Oh my God. What had she done? Who had she done? Why had she done it?
She could answer all of those questions just by looking at him. By speaking with him, having him apologize to her for his presumption. By feeling appreciated for her intelligence and business savvy.
Lord.
“Ivy?”
Octavia spoke just at the door, and then the door opened, and her sister stepped inside. Mr. de Silva’s two dogs trailed at her heels. Octavia’s glance darted between the two of them, and it appeared that she suppressed a smirk.
Humph.
“Oh good, I was actually looking for you, Mr. de Silva. And here you are. With Ivy.” Octavia’s voice dripped with smug satisfaction.
Ivy resisted the urge to roll her eyes at how obvious her sister was being.
“Here I am.” His voice was a bit ragged, and Ivy felt a surge of triumph at having affected him so.
“I was hoping you would allow me to take Byron and Keats out for a walk,” Octavia continued, gesturing toward the dogs. “They started following me to the gambling room, and it seems as though they are restless, as am I, and I thought we could all use a walk. Unless you two wish to take them out?” she said with what Ivy knew to be a deliberately disingenuous smile.
“No,” they both replied in unison.
“I have too much work, Octavia,” Ivy said. “I cannot speak for Mr. de Silva.”
“I wish to hear your sister’s thoughts on my work.”
And what work is that? The thought came unbidden to her mind.
Because she was wondering if she was a good kisser at all. She’d been kissed only a few times before, and none of those kisses was as satisfactory as this one had been. But she knew he had likely kissed many more people than she, and she wondered how she ranked among those.
It seemed as if he’d liked it, judging by the hardness she’d felt against herself, but that could be just because he hadn’t been with a lady for a day or two. Since she had no idea how often he was with ladies in the first place.
That would be an awkward question to ask. Not to mention entirely and thoroughly inappropriate. What is your regular rotation of females? One a week? Two a week? More?
If it were more, she’d be surprised he wasn’t constantly yawning. Servicing ladies had to be a fatiguing exercise. At least, she would imagine it would be if it were him.
She felt herself growing warm and wanted to squirm at the image it conjured in her mind—him unclothed, panting from his exertions, a completely satisfied young woman underneath him. With the young woman looking suspiciously like her.
Octavia shrugged. “Then I can take them out, if that is fine with you, Mr. de Silva.”
“Call me Sebastian,” he said in a curt tone. Ivy and Octavia both looked at him in surprise.
“I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that Sebastian feels far more comfortable than Mr. de Silva.”
“Ah,” Octavia replied. “Sebastian, might I take your dogs out for a walk?”
“Yes, thank you, Miss Octavia.”
Octavia grinned. “Just Octavia, since you’re just Sebastian.”
“Just Sebastian,” he murmured. As though he was reminding himself.
“Come on, then,” Octavia said, tugging on the dogs’ leashes. She shot one last knowing look at Ivy, and then shut the door.
“Byron and Keats?” Ivy asked, wanting to steer the conversation away from what just happened, the grading of kisses, and her overly enthusiastic imagination.
That shiver was just because it was cold.
Even though it was not at all.
“I went through a Romantic period,” he replied. His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth. “And now I’m not certain I ever left.”
“No!” she snapped, startling them both. “We can’t do any of this,” she said in a softer tone, gesturing to the space between them. “Even though I’m the one who started it,” she added.
He looked as though he was about to speak, but then he pressed his lips together and nodded.
“You understand?” she pressed.
Another nod. He looked almost angry.
“Let’s return to the work at hand,” she said, waving her hand toward the papers on her desk. The papers that had gotten crushed when he’d hoisted her atop them.
“Of course, Miss Ivy.”
She was about to tell him he could call her just Ivy, as Octavia had, but that would further blur the lines between them—he was living with her, he was working for her, and now he had kissed her. Or she had kissed him. They shouldn’t be on such familiar terms with one another. It would just encourage . . . familiarity.
“Excellent.” She took her seat again, gesturing to the chair opposite. “If you please?” she said. She nearly added his given name, but that seemed thoughtless considering what she had just said.
She started to read his work again, only to find her mind was entirely clouded. That kiss. That moment. That feeling.
Yes, she’d been kissed before. Yes, even by the occasional handsome man; she’d met a few in her tenure as Miss Ivy, proprietor of the newly fashionable Miss Ivy’s.
But he was so much more than any of them, and she needed to push that all away so she could focus on what was important: the club, and making money, enough money to leave the club behind and go live somewhere else.
Although that was sounding less and less appealing by the day. By the ex-duke, if she were being honest.
Damn it.
