Chapter 24

24

Spencer pickedup a pebble and threw it. It knocked against what Spencer hoped was Joanna’s bedroom. She had told him her bedroom was the only one looking onto the back mews, but there was another window. He hoped to God it was the right window, his eyes scanning the small, secluded backyard, where only the faintest glow from distant streetlamps filtered through the darkness.

It had been difficult to lose the carriage that had followed him when he’d left home, but he thought he’d finally managed it. He felt much better after a night’s rest. His bruises and cuts ached, but it was nothing compared to what he had endured at war. Compared to that, he was as good as new.

However, he was still weaker than he wanted to admit, and he’d almost broken his neck climbing over the fence to her house’s tiny mews. How in the world had Joanna managed it when she’d tried to sabotage his carriage? He rubbed his aching thigh, which had felt like it would tear apart when he’d landed on his feet.

He wanted to call himself a derogative name, full of resentment towards his own mangled body… But he didn’t. He didn’t feel as much need to as when he’d first returned to England.

Truth was, he was still angry and grumpy and absolutely in a rage at the atrocities that Ashton had put him and thousands of other men through.

But that wasn’t what had made him restless or given him this strange, unyielding pain in the middle of his chest. A pain he’d felt ever since he’d given the building to Joanna and left her proximity for days.

It was the fact that he’d been so worried about her, especially after the attack last night, and yet he couldn’t come and see her. He had considered coming with a chaperone and just talking to her, and to the devil with anyone assuming he was courting her. Just speaking to her would be a gulp of fresh air.

What he really wanted, though, was to bury himself inside her, have her slide up and down his shaft.

But even seeing her would soothe that ache in his heart.

As he picked up another pebble and threw it, it gave a soft clink against the glass.

The problem with visiting her was that someone was always watching the house, and they could follow him…

And he’d put Joanna in danger.

That thought made his heart jerk so violently he thought it would burst into thousands of tiny, sharp shards.

He’d loved one woman once. A woman he’d thought he’d spend the rest of his life with.

And then he lost her. Her and everything he was.

He’d come back from the war broken, mangled, and empty.

And then Joanna had filled him. Lit his life. Brightened his days. So if he lost Joanna… His heart did that violent jerk again, his whole body covering with sweat. It felt like getting wounded on board of Concord all over again.

He’d asked Rath to watch over her, but he had to come himself just this once, to make sure she was all right. That Ashton wasn’t showing any signs he knew about Joanna.

So he’d driven his skeleton gig so fast, hitched to his black Thoroughbred, the men who watched his house could only swallow dust behind him.

Finally, someone moved in the dark window of the second floor and he saw Joanna, her long golden hair spilling over her nightgown. The sight of her lit up his whole body. He missed her every minute he wasn’t with her. Even though he’d seen her yesterday at Penelope’s art show, he still missed her. Did he really understand how deep she was in his body and mind?

Spencer waved his hand for her to come down. With mouth agape and eyes wide, she stared at him, then lit her candle and nodded, then was gone.

Spencer exhaled a sharp breath, his heart drumming so fast he might as well have run five miles. He looked around, but everything was clear in the tiny backyard, with its gravel-covered ground, peeling paint, a clothesline, a basic outhouse, and a rubbish heap.

In a minute or two, the door to the servants’ quarters opened and Joanna stepped out, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl, a candle in her hand. The urge burned him—to touch her, to wrap his arms around her and never let her go, to have her in his life for the rest of his days.

But then he’d need to marry her…

And he couldn’t marry her… She deserved a whole, healthy husband who would cherish her and give her everything this magnificent woman deserved.

He couldn’t inflict himself, a cripple, both inside and out, on Joanna. He was a sad, shadow of a man, broken and miserable. He couldn’t force her to try to fix him for the rest of her life when she had so much to live for: her newspaper, her family, and one day, a lucky sod who had two healthy legs and no dark demons inside would see her for the treasure that she was.

And then she’d thank him for stepping aside and not ruining her life.

“Spencer, what in the world are you doing?” she whispered angrily as she pulled him towards the window in the corner formed by a small extension of the servants’ door.

A sudden hitch in Joanna’s breathing told Spencer she had taken in the full extent of his injuries. Spencer winced. He wished he could wipe away his bruised cheekbone and the swollen cut over his eyebrow to spare her the shock.

