Chapter Ten

Samuel’s steps were sloppy. He was dead tired, not an unusual occurrence after his Sunday trips. Though, to be fair to this body, the meetings depleted his mind more than anything. If only he had the courage to stay away, to announce he would no longer take part… But it was a ridiculous idea. He knew he wouldn’t. He knew he couldn’t.

The house was quiet and cold. The candles had all been snuffed out and everyone was most likely in bed. He’d hated being away so long on Annabelle’s first day in the house. But at least it afforded the sisters a chance to get to know one another. That could only be a positive outcome, and his presence would have prohibited that. Besides, his time on the road had helped him come to terms with what he must do. If his searching came to nothing, and no immediate family could be found, the child had to stay. That was obvious. He would never turn his back on Viscount Wright, and if that meant housing every one of his children, then he would. Having a ward really wasn’t that difficult anyway. He’d managed to do so with Myfanwy for the past year, and they’d hardly had any interaction at all. However, that was for different reasons altogether.

His mind went back to Myfanwy at the dining table this morning, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. The woman was out of her depth. Handling a child would take her down a peg or two. Myfanwy was so used to being absurdly capable at everything, commanding everyone around her. A captain was always a captain. But, he had no doubt, she’d get the situation straightened out in no time. Who could resist her? Yes, the intrepid wench was stubborn and vexing, troublesome and a pain in his arse, but she was also exuberant and fun, a lightning rod of possibilities of what could be. She saw the future—and herself right in the middle of it—so clearly. That kind of energy was impossible to ignore. He knew that better than anybody, because he’d tried and was desperately failing.

Samuel stopped at the base of the stairs, his hand hanging listlessly on the newel cap. He should check on the little girl, but his leg was biting into his sanity. Sleep would elude him if the pain continued. One drink would dull it enough for him to close his eyes. One drink and then bed.

He limped to the library, debating whether to start a fire. He hated wasting the firewood, but the summer night had a briskness to it. And he wanted to feel cozy. There was nothing cozy about whom he’d shared his day with, and something inside Samuel screamed for a little special attention, if only from himself.

However, it seemed that he wasn’t the only one with that intention. As he ventured closer to the room, he noticed light spilling through the door crack. He opened it warily and saw a blur of a body scattering spastically.

As Samuel’s eyes adjusted to the light, he found Myfanwy sitting primly on the couch, a book in her lap, with an intimate fire at the end. It was a lovely tableau, worth painting—or it would have been if the book she was pretending to read wasn’t upside down in her hands and she didn’t look like fifty shades of hell.

Samuel entered the space wordlessly, taking the book from her, making a point to turn it right-side up so he could read the title. He cocked his head. “Accounts of the Sandwich Islands by Lady Louise, Countess of Somerset?” He squelched the urge to laugh. “Going somewhere, are we?”

Relaxing her spine, Myfanwy deflated against the couch cushions, folding her arms tight to her chest. The poor thing looked as drained as Samuel felt. She was still wearing her day dress, but there were dark smudge marks across her skirts, as if she’d been crawling in the dirt. Her hair was just as ragged, not that he minded. Samuel adored it when it was wild and disheveled, pouring over her shoulders. It made him want to do things. Particular things.

He tossed the book on the table and clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Bad day?” he asked, falling onto the couch next to her. His weight shifted Myfanwy, causing her to knock into him. Neither of them had the energy to right themselves. Or maybe, he thought, they just didn’t want to.

Samuel wasn’t sure where he found the courage, but he casually lifted his arm and rested it along her shoulders while he hooked one leg over the other. Once more, Myfanwy didn’t move. She laid her head against Samuel. Just like that. Like this was just something they did and nothing out of the ordinary. Was this the miraculous effect of children? Make their parents so fatigued and careless that they collapsed into each other’s arms at night? If so, Samuel liked it immensely, and had a whole new appreciation for parenthood.

“You caught me,” Myfanwy said sleepily. “I was dozing on the couch when I heard you come in.”

Samuel began to trace little circles on the top of her shoulder. A few inches lower and he could do it to her bare skin, but he considered that might be too much temptation. Her skin was like the Holy Grail to him—once he had it, he would never be able to let it go.

He closed his eyes, trying to stay on top of the conversation. However, all that did was make him want to imagine being on top of something else. Dammit, man! Concentrate! “Why didn’t you go up to bed?”

Myfanwy huffed and gestured to her legs. “I tried, but they just don’t want to move.”

He wished she hadn’t directed his attention to those legs, which were colt-like and lean. He could see the indentation of her muscle from under her thin skirts. She was being so agreeable tonight. Would she stop him if he placed his hand there? Just on her thigh. That was all he wanted.

“Didn’t Tim’s daughter come to help?” he asked instead.

Myfanwy nodded and yawned, and her warm breath made him cozier than a thousand fires. “Sarah. And yes, she did come, just as you said she would. She was wonderful, but I wanted to help, so…”

“So?”

She shrugged, and the action moved her head even more toward his pounding heart. “I helped.” She yawned again, and Samuel’s conscience finally beat out his cock to grab his full attention. He should carry her upstairs and place her in her bed. But would he join her there? That was the problem. Samuel was too fatigued to know the answer, so he stayed where he was.

“How did you help?”

“Well,” she began dramatically, “we bathed her and washed her hair, fed her more. The child is always hungry, though so am I, so I can’t fault her for that. And then we played. All day.”

“Cricket?”

“No,” she said sulkily. “Annabelle made it quite clear she hasn’t the affinity for cricket—yet. But I’ll work on her.”

