CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Saturday, September 18, 1824

The door closed with a soft click as Drake quietly left Wren asleep in her bed after a night of sex. And talking. Two weeks had nearly passed yet they still found topics to discuss. It seemed unfathomable that conversation came so easily between them, especially when Drake rarely lingered in a woman's bed to allow such a thing.

But, once again, Wren proved to be the exception.

" A lot of wallflowers become spinsters ," she'd said hours earlier, rolling into his side once they'd recovered from the intensity of their orgasms.

Her finger traced his chest muscles, and his heart beat double-time at the gentle touch. "I always preferred the sidelines to being the center of attention, so it's naturally where I ended up. But the other reason for no engagements or marriages is my family. They're a bit eccentric, and most people of the ton avoid personalities so different from their own. We're not pariahs. Just… odd."

"I suppose that explains your love of Chaucer during a ball," he said, enjoying the smooth glide of his fingers through her short hair.

"Don't tease." She playfully slapped his chest. "It provided quite the conversation opener, didn't it? Along with your inappropriate staring." Her voice softened at that last part.

He didn't like being reminded of how they came together—his inconvenient fascination with Miss Sharpe. Though, to be fair, she didn't cross his mind as often as before. Not with Wren occupying most of his thoughts.

Changing the subject, Drake patted a wild curl sticking up from her head, a snicker rolling from his throat. "Your morning coiffure is quite the sight to behold."

Wren narrowed her eyes, unencumbered by the spectacles that usually created a wall between her and everyone else.

"Because of these giant paws of yours." She caught one of his hands and held it aloft to prove the point. Her smaller hand was dwarfed by him. "If you want perfectly demure curls, then I'm afraid you're out of luck, especially when you continue to mess with them."

"I never said I didn't like them, little bird." Drake stole a kiss from her pursed lips before stealing another. And another. Until their conversation was forgotten in favor of one more delicious round of fucking his curvy little minx into the mattress.

That had been a mere hour ago, and Drake shifted uncomfortably with each step down the hallway as the memory faded, but his arousal strengthened.

Bloody hell.

Would he ever have enough of Wren?

With the house party winding down, he feared the answer may not be what he'd expected at the start of their affair.

A door opened further down the hall, and the root of his problem appeared. Miss Sharpe exited her room in a yellow wrapper, causing Drake to curse under his breath at such ill-timing. And bad luck.

"Lord Stone, have you been awake all night?" Her innocent gaze studied his disheveled attire—the wrinkled jacket slung over his shoulder, his shirt hanging loose rather than tucked into his trousers.

"No rest for the wicked," he muttered, halting an appropriate distance from the woman.

What was she doing wandering out of her room so early in the morning? Drake may have been a man who'd indulge in secret liaisons with his betrothed, but Farrow was not. He was an honorable man who would wait until he and Miss Sharpe's wedding night to consummate their relationship.

Besides, Drake found it hard to believe that his friend would force his young fiancée to search him out rather than sneaking into her room instead.

"Ah, I see…" She licked her lips, the small sensual act usually drawing his attention, yet he felt… nothing. No stirring interest. No wayward desire to step closer and taste the shiny gleam of her lips.

His mind and cock were fully occupied with thoughts of his little bird's pretty mouth as she swallowed him whole. Of the intoxicating sounds she made when he claimed her lips as his own.

It was an unsettling realization.

"You've been strangely absent lately. Mr. Farrow and I have missed chatting with you," Miss Sharpe admitted, pricking his conscience. While spending most of his time with Wren to avoid Miss Sharpe, he'd also abandoned his best friend at his own house party.

"Apologies. It was not my intention to be so distant." Lies. But Drake would never voice the truth behind his evasion.

"Of course not." She offered a shy smile and took a hesitant step forward to continue the uncomfortable conversation, but he retreated with a quick dip of his head in farewell.

It may be rude, but he couldn't stay here.

Turning on his heel, Drake hurried back the way he came then descended the stairs to a lower floor. He'd find a different path to his room rather than face Miss Sharpe again.

It wasn't that he feared being overcome by desire and debauching his best friend's betrothed. No, Drake didn't worry about that anymore.

What concerned him was much more worrisome.

Because if Miss Sharpe wasn't the object of his fascination, then that meant another woman had claimed the position. Another woman had slipped beneath his defenses and turned his rakish habits against him.

Through every passionate encounter—every unbridled response to his touch—one bespectacled spinster with curves and sass and a pension for making him laugh had done the impossible.

Laid claim to his wicked heart without Drake's consent. And it was damned troublesome.

Rakes didn't fall in love with spinsters. They didn't fall in love at all. Even his infatuation with Miss Sharpe hadn't reached this level of obsession. He could admit that he'd been in lust for the debutante, but Wren…

Lust was only the tip of the iceberg.

Vexatious little bird, what have you done to me?