“What happened to you?” she gasped out.

“Ashton’s men,” he said dismissively. “I had to see you,” he whispered. Then he blew out the candle, took it from Joanna’s hand, and placed it on the sill of the nearest window and kissed her, pressing her against the wall. “Are you all right? Has anyone started to watch you or follow you? Has anyone dared to try and do anything?”

God, she looked gorgeous—soft and welcoming and seductive, like dessert made just for him.

“I’m all right,” she said. “I didn’t see anyone. But how badly are you—”

He didn’t let her finish, overwhelmed with relief that no one had threatened her.

It was as though the animal in him took over, the need to be one with her…to touch her…to be connected…was like an unstoppable force. He was kissing her sweet lips, inhaling her gorgeous feminine scent, and drinking her in. Her soft curves felt so right under his hands, his body reacting to her like a runaway stallion.

The ache in his goddamn empty broken heart eased. It wasn’t so empty anymore. She’d taken up firm residence there.

“Spencer, how hurt are you?” she whispered against his lips, her voice gaining that husky tone she had when he aroused her.

What was she talking about? There was no hurt when his erection was pressing into her belly, practically pulsating.

“I’m fine!” he growled.

“Come on,” she said, taking his hand. She looked up at her window with a thoughtful expression. “I want to make sure you’re not badly hurt. If you’re quiet, we can sneak into my room. But only if you’re soundless. Gideon is away, as usual, on one of his bachelor outings. Charlotte is a deep sleeper, and Mrs. Parr sleeps upstairs.”

He was fine, but he was certainly not going to pass up an invitation into Joanna’s bedroom. He’d let her inspect him anywhere she wanted.

“Quiet as a mouse,” he said with a chuckle.

She opened the door, and they began their descent down the narrow, creaking staircase. The air grew cooler as they reached the underground kitchen, a cramped space with a large worn wooden table at its center. The walls, lined with shelves, held an assortment of jars and kitchen tools. In one corner, a large wooden tub and washboard stood.

Ascending the narrow stairs, they emerged into a hallway that led to the front door. The hallway was simple, with plain walls and a few modest paintings and family portraits. The floorboards here squeaked under their weight.

Continuing upwards to the bedroom floor, Spencer moved with a hushed tread, keenly aware of the stark difference between this humble home and the lavishness of Sumhall.

The bedroom they entered was small but neatly kept. A single window draped with simple handmade curtains let in a sliver of moonlight, casting a soft glow across the room.

When Joanna lit the candle, he could see the walls were painted a gentle shade of lavender. The color suited Joanna perfectly. A plain wooden bed, covered with a handmade quilt of varying shades of blue and purple, occupied one corner. The quilt was stitched with intricate patterns; it must have taken someone hours of patient labor to accomplish.

Beside the bed stood a small nightstand, upon which Joanna set the candle, its flame flickering and casting dancing shadows upon the walls. Next to the candle was a well-worn book.

Across the room, a modest writing desk was nestled against the wall. The surface was scattered with sheets of paper, a quill, and an inkwell. The London Gazetteer lay on top of a stack. Beneath the newspaper, partially obscured, was a manuscript written in a neat, flowing hand.

Beside the desk, a narrow bookshelf reached nearly to the ceiling, filled to capacity with an array of books. The titles ranged from poetry to philosophy, from history to the latest novels. It was clear that the owner of this room was both well-read and possessed a keen intellect.

A small vanity stood opposite the bed, its mirror framed in plain wood, with a hairbrush, a modest jewelry box, and a vase holding a single fresh daisy.

As Spencer’s gaze traveled the room, he noted the absence of the opulence he was used to, yet he felt an overwhelming sense of warmth and comfort. This room, with its simple furnishings and personal touches, was the perfect space for Joanna: genuine, thoughtful, and brimming with quiet strength.

Joanna shut the door and turned to him. His heart could burst at how much he missed her. How happy he was to see her.

When would he see her again? He respected her enough not to offer her a position as his mistress…and yet, he couldn’t marry her.

Still…kissing her just now, holding her in his arms, talking to her, being so intimate as to see her private space was like coming home.

