The Girl with the Windup Heart. Kady CrossЧитать онлайн книгу.
foolish, idiotic, pretentious, untrustworthy women. He had one upstairs with him right now. And judging from the noises—and the pictures she’d seen in a naughty book he’d since hidden from her—she had a pretty good idea what he was doing with her. It was enough to make even the sweetest grape sour on her tongue.
If Jack’s stupidity ruined her palate for grapes she’d gut him like a...well, whatever people gutted.
Above her head she heard a thump—her hearing was most exceptional. Apparently everything about her was exceptional, or at least that was what Emily told her. Emily was terribly smart, so it must be true. But if she was so bloody exceptional, why didn’t Jack realize it? He seemed to think of her as a child or a pet—she had yet to work out the subtle differences between the two. She knew it was something pertaining to biology and such, but emotions were complex and she didn’t completely understand them yet.
She only knew that no one could make her happier, angrier or sadder than stupid Jack Dandy. And she was stuck in the bloody house listening to him entertain another woman with dubious hair color. It didn’t matter where in the house she went, she’d hear. She could go out, but Jack didn’t like her going out at night, especially alone. What did he think would happen to her? If anyone came near her, she was physically capable of defending herself—more than capable. She wasn’t naive enough to just go off with someone, and it wasn’t as though she’d would go looking for trouble. She just didn’t want to be there, in that house. Listening.
Thump. She glared up at the ceiling. It would serve the two of them right if she climbed up on some furniture and smashed her fist through the floor. How fast would that painted-up...tart run away when she realized that Jack’s houseguest, the one he hid away but sometimes referred to as his “ward,” was not normal?
Another thump—followed by a trill of laughter that made Mila’s teeth ache, or maybe it was the clenching of her jaw that made them hurt. She swung her feet off the sofa and stood up, setting the bowl of grapes on the table. She had to do something to distract herself. She could get a book, but she didn’t feel like reading. She could listen to music, but Jack had taken the phonographic cylinder player upstairs with him.
Pity he hadn’t put some music on, but even if he had she’d still hear. The tart was loud enough she could be heard over the scream of a steam whistle.
She glanced at the polished mahogany bar in the corner. Bottles of liquor were neatly placed on shelves beneath it. She knew this because she’d seen Jack take them out. He’d taken a bottle upstairs with him earlier.
What was so amazing about the stuff? She’d tried to take a sip once and he’d torn a strip off her for it. Well, he wasn’t there to stop her now. A little smile curved her lips as she walked over to the bar and behind it. Yes, tonight seemed the perfect time to do something Jack didn’t like. Spite, she believed it was called. It was a good word, and she was full of it.
Crouching, she withdrew one of the bottles, uncorked it and poured herself a full glass of the contents. She took a sniff. Not too bad. Then she raised the glass to her lips and drained it in several long gulps. She set the glass back on the bar and waited.
Nothing happened.
She repeated the process again. And again. The third time she paused to enjoy the warmth that filled her belly. Hmm. Perhaps she oughtn’t have drunk it so fast—the bottle was empty. Well, that was a short diversion. She went back to the sofa and her grapes. A few moments later, as she lifted a grape to her lips, it wavered slightly. She frowned at it. No, there was only one grape in her fingers, not two. But two would be better, wouldn’t it? She plucked another one with her other hand and held them up side by side.
“Jolly fine weather we’re having, is it not, Mr. Grapeypants?” she asked in a low voice, bouncing the left grape up and down.
“It is indeed, Lord Cabernet,” “replied” the right grape in a higher pitch. “Nary a cloud to be seen. And isn’t it a travesty, the price of tea these days?”
“Highway robbery. We’ve taken to using the same leaves over and over until the pot runs clear.”
“A sound notion.”
Mila laughed. Now, this was a diversion!
Another thump from upstairs. More laughter—and this time she heard the familiar sound of Jack’s chuckle. It ruined her fun, and made her angry.
Very, very angry, which was surprising because she’d heard that wine was supposed to make a person happy. The laughter continued. Mila reached behind her and took a candlestick from the small table. She tested the weight of it in her palm and then tossed it upward with all her strength. It broke through the ceiling, trailing plaster dust as it tore through the floor of Jack’s bedroom. The doxy screamed. Jack swore. From where she sat, Mila could see through the hole the candlestick created, to where it had lodged itself in the ceiling above. She grinned. She was still grinning when a portion of Jack’s scowling face appeared above the hole.
“What the bloomin’ ’ell was that all about?” he demanded. “’Ave you gone completely mad?”
Completely mad? That implied that he thought her somewhat mad, didn’t it? Her grasp on language might not be as good as it ought, but she knew what mad meant. She tossed Lord Cabernet and Sir Grapeypants into the bowl with their society friends and set it aside. Then she jumped up on the sofa. Another big jump and she was able to grab a handhold in the hole she had made. Jack backed up—good thing, too. She drew back her arm and snapped her fist upward, knocking another chunk of ceiling loose.
More screams from the woman. Mila was going to shove the woman’s own knickers into her mouth just to shut her up. She punched again, and this time a large enough chunk fell—onto the sofa—that she was able to bring her other hand up and haul herself through the jagged opening.
Jack stared at her as though he truly thought her insane. As if he thought she was a monster. Mila had never wanted to hit him before, but she did now. How could he look at her as if he didn’t know her? As if he didn’t understand?
“Wot the ’ell?” He was on his feet now—clad only in a pair of black trousers that weren’t fastened all the way. His naked flesh was quite captivating, though Mila wasn’t certain why. She’d seen him undressed before, but now she wanted to put a shirt—or her hands—on him. Behind him, his “companion” tried to hide her nudity with her garish gown. Her naked flesh was not so captivating. In fact, the sight of it made Mila want to toss her out the bloody window.
Instead, she turned to Jack. “You’re stupid,” she informed him. Her tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. You’re a stupid-head. And you’re loud, and pretty and...” Her attention went back to the woman. “Your laugh hurts my ears like a screeching door hinge.”
“Are you drunk?” Jack demanded.
“How should I know?” Mila shot back. “I don’t know what drunk is!”
“Right.” He took her arm. “You’re wasted.”
Waste. That was bad, wasn’t it? Mila jerked free of his hold. “I am not. I’m angry. How can you seem so smart and be so not smart?” She ran a hand through her hair; it came out covered in plaster dust. Blast.
Jack frowned at her. He was pretty even when he frowned. “I told you to stay away from the liquor cabinet.”
Mila scowled back. “You told her—” she pointed at the woman who had since donned her shift and was climbing into her gown “—that she was pretty. Obviously you are not consistent with the truth.”
The tart—Darla—gasped and Mila rolled her eyes. Surely the woman had heard worse insults than that.
“Go to your room,” Jack instructed sternly. “Later the two of us is going to ’ave a serious chat.”
“I hate it when you talk like that,” she shot back. “Speak per-properly.”
He grabbed her arm again and propelled her toward the