Damn it. Was he less charming now that he was no longer a duke?
No, because she hadn’t known him until he wasn’t a duke.
But he’d never had a woman so thoroughly deny him before. Of course he had to respect that. It was the right thing to do, regardless of their respective positions. But that he was her employee made it even more important.
Not that he needed this job, precisely. Not for survival, that is.
“What are you paying me, anyway?” he blurted.
Better to ask questions she could answer than ones she could not: Why don’t you want to kiss me again? Have I lost my charm? and most important, Why don’t we work on having fun together?
She looked up with a surprised expression.
“Pardon?”
“My salary. I don’t believe we discussed it.” He spoke in an authoritative tone of voice, even though he honestly had no idea how negotiations between employer and employee were supposed to be handled.
Her cheeks began to color, and she looked embarrassed. “Of course, Mr. de Silva—”
“Sebastian.”
“I apologize for not discussing this when I hired you. How much do you require?”
Ah, here is where it got tricky. Because until a few days ago, he hadn’t had to think about money in terms of how much he needed to live on. He just gestured, and things would get paid, and he would always have enough for his needs.
He had no idea how much rent cost, how much food cost, how much even a new razor cost. Which reminded him that his razor was getting worn, and he must be looking ragged.
Thank goodness he did know how to shave, or else he’d have had to ask her to assist him.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “It depends on my duties, I suppose.” As though he had a clue what he was talking about.
She frowned at him. Had she figured out he had no clue?
“Shall we say thirty pounds a year?”
He’d spent four pounds on a hat for Ana Maria two weeks ago. She’d protested, but he’d insisted, telling her the cost was less than he spent on a good bottle of whiskey.
The disparity between the two was striking.
And at this rate, his future goal of investing was so far off in the future he might have expired by then.
“Seems fair.” Even though it didn’t. Because if a hat or alcohol could cost a month’s wages, what would a suit of clothes cost? Or a horse? How would he be able to live on that?
Just like everybody else who isn’t a duke does.
“I would pay you more,” she continued, “but I accounted for the rent you won’t be paying us. Should you find you wish to move elsewhere, I will adjust accordingly. And I presume you’ll be taking your meals with us, as well? We provide meals for the staff on the nights we know will be especially busy.”
Living with her. Taking meals with her. It was essential, at least according to her, that he maintain a distance. And yet they would be together now nearly all the time.
He’d have to develop a hobby to keep him out of the house when he wasn’t working.
Byron and Keats were going to get plenty of walking until he figured that hobby out.
“Well,” she said, “now that that is settled, I want to implement the Masked Evening as soon as possible—say next week? Does that give you enough time to prepare?”
Preparing meant buying masks and letting the customers know. That didn’t seem too difficult, although he knew there were likely to be unanticipated problems.
“Yes.” He spoke with a confidence he didn’t necessarily feel. But he was going to have to grow accustomed to pretending to know what he was doing until he actually did.
Speaking of which— “Can we agree to a bonus incentive?”
She regarded him quizzically.
“If,” he said, his thoughts running furiously fast, “if I am able to draw in the type of customers you wouldn’t have thought attainable, could you perhaps consider additional monies?”
She twisted her mouth in thought. “That might work. Let me speak with Henry about it and see what kind of parameters we can set up.” She arched her brow. “And may I say I admire your boldness to ask for more when you’ve barely begun working.”
“Uh—” he began, only to stop speaking as he saw her laughing face.
“It’s fine, you wouldn’t know unless you asked. And you’re correct, there are likely to be people I couldn’t have lured into the club alone.”
He felt a deep sense of satisfaction—he had a goal, one he was working toward. If his goal took ten years, or twenty? At least he would be looking forward.
“But meanwhile,” she said, “you should meet with Mac.”
He shook his head in confusion.
“The chef.”
Oh. The large red-faced man. Sebastian hoped he wasn’t as anti-Sebastian as Samuel and Henry were.
“To discuss the menu for that evening. We should have food that looks like other food—sort of a delicious nod to the evening’s theme.”
“That is an excellent idea,” he said in surprise.
“I have them, occasionally,” she replied dryly. “Such as when I opened this club, or when I hired you. Although that remains to be seen,” she added with a smirk.
“It will be.” He rose, leaning over to take his work back. “I will be on the floor at night to observe and help out when required, and I’ll be working on the Masked Evening during the days. I might not see you at meals.”
“Oh, of course.” Her face was expressionless. Did that mean it bothered her? Or did it not bother her?
He might’ve misspoken when he’d told her she must be a terrible card player. He couldn’t read her at all.
