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London, 1923
Stage actress Daisy Edwards goes looking for escape at a wild party. Instead she finds reckless passion with a total stranger. Like Daisy, Dominic Harrington is reeling from the Great War, desperate to feel again. But the erotic force of their encounter leaves Daisy unsure whether to run or succumb….
Even if he hadn’t met her in a police cell, Dominic would have no doubt that Daisy is trouble. For the first time in years, he feels intrigued, aroused and vibrantly alive. Both insist there will be no promises, only the rapture of the moment. Pleasure is its own reward—but when it’s this addictive, how can they ever walk away?
The Undoing of Daisy Edwards
Marguerite Kaye
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
London, October, 1923
Dominic
The telephone rang at two in the morning. Constable Durning was as apologetic as ever. He probably thought he was getting me out of my bed, but it was one of those nights when I knew better than to try to sleep. Three times in a fortnight. The man was certainly earning his retainer. But even though it took me less than half an hour to get to the police station, by the time I arrived, Grace had left.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Harrington, but there was nothing we could do to hold her. Miss Harrington wasn’t actually arrested this time,’ Constable Durning told me, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Then why did you call me?’ I hadn’t been sleeping, I hadn’t even been trying to work, but that didn’t mean I was happy to be dragged out on one of those dank foggy London nights on a fool’s errand.
‘Miss Harrington insisted,’ Durning said.
He looked absurdly young tonight, far too young for his uniform. He reminded me of Jeremy, except that Jeremy would have been nearer thirty than twenty by now, and the constable, with his baby-smooth face, would have been far too young to go to war and get himself killed. Born too late, some of the post-war generation said about themselves, as if it was a bad thing. As if they had missed out on something. They had no idea.
The constable selected a key from the board, beckoning me to follow him. ‘I thought my sister had left,’ I said, my feet automatically taking the familiar route to the cells regardless.
He unlocked the door. ‘She did, sir, but she said that you would take care of this.’
‘This’ was a woman. Lying on the wooden-slatted bed, her cheek resting on her folded hands, her long, slim legs curled up, she was out cold. ‘What the hell did Grace expect me to…’
But the constable was already heading back to the desk, and it was obvious what Grace expected me to do, though why my dear little sister decided not to hang around to tell me…
I sighed, because the answer to that was obvious, too. Grace knew better than to give me options. The woman on the bare bed sighed deeply. She was dressed in something gold that shimmered in the dingy light, clinging to her form, more like molten metal than fabric. She was slim, they all seem to be slim these days, but there was nothing in the least boyish about her shape. I noticed that, and I surprised myself by noticing. Breasts. Hips. An enticing dip at her waist. There was a sleek curve to her calves that made me want to run my hands over them. Silk stockings. Gold shoes. Her clothes screamed haute couture. And money.
On closer inspection it was clear that she was older than Grace and the wild group of Bright Young Things my sister tore around London with. Her lips were painted scarlet. A bright slash of colour in her perfectly pale face, there was something lush about those lips, something almost succulent. Long, sooty dark eyelashes. A smooth cap of hair that looked shiny blue-black in the dim light. She was like a very beautiful effigy, save that no statue had ever had the effect she was having on me. No woman, either, not for a long time. Before…
But I made a point of not thinking about before, not now I was living the after. For so long I’d been sure there never would be an after. It was what I’d wanted more than anything back then. But now that I had it—be careful what you wish for, my mother used to say. One of the few things she ever said that was right. She’d be appalled if she knew how her daughter was behaving. Not that Grace would give a damn. Not that Grace seemed to give a damn about anything. One of the things we have in common.
The woman on the bench began to stir. She sat up. She moved like water. Her eyes were huge. They looked black, though they couldn’t be. She was what they call a stunner. And she was what I’d call stunned. Pupils dilated and totally vacant, eyes unblinking. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea where you are?’ I asked.
No response.
‘Or what your name is?’
‘I need to go home,’ she said.
Her voice was husky, but her pronunciation was quite clear.
‘If you’ll tell me where that is, I’ll take you.’
A vacant look. I could have left her. She was nothing to me. Of course, Grace wasn’t nothing to me. Speaking honestly, though, it wasn’t for Grace that I put my arm around her. There was something—broken, fragile, lost?—in the woman’s face that I recognised. She staggered against me as I helped her along the corridor that smelt—mostly—of bleach, while she smelt of something much more