White knight needed, p.1
White Knight Needed, page 1
A DANGEROUS KISS
Norah looked up to find they were in the dimness near the end of the hall and her room, and she stopped. “This is my room.” She waved a hand toward her door. “It’s comfortable and it’s far from the earl’s quarters and the rest of the family.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Barclay said with a wry smile. “I am the rest of the family.” He motioned to the door across the hall from her room and his voice lowered. “And that is my room.”
Dearest Heaven, she had chosen the room directly across from the one occupied by the very person she hoped to avoid as much as possible during her tenure here.
He was now facing her, his arms at his sides, his eyes that dangerous liquid amber. She held her breath for a moment, wondering if he was getting closer or if it was just her imagining it.
His head lowered and his lips touched hers with a gentle pressure that gradually deepened and spread to cover her mouth. His lips were on hers like—Sweet Jesus!—he was kissing her! She stood rigid, shocked to immobility, and drank in sensations unlike anything she had imagined.
Not even when she sneaked old Ovid’s racy sonnets into her room at the academy and tried to glean from them the truth about the unthinkable between a man and a maid . . . had she guessed the warmth-generating pleasure of a man’s lips on hers. Some things, she had learned recently, had to be experienced to be understood.
Also by Betina Krahn
The Reluctant Heroes series:
Hero Wanted
White Knight Needed
The Sin & Sensibility romances:
A Good Day to Marry a Duke
The Girl with the Sweetest Secret
Anyone But a Duke
Three Nights with the Princess
Behind Closed Doors
Rapture’s Ransom
Passion’s Storm
Rebel Passion
Hidden Fires
Passion’s Treasure
Love’s Brazen Fire
Midnight Magic
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
BETINA KRAHN
White Knight Needed
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
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Table of Contents
A DANGEROUS KISS
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Teaser chapter
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2022 by Betina Krahn
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-5197-8
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-5198-5 (eBook)
In Loving Memory of
Zebulun Krahn
November 1978–December 2020
One
London 1883
Stares and whispers fell at Barclay Howard’s broad back as he exited his carriage and proceeded down Gordon Street. He paid little heed. He was used to them by now.
Three fashionably dressed young ladies stood by the door of a nearby milliner’s shop watching him with widened eyes. He recognized one as a young beauty to whom he had been introduced at his best friend’s recent birthday celebration. He squared his shoulders and continued on his way, oblivious to the pedestrians who scrambled off the pavement into the street to avoid him. Why should he acknowledge snobbish, overbred females when they wouldn’t give him the time of day, much less a hand in marriage?
He had better things to do, like attending a lecture that could very likely change his life. He realized he was scowling and relaxed his face as he turned down the narrowing lane that led to Lightner Hall.
The large, square brick building was of a design that conveyed a simplicity and utility in keeping with the nature of the wisdom dispensed inside. The only bit of architectural dash about the place was a gracefully carved stone lintel surrounding the open front doors. On the pavement outside the hired hall were sandwich boards advertising upcoming lectures and demonstrations intended for those whose taste in diversions were a step above corner pubs and raucous music halls.
He entered the small lobby and paid for admission—an entire pound—a surprising sum for the privilege of listening to people just talk, ironically about “free” love. The man and woman selling tickets glanced nervously at each other, waved him toward the doors of the lecture hall, and began to pack up their cashbox as soon as they took his money.
He took a seat in the back row, because sitting closer to the front always blocked the view for people behind him, and he did try to be courteous. The chairs, as often happened, were small and hard. He had to turn slightly to wedge his broad shoulders against the curved back and had to tuck his muscular legs to the side to avoid blocking the aisle. With a deep breath, he looked around at his fellow seekers of enlightenment.
They were a surprisingly fusty group, these “free-lovers”. . . a sea of tweeds and meerschaum pipes, sensible brogans and graying beards. The women weren’t much better. Most wore Puritan-dark dresses and dour expressions . . . they looked like they might be carrying rolling pins hidden in their skirts. A pair of younger females caught his eye until they turned. Sour expressions and protruding teeth made him decide to look elsewhere.
This was hardly the free-spirited group he had expected. But as the moderator called the hall to order and introduced the first speaker, Barclay made himself concentrate on what he might learn . . . though he had already learned that this was probably not the place to find “free love” partners.