But damned if he didn’t want to kiss her again. His hand still prickled from where he’d touched her. His scalp tingled from her fingers. He could find somebody else to kiss, he knew he only needed his charm and looks to acquire that, but he strongly suspected it wouldn’t be the same.
He wanted to kiss her.
Octavia burst into Ivy’s office, slamming the door behind her. Ivy had spent as little time in the house as possible since that day she kissed Mr. de Silva, so she hadn’t seen her sister very much. She’d even missed their regular afternoon tea appointment a few times, and the other times, she’d gulped her share down and rushed off claiming work.
“Good afternoon to you, too, sister,” Ivy said in a mild tone.
Octavia stomped toward Ivy’s desk, then plopped down into the chair in front of it. “Do you mind telling me what is going on with you?”
Ivy tensed. “What do you mean?”
Her sister rolled her eyes. “As though you don’t know. You’ve been cranky for several days now, this is not like you.”
Nor is kissing my employees, and yet here I am, she thought.
“Business is engrossing,” Ivy replied, shuffling some of the papers on her desk.
Octavia slapped her hand on top of them. “Stop that. I know you’re not that busy, not so busy you have to be actively unpleasant.”
Ivy drew her brows together in a frown. “Actively unpleasant?” She hadn’t realized. “If so, I apologize.”
“Not if so. It is so.” Octavia settled her hands in her lap. “I accept your apology.”
Ivy exhaled, then picked up her pencil and held it in a manner that clearly indicated she was ready to get back to work. “So if you don’t mind . . . ?”
“I do mind. You have to tell me why.” Octavia leaned forward, narrowing her gaze. “I don’t think it is such a stretch to think it has something to do with Sebastian.”
Sebastian. Her sister had grown accustomed to calling him by his first name immediately, and used it constantly. Sebastian, would you want to take Byron and Keats for a walk? Sebastian, pass me the butter. Sebastian, did you see the patron last night? She was irked you weren’t her dealer.
But Ivy hadn’t. She couldn’t. Because to admit that kind of familiarity would lead to other familiar things. Things that kept her lying awake in her bed at night. Things that her imagination ran wild with, meaning Ivy found it impossible to sleep. Impossible to sleep—that was it. An all-purpose excuse.
“I’ve had some trouble sleeping as of late. I am sorry.” She tried to imbue her tone with the right combination of sorrow and fatigue.
“It’s not that.” Octavia’s firm words meant that her attempt had failed. “I wish you could allow yourself to enjoy something, Ivy.”
“Is that why you urged Mr. de Silva to bring some fun into my life?”
“He told you that? I would not have thought he’d be so bold.” Octavia sounded admiring. “But yes.” She held her hands out as she explained. “We have a rare opportunity here, Ivy. We have a gentleman, a very handsome, charming gentleman, in residence in our house. It would be a disservice not to utilize him to his utmost ability.”
Ivy gawked at her sister. “Utilize him to his—? Octavia, he’s not a tool.”
“No, he’s a man.” Octavia accompanied her words with a smirk. As though she knew that Ivy was already keenly aware of that. “And you are a woman.”
“So are you!” Ivy wished she had thought before she’d spoken. She didn’t want her sister ensnared by all of Mr. de Silva’s flirtatious charm.
Octavia rolled her eyes. Again. “I see him as a friend. Perhaps a friendly cousin. He is too old for me,” she said scornfully.
Thank goodness. Although that just meant that Octavia believed he wasn’t too old for Ivy.
“Just try to get yourself out of this grouchy mood,” Octavia said, rising. She glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. “I promised Sebastian we would go out with the dogs now. We’ve been exploring London together. Until now, he’s only seen the areas a duke would see.”
“What areas are you showing him?” Ivy asked in alarm.
Octavia made a tsking noise. “It’s not as though I am taking him anywhere more disreputable than a gambling house. But he wanted to get some new linen and get some whiskey.” She shrugged. “He didn’t know where people, regular people, went to purchase those items. So I showed him.”
Linens and whiskey. The necessities for a former duke, now gambling-house employee.
“Well. Thank you for that.”
“So you’ll consider what I said? About being less unpleasant?”
Leave it to her sister not to sugarcoat her words.
“I will.”
Octavia grinned. “Maybe have some fun, even?”
“Get out of my office,” Ivy replied, gesturing to the door. Her tone was stern, but she couldn’t help but smile.
A week later, and his desire for her hadn’t abated. And her expression and treatment of him remained coolly distant, as was appropriate for an employer and her employee.
It was frustrating as hell.
“Taste.”
