rack. Natalya peered in to the kettle, added a little more water to it, and took pinches of dried herbs from jars in a rack and put them in a teapot. She ground peppercorns in a little mill into its open top and last of all added little twisty dried things from an earthenware jug stoppered with a cork.

      Semyon had no idea what the dried things were. Natalya’s potions were best drunk with eyes closed and nose held. But they did work.

      When the kettle sang, she poured the boiling water into the teapot and sniffed appreciatively. Semyon hid a grimace. “Let that steep,” she said.

      They chatted agreeably enough about who had been at the ball, finally coming around again to the forgotten subject of the man who had called when he was out.

      “Did he leave a card, Natalya?” Semyon asked.

      She shook her head, preoccupied with pouring out the medicinal brew into a large mug.

      “Then what did he say?”

      “Not СКАЧАТЬ