The Girl in the Steel Corset. Kady Cross

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      She looked up. There, on the balcony that wrapped around the entire room, was Rich Boy. His forearms rested on the railing as he smiled down at her, thick reddish hair falling over his forehead. He wore black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and collar open underneath a black leather waistcoat. She watched as he walked around to come down the narrow, curving staircase, his thick-soled boots clomping slightly on the wooden steps. He moved with loose-limbed grace, like someone who knew exactly who he was and didn’t care if anyone liked it or not.

      Lucky bugger.

      He came right up to her and offered his hand. “Griffin King.”

      Finley’s head jerked up. Griffin King. The Duke of Greythorne. She had overheard Lady Alyss discussing him with several of her friends just last week. They said he was handsome, rich beyond understanding and had a nice bottom. At this moment Finley couldn’t give an opinion on the last, but he certainly was lovely to look at and gave the impression of being filthy rich.

      No daddy then. Just him. They had something in common it seemed, despite the vast social chasm between them.

      Hesitantly, she put her hand into his before slipping into a deep curtsy. “Finley Jayne, Your Grace.” She lowered her gaze.

      “Don’t do that,” he replied in a low, stern tone. “We’re equals in this house.”

      She glanced at him in surprise, and quickly rose to her feet. “How’s that?” she asked.

      His smile was crooked, but it did little to ease the wariness in Finley’s chest. “I’ve seen what you can do, Finley. Would you be surprised if I told you I had some talents of my own?”

      “What I have is hardly a talent,” she replied. A curse, perhaps. More than likely a demon. What she needed was a good exorcism.

      He cocked his head to one side, still holding her hand. His gray-blue gaze narrowed slightly, as though he was looking right into her. “How would you describe it?”

      She pulled away, suddenly unsure of herself, but sure enough not to say aloud what she’d thought to herself. “What happened with Sam? The whole house shook when he stormed out.”

      “It could be any number of things.” There was that lopsided grin again. “Nice attempt at changing the subject, by the way.” Then he gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat.”

      Part of her wanted to run, but a stronger part wanted to stay. She wasn’t certain which was the smarter choice, but she crossed the carpet and sat down on the violet brocade sofa. She stiffened when Griffin seated himself on the opposite end, scarcely two feet away.

      “Relax,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I doubt I could anyway. I suspect you could trounce me with one hand behind your back.”

      As he spoke, some of the rigidity left Finley’s spine. She was indeed relaxing—at his command. “And I suspect you’re not as powerless as you would like me to believe,” she commented, turning so that she could face him directly.

      He seemed amused, and she was very much aware that he wasn’t the least bit afraid of her. “You think I pretend weakness?”

      She nodded. “Not weakness, but you like to let others think they’re in control, when really it’s you.” What she said was true. Of course she could defeat him physically, but then what? She could run, but she was wearing nothing but a nightgown and a kimono with flimsy slippers. Where could she go that his influence could not reach? She was in enough trouble as it was, there was no need to run into more. Not yet.

      “Interesting.” His pale eyes sparkled for a second before becoming serious. “What if I told you I could help you become the one in control?”

      She frowned. “In control of what?”

      “Of the wildness that overtakes you.” He said it so matter-of-factly, as though it were nothing more than a cold or a silly notion.

      “It only comes on when I’m threatened, or scared,” she heard herself divulge. She shouldn’t have said anything. Should have put her thumb in one of those pretty eyes … Finley pushed that thought back down deep where it belonged.

      “Is that why you were in Hyde Park last night? Someone threatened you?”

      She glanced away, but nodded.

      “Felix August-Raynes?” His voice was soft.

      Finley closed her eyes as dread washed over her. Of course he knew. He would have seen the crest on her corset.

      “There was nothing in the papers this morning so I assume the blackguard is still very much alive?”

      Her chin came up defiantly. “Do I look like a murderer to you?”

      Griffin smiled. “Jack the Ripper had a very gentle countenance.”

      “But they never caught …” Something in his expression prevented her from completing the protest. “Lord Felix was very much alive the last time I saw him, though I reckon he has a bit of a headache this morning.”

      “Rightly earned, no doubt.” Griffin leaned back into the corner of the sofa and brought one booted foot up to rest across his knee. The smooth black leather looked soft and the silver buckles gleamed in the light. “Like the rest of Jack Dandy’s bunch, Lord Felix has an overinflated sense of self.”

      “Who?”

      He propped his elbow on the back of the sofa and leaned his head against his hand. So open and trusting with her. Even though he knew what she could do, he wasn’t the least bit afraid. It made her wonder what kind of monster lived inside of him.

      “The Dandies. They fancy themselves street thugs, but they’re just a bunch of spoiled whelps with metal in their faces. Dandy, on the other hand, is precisely what he claims to be.”

      Finley wondered what that was exactly. “What do you want from me?” She was tired of this pointless small talk.

      He didn’t look the least bit surprised or offended. “Nothing. Not yet.”

      “But you do want something eventually.” Oddly enough, having him live down to her expectations was disappointing, to say the least.

      “Eventually, if I’m right and you’re willing, I’d like for you to join us.”

      “As what?” For all she knew, Emily was a concubine for the rest of them. They could be getting up to all kinds of perverse things in this house.

      Griffin smiled again—it was as though he could read her mind. “Who do you think keeps this country safe so you can sleep at night?”

      “I don’t sleep most nights. And to be honest, Your Grace, I don’t feel all that safe.”

      He tilted his head. “I can change that.”

      And in that instant, Finley believed him. Not only that, but she knew he believed what he said. It made her want to trust him. When was the last time she’d trusted anyone of the male gender?

      “First,” СКАЧАТЬ