The first speaker was a woman in a black woolen ensemble with a white standing collar that made her look absurdly like a village vicar with a bun. She opened with a barrage of questions about “women in bondage,” which widened Barclay’s eyes. Briefly. It was a disappointment to realize she was talking about the restrictions and limitations that marriage placed on women. The state of current laws, she said, treated women as little more than property to be managed or brood mares to be bought and sold with dowries. There were polite grunts and nods from men present and “Hear! Hears!” from the women.
Really? Barclay looked at the women attendees in dismay. Who in their right mind would think of these females as oppressed or—shudder—breeding stock? He scowled, thinking of his best friend’s birthday celebration and the formidable doyens and haughty debs who attended. It was hard to imagine any of them being led around by a halter.
By the time she finished with salvos against a society that kept women bound in marriages despite abandonment by husbands “gone to green” or forced them into infirmity by ceaseless childbearing, Barclay was eyeing the door. Clearly her notion of “free love” and his expectations were oceans apart. He started to wonder if the flyer advertising this lecture was some sort of joke.
Just then, one of the doors opened and a woman in a short cloak slipped inside the hall. He was struck by an air of urgency about her and a hint of trembling in her clasped hands. As she looked over the hall, he caught a glimpse of her face . . . a pale oval with delicate features framed in a halo of light hair. She hurried down the far side aisle away from the door and took an empty seat in a group of women dressed like nuns on holiday. He watched her for a moment longer, wishing she would turn again so he could confirm his brief impression of her face.
The second speaker, an august-looking man of middle years, was introduced and began a broadside against the exploitation of women and girls for money . . . which sounded rather lasciviously like prostitution. It turned out he meant hazardous factory work at low wages that trapped women and children in shortened lives of desperation. It was more decent to give women alternatives, he railed . . . allow them to decide when to have and raise children . . . allow them to control their own “fecundity.”
Barclay knew the definition, but he had never heard the word spoken aloud. So that was how it sounded.
Pregnancy? That was another term not used in polite society. Something a physician might say to a colleague, but never to a patient.
Just then, he heard voices from outside as the rear door opened again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man enter and stand glowering at the assembly. The fellow was a stocky, ruddy-faced sort with narrowed eyes, and he was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. At that exact moment, the young woman who had arrived late turned to look at the door. Barclay caught the shock on her face as she saw the man, then turned away and pulled the hood of her cloak closer around her face.
She was evading the man, he surmised. Had she meant to attend the lecture, or had she just slipped into the hall to escape the brute? He glanced at the man, taking in thick, gloveless hands that were clenching repeatedly at his sides. Every nerve in Barclay’s body came alive. He looked to the young woman, who glanced again over her shoulder and then looked around frantically. Searching for an exit. Clearly.
His own hands clenched into fists and his jaw tightened.
A long moment passed as her pursuer edged slowly along the back wall toward her side of the hall. The man could scarcely haul her kicking and screaming out of a lecture on the mistreatment of women. She wisely kept her seat, sensing that there was safety in such a venue. For the moment, the pursuit was a stalemate and the lecture continued.
There was more talk of money and women . . . economic slavery, the fellow called it. The laws of the land kept women shackled and children doomed to a life of mere subsistence. Under the guise of protecting them and preserving order, society enslaved women and children while giving them no say in their futures.
Barclay thought of the irony presented in the case of the young woman trapped in a free-love lecture by a man pursuing her. Who was she running from? A father? A husband? A bully from a brothel? Again she glanced over her shoulder, and something about her pale face and delicate features tugged at his most dominant instincts. He uncurled his legs and leaned forward, resting his arms on the back of the empty seats in front of him. The moment the presentation was over he intended to—
Raised voices filtered in from outside the main doors, growing quickly louder. He glanced at the heavy wooden panels with a frown, and a moment later both doors flew open and a sea of dark blue uniforms filled the opening. A man in a derby and a checkered suit led a dozen constables into the hall, where he stopped and issued an order in a booming voice.
“Stay where ye are! Yer all under arrest on charges of offendin’ th’ moral decency!”
A mad scramble ensued. Half of the audience rushed forward to defend the speakers, while the other half scrambled for the far doors that presumably led to an adjoining street. Barclay was instantly in motion, rushing toward the young woman, tossing chairs out of his way and into the path of determined constables. Luckily, the girl’s pursuer was pinned against the rear wall of the chamber by bobbies, and in several furious strides, Barclay was at the girl’s side and taking her by the arm.