Mac didn’t wait for Sebastian to respond before shoving something into his mouth. Thankfully, Sebastian knew that all of Mac’s food was delicious, so he didn’t hesitate to start chewing.
“Mm,” he said, nodding at the chef. He and Mac had found common ground on dogs and the running of the British government, so the two had become friends within a short period of time.
Thank God, because Samuel and Henry were only now just beginning to thaw. He’d nearly thanked them for their not-so-friendly advice, since their words rang in his brain anytime he was working—reminding him that he was on unfamiliar ground, and that he had to prove himself.
Mac didn’t seem to judge anyone as long as they liked his food, and Sebastian liked his food quite a lot.
“What is it?” he asked when he could speak again.
Mac grinned in delight. “It’s duck and quince pie. It’s like a meat pie, only it’s actually stuffed with duck and quince.”
“Hence the name,” Sebastian said dryly.
“You may not have noticed, Your Grace,” Mac said, fully aware it would annoy Sebastian, “but the people on the streets often buy meat pies from vendors. They are generally foul tasting, using meat I wouldn’t give to your dogs.”
“Well, since I caught you feeding sirloin to Byron the other day, that is not much of a condemnation.”
Mac waved his large hand in dismissal. “The point is, it looks like one thing and tastes like another.”
“Perfect for the evening. Miss Ivy will be pleased her idea was so successful.”
Mac had already perfected the recipe for lobster cakes disguised as biscuits, and pastries masquerading as cheddar cheese, so the duck and quince pie would just about finish the special selections for the Masked Evening.
“Miss Ivy!” Mac called, leaning to one side to peer over Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian forced himself not to turn to look at her; it was difficult enough to share a living and working space with her, as he often discovered himself staring at her when he hadn’t realized it. If he could just not stare at her when he did realize it, perhaps she wouldn’t notice he was obsessed.
He wasn’t obsessed. No, not that. He just wished to speak with her, perhaps discover if his memory was playing tricks on him—was her mouth that delectable? Her curves that luscious?
But instead he was relegated to staring at her like he was an urchin peeking into a kitchen window.
“Good evening, Mac. Good evening,” she said to him. She hadn’t said his name since he’d asked her and Octavia to call him Sebastian. She found myriad solutions to avoid addressing him at all.
Was it possible she was just as obsessed with him?
His past duke self would have assumed she was. But now, now that he wasn’t who he thought he was, and things were entirely different, he wasn’t certain. Now that he was working for a young lady instead of working to get a young lady into bed, well, that was an entirely different situation.
“Are we ready for this evening?”
The question was rhetorical, since she knew full well they were—she’d ensured it, with her lists and her reminders and her ability to focus on any potential weaknesses.
He admired it. She would make an excellent duke, what with all the managing and negotiating one had to do in that position.
He’d ventured out to meet with some of the people from his old life, and after the initial awkwardness about the scandal of his title, he had gotten their commitment to stop by, fulfilling his promise of bringing more well-heeled and important people into the club. He and Ivy had agreed to terms on a bonus, and both had been working furiously hard in preparation.
“We are absolutely ready, Miss Ivy.” In contrast to her, he always said her name. Whether it was a rebuke of her not giving him permission to call her by her Christian name, as her sister had, or a reminder to himself of their professional relationship, he didn’t know. He did know that every time he said her name, her expression changed, such a fleeting frown on her face he’d thought he was imagining it the first few times.
But no. For some reason, his calling her Miss Ivy irked her. So of course he did it as often as possible.
“Taste this.” Mac held the other half of the pie out to her, and she took it, popping the whole bit into her mouth. She chewed, nodding in approval. “It’s very good,” she said, licking her lips to retrieve an errant crumb.
Damn it. He wished seeing that didn’t make his cock twitch. Thinking about other places she could lick, were she so inclined.
Though she wasn’t. She’d made that clear with her words directly following the kiss, and by her behavior in the week since.
Her sister, however, was as friendly as Miss Ivy was distant. Sebastian had found himself asking questions about their life before coming to London, before opening the club. Octavia was an open book except for when it came to how her older sister settled on opening a gambling club in the first place. But he heard all about Ivy’s teaching lessons to Octavia, since their father couldn’t seem to hire a proper governess; the various scrapes from which Ivy rescued her sister; and how much Octavia did not wish to go live in a country cottage.
Sebastian found himself sympathizing with Miss Ivy, who was clearly trying to keep her younger sister contained, even though that sister was equally determined not to be so.
He wished they were friendly enough for him to tell her so. But anytime their conversation threatened to move beyond a professional relationship, she suddenly announced she had somewhere else to be.
He strongly suspected she did not always have somewhere else to be.