Her rogue heir

Who is she?

*Henrietta*

That beautiful mouth that has had me tossing and turning in bed with frustration most nights since he first showed up at my door is as dark, rich, and flavorful as I imagined. Scotch, probably. Perhaps even a cheroot. He is decadence, pure and simple.

I spied him shortly after he arrived and decided that once I was done with my task here, I might take a bit of time to flirt with him, tempt him, make him regret his words from the other night. I even considered indulging my fantasies, making him want me like he has never wanted before.

No one would find it odd if I kissed him in the main parlor. I can only hope that whoever opened the door will feel the same about coming upon us now. I also pray that Dimos Softpaw understands my instructions and comprehends that he needs to play the part of a lover caught in a tryst.

He tears his mouth from mine. The lamp reveals eyes smoldering with desire. "Struggle against me," he rasps so low I can barely make out the words.

He covers my nose and mouth with a large hand, effectively making me less recognizable. Squirming, I push against his broad, sturdy chest, but not with any strength. Not that I could have shoved him back even if I put all my force behind it. Solid muscle greets me, and I want to run my hands over every inch.

He skewers with a gaze the one who opened the door. "A little privacy, if you please."

"No one is supposed to be in here," a male voice says a tad hesitantly.

"She has been naughty, teasing me all night, and I'm near to bursting." Dimos says.

"Be quick about it then." The door slams shut.

Dimos lifts his hand and his weight. "What…?"

When I shove this time, he moves. Knowing it would be unwise to linger after being spotted in here, I quickly gather up all the attachments of my camera, including the tiny bits that hold the images, drop them all into a black velvet pouch, and tuck it into my corset, nestled snugly between my breasts.

Picking up what normally looks like a pocket watch, I press the lens until it collapses into place, snap the cover shut, and leave the object to dangle from my waist. Rolling up the foolscap, I crouch and slip it back into a hidden compartment beneath the desk where I found it. Straightening, I snatch up my mask and tie it into place.

"I'm going out through the terrace doors." I hadn't been able to come in that way because of the crowd mingling about on the terrace, but if I rush from this room now with a coy smile, anyone who notices me would no doubt think I have been engaged in a little tryst or am striving to escape the notice of an ardent admirer. "To throw that lout off my scent, I need you to go back into the hallway and tell him you sent me out through the terrace doors to shield my identity."

"Wait for me out there." He says.

I nod brusquely, grab his tie, rise up on my toes, and give him a quick, hard kiss on the mouth. "Thank you for putting your revulsion for me aside and playing along, Dimos Softpaw." Before he can respond, I turn off the lamp, dash over to where I know the outer door waits, draw the draperies slightly aside, and escape into the night.

*Dimos*

Revulsion? Yes, I should have been repulsed while kissing her. Instead, I had become lost in the sensual movements of her lush mouth and the tantalizing flavor of her tongue.

Now I quickly make my way to the corridor where the masked intruder is leaning against a wall. He immediately straightens. "Where is the bird?"

"She never should have been in my arms." But damned if she didn't feel right there. "I sent her out via the terrace to protect her reputation."

"Every woman here is fair game. Her only loyalty should be to pleasure." He huffs.

I shrug. "The one who brought her would no doubt disagree, and I have no desire to face a pistol at dawn."

He shrugs. "You should be able to find a replacement easily enough."

I almost tell him Henry isn't so easy to replace. "I will take a look around then, see what I can find."

"Be sure to use someplace else for your next encounter." He moves to the door and slips a key inside the keyhole. "This door should have been locked."

It no doubt had been before she required entry. I head outside where people are wandering around or frolicking about like wood nymphs. Even though most are silhouettes, I know I will recognize her if I catch sight of her.

I move quickly through the gardens, checking behind bushes and rose trellises, interrupting one couple engaged in a frenzied coupling against a tree. I have never much liked Padfoot, have heard rumors about his proclivities and entertainments, and I'm grateful I wear a mask to disguise my features.

Although it only now strikes me that she still knew who I was, just as I had been able to identify her. It seems we are attuned to each other. I don't want to contemplate the reasoning behind it or how much I enjoyed kissing her.