Samuel smiled over the top of her head, enjoying the scene she was painting for him. He’d witnessed Myfanwy running back and forth between wickets countless times and never once seen her falter. One day with a child and she was like a wet rag, wrung out by an old laundress’s heavy hands.

“So, if there was no cricket, what did you do?”

Her laugh was woefully depleted. “What didn’t we do? We ran around the house, threw stones, drew pictures—”

Samuel leaned over to look at her face. “She talked to you, then?”

Myfanwy’s smile fled. “No, not yet, but we’re getting there. It’ll happen. She needs time to trust me.”

Samuel tightened his arm around her. “She’ll come around. I wonder why she remains quiet with you?”

“Who knows for sure?” she replied. “But she will one day.”

“Of course she will. You’re her sister.”

“We need to find her mother, Samuel. Find out why she left Annabelle with us. Maybe we can look for that boy—the one that dropped her off. He’ll have to tell us.”

Samuel understood that Myfanwy was speaking but didn’t have the slightest idea what she was talking about. She’d ruined that for him when her hand began to flutter. It was a small motion at first, just her palm resting on his chest; however, it didn’t stay there. Her fingers began to caress him in tiny waves that made a sweat break out over his forehead.

Samuel placed his hand over hers, forcing her to stop. “Um… Yes, her mother. I, ah, sent a messenger to the opera house asking for any information regarding your father, but nothing came back. I’ll try the gaming halls next. Maybe I’ll go to the Lucky Fish. That’s the preferred haunt of most of London nowadays.”

She picked her head up off his shoulder, leaving a boulder-sized space of regret. “Can I come with you?”

“No.”

She frowned. Her head was so close to him. Samuel’s neck strained as he attempted to keep their distance. But he had no control over his good eye. It soaked up her loveliness, and he lost all restraint over the fullness of her lips, the richness of her sun-loved skin. He didn’t even mind that she was staring at his bad eye. There was no sympathy in her countenance. Even if there was, Samuel wouldn’t have cared. If she wanted to pity him, she could do it, as long as she was naked in his bed. Pathetic bastard that he was, he might even use it to his advantage.

Myfanwy was his. That realization hit him like a brick in the head. Not only was she his, but she was his for the taking. There was nothing to stop them from carrying their flirting to the next level. So why wasn’t he acting on it?

Christ, what was he thinking? She was his ward! A viscount’s daughter! He mustn’t think of her in that way. The more he did—the more Samuel pretended that anything could develop between them—the more real it became to his feeble brain. But it wasn’t real. Myfanwy deserved better. She was a gentleman’s daughter, and if there was one thing that Samuel had been told time and time again in his miserable life, it was that he was no gentleman.

Myfanwy’s hand dropped to his injured leg, where she continued to wreak all kinds of havoc on his senses. It took everything in Samuel to keep his head from falling back with a groan. It was such a light, innocent touch, but for a man accustomed to very little, it was like a choir of angels singing just for him.

Her eyelashes fluttered guilelessly as she met his tortured gaze. “Let me come with you to the hall. I can help,” she whispered against his lips. How could drinking her breath be more erotic than actually kissing her? Maybe because Samuel hadn’t actually kissed her yet.

“Go to bed, Myfi.”

Her lips curled, and this time, Samuel could have sworn they touched his. “You’ve never called me that before.”

“Should I not?”

“No, you can. I like it.” She grew bolder, massaging the top of his thigh now, and even though it hurt, it also felt fucking amazing.

Samuel licked his dry lips, and Myfanwy flinched, her eyes wide—and then determined. Suddenly, she moved with greater intention. She pushed down on his leg to shift her body onto his—and, weak, stupid bastard that he was, he released a guttural yelp that stopped her from doing every beautiful thing she’d intended to.

Myfanwy froze and then fell back into her seat, no longer touching one blessed inch of him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said, staring down at his useless appendage.

Samuel clenched his jaw in pain. It had nothing to do with his leg. He was used to that worthless son of a bitch. His cock was the source of more pressing matters.

He blew a ragged breath out from between his teeth and let his head loll back on the couch. “It’s fine,” he told the ceiling. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I did!”

“You didn’t. It really doesn’t hurt that much. I’ll ice it later.”

“I wish you would try something else.”

Samuel swung his neck toward her and found a lazy grin. “Let’s not talk about it. Truly, it doesn’t hurt. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

Myfanwy chuckled self-consciously and answered with a shy smile. “Good surprised or bad surprised?”

“What do you think?”

She studied him for a long moment, and Samuel couldn’t begin to guess what was going on in her head. When her focus shifted to his white eye—and then his leg—he knew. Without a doubt, he knew what she’d surmised. He was damaged goods.

And Samuel concluded that he didn’t want to be pitied. Not even with Myfanwy naked in his arms.

His voice came out brutishly gruff, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Go to bed, Myfanwy,” he said once more.

She shifted in her seat, pressing her hands into the cushion as if to lift herself up, but paused. “You could come with me,” she replied in a whisper that managed to scorch every patch of skin on his already inflamed body.

There it was. She was giving herself to him. But for all the wrong reasons.

Samuel shook his head. “Your room is no place for me.”

“It could be,” she said gently, “if you want it to be.”

When Samuel didn’t reply, Myfanwy eventually stood up and left the room. He couldn’t ascertain who’d rejected whom in their situation, who was the winner and who was the loser. In the end, he had to admit that it was a draw. And a draw was worse than losing; it was worse than death. Any cricketer could tell you that.