“Let me go! What are you—”
“Out the nearest door,” he growled, shocked by her resistance. “Unless you want to spend the night in jail.”
That must have registered. Her struggling slowed enough for him to usher her to the nearest door—which led into a narrow, dead-end alley. Clearly that was why most of the other patrons had chosen to escape through the other side of the hall. He spotted daylight at the far end of the alley and took her by the wrist. “This way.”
Two steps were all he managed before he was jolted to a stop. She had planted her feet to resist and glared at his hand on her arm.
“What are you doing? We have to go nowwww—” A sharp pain shot through his hand and he released her with an “Owww!” He drew back, staring at his hand in horror. Blood appeared in a puncture wound, and when he looked at her, she was gripping a large hatpin poised for another strike.
“Why the devil did you do that? I was taking you to the street to avoid the constables.” He reached for her hand and she struck again—but this time he drew back too quickly for her and she stabbed only air.
“How dare you set hands to me?” she said, scanning both him and the narrow alleyway to the street beyond, most of which he was blocking.
He pulled out a handkerchief to wrap around his hand, feeling confounded. “I was trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help,” she said, her voice thin and a bit tremulous. “Stay away from me.” She brandished the hatpin as she pressed her back against the brick wall to slide past him. “Or I’ll scream.”
When she was directly across from him—mere inches away—he got a good look at her face and a pair of startling eyes. Green as grass they were, and her skin was as smooth as cream. Her hair had a red-gold tinge, from what he could see of it, and she had full, nicely curved lips.
With vengeful gallantry he backed away and bowed, sweeping his uninjured hand toward the street, inviting her to flee.
She slid farther away, watching his mocking gesture, then turned and ran toward the mouth of the alley—where two coppers intercepted her and managed to block her blow and seize her weapon before it did them damage. One grabbed her arms and dragged her forcefully toward a waiting police wagon, snarling that she was under arrest.
“Hey!” Barclay shouted, rushing after them. “You can’t just arrest a woman on the—”
“Yeah, we can,” said the constable’s comrade, coming from Barclay’s side with a truncheon already completing an arc toward the back of his head. The blow sent Barclay to his knees. Swirling dark spots in his vision melted together and the last thing he heard was a rough voice declaring, “An’ we can pinch you, too, ye bloody great toff!”
* * *
Norah Capshaw found herself with a clutch of older women who had also been stuffed into a Black Maria and hauled off to a nearby police station. The others seemed either outraged or oddly resigned to their fate. She was the only one with tears rolling down her cheeks, and a couple of the women noticed. One of the others, called Hermione, came to squeeze in beside her on the dirty bench and offered her a handkerchief. With some reluctance, Norah accepted it and dabbed her eyes.
“Your first time?” Hermione asked, leaning closer. “Getting ‘pinched’?” Hermione studied her confusion and clarified: “Being arrested.”
Norah was shocked. “Well . . . yes.”
“Don’t be afraid, dear,” Hermione said, taking her hand. “We’ll be with you. They’re bullies, these coppers, and like throwing their weight around. But they know better than to cross the line with us.”
Norah’s disbelief must have shown in her face, for the sweet-looking older woman produced a mischievous smile.
“It’s my fourth,” she said, leaning into Norah with a nod. She almost sounded proud of it. “I’m Hermione Barton, by the way.”
“Four times . . . arrested?” Norah repeated.
A tall, severe-looking woman across the jail wagon spoke up. “Five for me.” She smiled tautly. “Lucrecia Hay-good, here.”
“Four for me, too.” A short, older woman with a long nose nodded defiantly. “Essie Delbarton. Still alive and kickin’.”
Norah nodded as the rest introduced themselves.
“We’ve all been arrested before, dear,” Hermione declared. “On ridiculous charges. ‘Offending the public decency.’ Balderdash. Complete codswallop.”
“They just don’t want women to speak up about how badly we’re treated,” Lucrecia declared irritably.
“Or that we have power ourselves and can make the world a better place if we seize that power and use it,” plump Essie added.
“But they arrested us for just sitting and listening,” Norah said, looking at the women in the police van with her. “How is that indecent?”