The glare I gave the fellow who opened the door was not feigned. I detested the interruption, wanting to slide my hands along her long legs, lifting her skirt as I went. I wanted to taste more than her lips, wanted to taste all of her. The thoughts bombarding me now infuriate me, almost as much as the fact that she lied, didn't wait for me, but effectively made her escape.

I reach the rear of the gardens. If she remains, I suspect I will have little luck finding her, but I know where she will eventually appear… her residence.

Shoving on the gate, I step out into the mews. A host of cars are lined up, awaiting the return of their travelers. Weary drivers will probably be standing about until dawn. I approach a uniformed servant, leaning against the door of a car and smoking a pipe. "Did a woman wearing a golden mask pass this way?"

"Like decadence personified. She went that way, guv." He tilts his head toward the left side, opening into the mews.

"Thank you." Trying not to recall a time when I would have had a coin to flip toward the servant, I race to the mouth of the mews and onto the brick walk that lines the street.

There she is, a considerable distance away, walking briskly but managing to give the impression she isn’t in any rush. Somewhere along the route, she discarded the mask and acquired an umbrella.

The fog is beginning to roll in, silent and thick, but I detect no whisper of rain. I’m beginning to find her far more intriguing out of bed than I thought I might find her in it. I looked at her and saw a woman whose value resided in what she is capable of delivering while lying on her back. But she is multifaceted, a conundrum that makes her worth exploring while vertical as well as horizontal.

Her relationship with my sire makes no sense. I can’t imagine the Alpha being captivated by every mysterious aspect of her, and what a waste that would be to focus only on what she provides between the sheets.

I stride more quickly than she is, tossing my own mask aside and fighting to give the appearance I’m not chasing her, she isn’t my target, and my ultimate goal isn’t reaching her before she can disappear again.

Continuing on, not breaking her stride, she glances back and hails a cab. As the driver brings the car to a halt slightly ahead of her, I break into a run, reaching the car and climbing in after her before the door can swing closed.

She gives no indication she is surprised by my appearance, but neither does she glance over at me. She merely stares straight ahead as though she has the power to cause the encroaching fog to dissipate.

“What were you doing back there?” I ask. “At Padfoot’s. In his library.”

“Kissing you.” She says.

Is that the reason she ran? Because she enjoyed it as much as I did? Because she felt the fire igniting between us? “Before that. At first, I would say you were taking photographs, but I have never seen a camera that small.”

“I suspect there are a good many things you have not seen, Dimos Softpaw.” The cab begins to slow. “I will be getting out here. You should carry on.”

As the car comes to a complete stop, she hands some coins to the driver. Afte opening the door, she gracefully leaps out and begins walking at a fast clip. I jump out and hasten to fall into step beside her. “You will not be rid of me that easily. I have questions.”

“Your curiosity does not mean I have the answers or if I do, that I will divulge them.” Abruptly, she turns on her heel and starts down another street.

There was a time when I knew only the posher, more exclusive areas of the city. Now I am intimately familiar with the dodgier corners, I know she is leading me farther into the bowels of danger. What surprises me is the confidence with which she traverses along the dimly lit cobblestone streets, as though she reigns over this world of ruffians and cutthroats who barely give her a passing glance, in spite of her provocative attire.

She ignores the prostitutes with skirts lifted to brazenly reveal an ankle, a knee, or a thigh leaning against brick walls, hoping to earn a few quick shillings in a nearby alley or room let by the quarter hour.

She appears to be a woman with a purpose, and I am fairly certain it involves evading me. Not that I blame her. I rather badly ended our time at the Rogue, and her words before she left Padfoot’s library eats at me. “A few streets over is a pub. Let’s go there, talk things out.”

“Don’t look back, but we are being followed.” She half whispers.

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to glance over my shoulder. Now I understand her mad dash and frequent turns onto other streets. Going around corners gives her a chance to look out of the side of her eye, without appearing to do so, in order to get a bead on who is trailing us.

Abruptly, she ducks into an alley. I trail after her, angling my head only slightly but enough to catch sight of a rough-looking fellow, maybe two or three, in close pursuit who will be upon us in no time at all.