Without thinking, he crossed the space between them, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. His erection, which had calmed as they made their way upstairs, sprang to attention again, urgent and insistent at a simple touch of her skin. He devoured her lips, eager to chase away the desperate ache he’d felt for her during the past few days. Her lips glided against his, soft and plush, her mouth tasting like heaven.

“Spencer—” she murmured.

“Yes?” he asked against her lips.

“Let me see how you are…”

He stopped and very unwillingly stepped back away from her, spreading his arms wide. “Do inspect me, nurse.” He started to undo the hooks of his coat. “In fact, allow me to assist you.”

Joanna’s eyes widened, and she glanced at her door. “Spencer, I’m not sure you should—”

“Too late,” he said, smirking, enjoying the blush creeping so seductively up her cheeks. “You asked for this, and I’m only too happy to oblige.”

He stripped off his coat and, with a wince, pulled his white shirt over his head, remaining bare-chested. Joanna’s gaze swept over his torso, clouding with sympathy as she stepped closer to him, gently tracing her fingertips over the bruises on his side, his chest, and his arms. He swallowed. It didn’t hurt. It only excited him. And the love and empathy on her face made his heart swell and press against his rib cage.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“No,” he said as he pulled her close again. “You chase the pain away.”

He cupped her bottom, stroking it at the same time, his other hand cupping and massaging her breast through her nightgown. Her shawl fell from her shoulders.

She arched herself towards him and sighed. “You devil.”

He fought to control the trembling of his body as he longed for her, swallowing hard. “Shall I stop?”

She didn’t reply for a while, then wrapped her arms around him. “What about Penelope?”

He shook his head in confusion. “What does Penelope have to do with anything?”

“I saw you two at the art show yesterday…” Her eyelashes trembled. “You never answered me before. Do you still love her?”

He shook his head. Penelope? She seemed as distant and irrelevant as an imagined elephant now. It was as if Joanna had always held a place in his heart, overshadowing any past affections. Penelope had never consumed him—body, heart, and soul—with such overwhelming intensity as Joanna did.

His heart thudded with a realization he dared not fully acknowledge: he loved Joanna, in a way he had never loved Penelope or anyone else. Yet, with this admission loomed the possibility of a heartbreak more profound than any he had experienced before.

“I am not standing at her window at night throwing pebbles, am I?” he said.

“She’s married to your brother. I am not.”

“And thank God for that,” he murmured as he leaned back to her neck, tracing kisses.

She moaned again, drawing his head closer.

Suddenly, a door creaked somewhere in the hallway, accompanied by footsteps echoing on the wooden floors. Joanna froze in his arms, her breaths shallow and quick against him.

They looked at each other, listening to the steps receding into the distance.

“I think it’s Charlotte,” she whispered. “Perhaps searching for a glass of milk.”

“Didn’t you say she was a good sleeper?” he whispered.

“She usually is. She’s getting more and more restless, not her usual self at all with the ghastly day of decision approaching.”

Joanna’s words were a heavy weight, her voice cracking with pain. He pulled her tight to his chest, wishing to ease the burden of her troubles.

Muffled thuds on the wooden planks signaled Charlotte descending the stairs, likely towards the kitchen. Joanna tried to untangle herself from him, but he kept her in his embrace.

“Spencer!” she protested. “She could come in here!”

The allure of being caught was suddenly too good. If he was discovered with Joanna, he may be forced to marry her—and would that be so bad? He was terrified at how much the thought suddenly pleased him. If he was selfish, he’d want to trap Joanna into matrimony with him.

But he loved her. And so he couldn’t. She deserved someone better than him.

In a few minutes, the footsteps returned. His heart jumped into his throat as they stopped right next to Joanna’s door. Joanna tensed against him, her breath sweet and warm on his skin.

In a moment, if they were caught, he could have her forever. He wouldn’t have any excuse.

But the steps resumed, and after three or four more, a door creaked and there was a thud of it closing nearby, and then it was quiet.

Joanna exhaled and shook her head.

“I thought you’d run!” she exclaimed with a chuckle.

“I’m here.” He kissed her. “Breaking all the rules…kissing this beautiful neck…” He slowly went down her body, nibbling. “These beautiful breasts…”

He nipped at her nipples, drawing the soft yet firm flesh into his mouth through the fabric. His hands glided down her body, tracing the curve of her trim waist, past her generous hips, to the smooth expanse of her thighs.

