Wicked Nights With a Lover (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #3)(7)

A sudden determination swept over her. It was a rash scheme. Mad, but wonderful. The clinging fear she felt evaporated.

She would take a year off. A sabbatical of sorts.

This time next year, she would look back and see that Madame Foster had indeed been the grand swindler she believed, but Marguerite would have lived a splendid year at any rate. No harm.

She would have the year of all years.

As to Madame’s absurd prediction that she would take a husband? Not likely. Marguerite knew she was moderately attractive, but she was little more than a servant, lacking all prospects. A husband? Unlikely. A lover …

Well. Now that was an interesting notion.

Since Fallon and Evie had married, she had begun to wonder, to speculate at the origins to the heated looks that passed between her friends and their husbands. Perhaps it was time to discover passion for herself. That should definitely be something experienced before one dies.

Standing on the stoop, she gave a decided nod and earned herself a strange look from a woman pushing a pram.

A lover. Yes. A brilliant notion.

And she already had one candidate in mind.





Chapter 4

Lost in thought, Marguerite lingered on the stoop of Madame Foster’s shop and burrowed deeper into her cloak. She told herself it was merely the cold and not Madame Foster’s prophetic words that shot ice through her veins … nor the rash decision she had just reached.

Shivering, she lifted her face to the air, determining that it had dropped several degrees since she first entered the shop. Unusually inclement weather this early in the season. It brought to mind her many cold winters in Yorkshire. The biting cold, the dwindling winter rations … the meager blankets that never quite warmed her.

A slow, freezing drizzle began to fall. Her hood failed to sufficiently cover her face and icy water dripped off the tip of her nose. She eyed the street, hoping to hail a hack quickly and escape the dismal weather. She longed for the cozy fire in her rooms back at the boardinghouse. Perhaps a decadent novel. She started down the steps.

Loud shouts attracted her notice. A small, harried-looking man raced past the front of the stoop where she stood, darting through bystanders like a scurrying street rat.

A moment later another man followed, his long strides easily overcoming the scrawny man’s lead. He caught him by the scruff of the neck. The little man whirled around, swinging his arm wide in an attempt to defend himself, but the blow bounced off the bigger man’s shoulder.

She gasped, freezing on her step as the younger, stronger man pulled back his arm and smashed it with brutal force into his victim’s face.

A crowd gathered, vultures scenting their prey. Shouts drew more people to the fray, blocking her view several steps above the streets. Afraid the brute was killing the unfortunate man, she lifted her skirts and rushed down into the street.

“Stop! Stop it at once! What are you doing?” She charged through the crowd of gawking onlookers, elbowing past men jeering their support. Even a few ladies milled about. Although she could scarcely call them ladies. They shouted encouragement as crudely as any of the men, watching with glee as the large brute of a man beat the slighter one.

Even as she pushed her way through, she could hear the smack of fists. It was a horrible sound, like cracking wood. Each one jarred her to the core, shuddering along her bones.

Through the press of bodies, she glimpsed flashes of the assailant’s white shirt. No vest. No jacket. The man was a primitive. Uncivilized. After several blows, the small man could no longer rise. The scoundrel wasn’t done, however. He held him up by his crumpled cravat and delivered blow after blow to his lolling head.

With a grunt, she gave another push and broke through the circle of onlookers with a stumble, earning herself an unfettered view, much better than what she’d witnessed from Madame Foster’s stoop. Or worse, depending on one’s perspective.

She cringed. The beaten man’s face was a mangled mess, his nose swollen and misshapen. Dark blood gushed from his nostrils. Her stomach heaved at the dreadful sight.

Reminding herself that she was no squeamish miss—she’d seen worse from her patients—she charged forward and caught the Goliath’s arm as he hauled it back for another punch. The moment her fingers locked on the heavily muscled limb, she sensed she might be in trouble.

Through the thin lawn of his shirt, his arm felt hard and tight with raw strength. He was like no man she’d ever encountered … thankfully.

A warning bell clanged in her head that she duly ignored. It failed to matter anymore. As risky as her behavior was, she wasn’t to die here … at least she didn’t think so. According to Madame Foster she must meet her sisters first … and marry. Not that she planned on the latter happening. A simple-enough matter to control.

No. This wouldn’t be the hour of her death. The realization emboldened her, made her hang on harder to the arm of rippling muscle.

The man tugged, practically lifting her off her feet. Still, she clung. Using her most ferocious tone, the one she used when dealing with an insensible patient, she barked, “You shall not harm this man, you brute! Do you hear me?”

The crowd guffawed, chortling and whistling.

A female’s voice called out, “Looks like she could use the tap of your fist, too, Courtland!”

Courtland. His Christian name or surname, she knew not. She only knew that he was a popular fellow among this riffraff, and that couldn’t bode well.