Enough light bleeds in from the street that I can see she has come to a stop and is facing the mouth of the alleyway, fairly bouncing on the balls of her feet, like a boxer preparing for a bout within a ring.

“Race to the other end, escape, head to your residence,” I tell her, reaching around beneath my jacket to pull free the two wickedly sharp knives from the leather scabbards I have secured at my back. “I will dispatch this lot and catch up with you there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She huffs.

Is there a more stubborn wench in the country? “Henry...”

But my argument is cut short by four men, I obviously overlooked someone, comes running into the alley and staggering to a halt. A malicious grin spreads over the largest one's face as he takes a step forward, while the others fan out behind him, all brandishing knives. “We’re gonna have some fun ’ere, ain’t we?”

The whisper of steel sliding against steel echoes between the buildings. Darting my gaze to the side, I am stunned to see Henry holding a sword, not a sword, more like a rapier, her umbrella nowhere to be seen. Has she been hiding the weapon in the long handle, just as she had hidden a camera in a pocket watch?

She takes a fencer’s stance. “Give it your best.”

Challenging the blighters is not the tactic I would have taken, but I have no time to contemplate further as I lunge in front of her, blocking the two who have decided to come for her.

Surprise is on my side because they expected to be battling a woman, and had anticipated an easy victory. I manage to bury a knife in one and s***h with my remaining blade across the soft belly of the other. When the second ruffian groans and bends slightly to protect himself from another swipe of the deadly dagger, I take him down with a balled fist to his jaw.

Turning for the two who are now engaging her, I fight not to become mesmerized by her agility at warding them off, at the cutthroats’ grunts and cries of surprise when she manages to slice a cheek, an arm, a hand. I grab the largest fellow, the one I want to never again smile, spin him around, and bring my knife down.

But the ruffian blocks my blow and shoves me back. It takes me two steps to regain my balance. The lout hurls himself and rams into me. I clutch the man’s shirt, bringing him along as we fall to the ground, rolling.

Fists are flying, sharp-edged blades slashing at air and flesh, so fast, with such purpose, there is little time to think, to strategize, only to react. To roll away, to come to my feet, to kick the other man in the face before I am standing. I deliver one blow, two.

As my foe manages to swing his lower body around, I find my legs suddenly knocked out from beneath me. The man jumps on me, fists pummeling. I stab him in the side, but still the blows come.

I pull the knife free, intending to aim for the heart, but the enemy grabs my hand that clutches the weapon and leverages himself so his weight gives him the advantage and, smiling deviously, guides the sharp point toward my throat. I resist, try to buck him off, but something is amiss, my strength seems to be waning.

Suddenly, my nemesis goes still, his eyes bug out, and blood gurgles from his mouth. He drops down onto me like a ton of bricks toppled from a scaffold. Looking past the man’s shoulder, I see Henry standing over us, rapier in hand. I can’t see beyond her, but where is the fourth fellow?

Dropping to her knees, she shoves the formerly grinning man off me, touches her fingers to my shoulder, causing pain to ratchet through me. “You are hurt.”

At some point, although I vaguely recall it, during the melee, my last attacker had gotten lucky with his knife.

“If you want to return to the residence with me, I can tend to your wound,” she says calmly.

Ruffians. Blood. Gore. She takes it all in stride. When most ladies would be in tears, swooning, or have already run off. Ice Princess. But even that moniker I had bestowed upon her no longer seems appropriate. With a groan, I shove myself up to a sitting position and study her. “Who the devil are you?”

“Henry Darling.” She says.

I’m not asking for her name, for the Goddess sake. I’m asking for so much more. “What the devil are you?”

“It’s complicated.” She sighs.

“I’m an intelligent man with the ability to comprehend complicated things.” I huff.

She glances around the alleyway at the c*****e, and I think for a heartbeat I see a bit of regret, perhaps remorse, wash over her features before she quickly hides anything she might be feeling, almost as though she can’t dare risk being viewed as soft.

She brings her gaze back to mine, resolve reflected in the shadowed depths of her eyes. “An agent of the Crown and presently protector of the Lycan Queen.”