“And this delicious stomach…”

He knelt and pulled the edges of her shift up and slowly dragged his tongue up her inner thigh, feeling with satisfaction how she shuddered.

“I’ve dreamed about doing this for days,” he murmured against her skin. “You are not just occupying my mind, you sorceress. You’ve bewitched me.”

He dragged his tongue higher and higher, reveling in the familiar and delicious taste of her skin. At the apex of her thighs, he shook with almost unbearable desire at her scent, at the feel of her against him. He spread her folds, happy to see she was already wet with her own desire for him.

“You think I have any willpower when it comes to you?” he asked and sealed his mouth with her sex, soft and wet and delicious. She gasped, her hands digging into his shoulders. “It’s you, darling,” he said as he leaned back a little. “You are the one with all the power. I’m the one on my knees. I’ll always be on my knees.”

He came back to her folds, and she allowed him to feast on the one meal he craved every minute of every day. He felt her quiver around him, her leg on his shoulder, her warm and sleek essence open to him. He didn’t remember if he’d ever enjoyed pleasuring a woman like he was enjoying pleasuring his Persephone. She belonged with him, screamed his body and his heart. This felt right, like nothing had felt right before in his life.

When he flicked his tongue against the center of her pleasure, she gave out a muffled cry, clearly afraid she’d wake someone up, her head banging against the door as she found her release in his arms. His cock throbbed and expanded, and he couldn’t stop his growls, as though he was falling apart just like she did.

When her soft moans stopped, he felt her sag against the door, breathing hard. He rose and picked her up in his arms. His bruised muscles complained, but he couldn’t care less. He brought her to bed and laid her on her side, then joined her, his front to her back, his hand on her stomach.

“Did you have enough, love?” he asked.

“Spencer!” she said, chuckling, a playful outrage in her voice.

“Tell me…” he murmured, kissing her neck, cupping her breast, playing with her velvety nipple. “Tell me what you want. To talk…? To go back to sleep…? Or to ride my cock?”

She stilled, and he felt her chest moving fast under his hand at the last words.

“You can tell me openly,” he said. “Do not be shy. Never with me. Remember, you’re part of the underworld now, Persephone. There’s no shyness, no hiding, no secrets from me in the underworld. I will welcome every dirty thought and wish you ever had and make it come true.”

“Ride your cock…” she said in a small but husky voice that made said cock twitch. “That’s going to be better for your bruises, right?”

He growled and, unable to stop himself, rubbed his erection against her gorgeous bottom.

“Forget my bruises, my hungry little queen,” he murmured as he buried his face at the crease of her neck and his hand in her folds. She was still sleek and hot, and he rubbed her engorged folds, feeling her shudder against him. “And ride my cock.”

With his other hand, he undid his pantaloons and pushed them down his legs, his shaft aching and twitching and in dire need of her. To be inside her…to be connected with her in the most intimate way two people could. To bring her more pleasure, feel her fall apart around him as he fell apart inside her.

He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. He tugged her nightgown up and over her head, and his mouth went dry at the sight of her. She was all pure feminine curves with her luscious breasts and firm rosy nipples, and the soft curve of a stomach he ached to bite. And her legs, spread around his, full and ripe, made him mad with the desire to bury himself between them.

“I’ve never wanted you more than I want you now,” he purred.

He nudged his erection against her entrance and was inside her in one thrust, her tightness and softness spilling pleasure through his body. She gasped, pushing back against him, her back arched. He began moving, pounding into her. Her gorgeous breasts bounced, the sight so appetizing, the pleasure built so fast within him he was going to burst…

He held on, watching a blush of pleasure cover her neck and chest as she let her head roll. She bounced up and down on top of him, and he met her movements with his thrusts. His bruises were a mere echo, annoying like a fly, but he ignored them, chasing them away. What could there be except for this heat, and this expansion and this connection with this woman that felt as holy and as eternal as though she and he were meant for each other all along?

As much as he held on to not spill before she had her own release, too soon he felt her walls clenching and unclenching.

With a curse, he felt the pleasure multiply as she milked him. He couldn’t hold on. That was his undoing. As he felt his own climax take him over in its bliss, he knew she was his light.

He’d never love anyone else but her.

As long as he lived.