Chapter 9

9

N ow that Lady Emily’s breathing had adopted the even rhythm of sleep, Phoebe lowered the book of poetry she’d been reading aloud, squinting at the timepiece on the mantel.

Ten o’clock . Perfect . Late enough that the household should be slowing down for the night. Not so late, based on the timing of their past confrontations, that he would be abed.

She set the book on the bedside table, rising noiselessly from the chair she’d pulled next to Emily’s bedside. The girl didn’t stir, her body remaining curled beneath the counterpane, her hand balled in a small fist that clutched the edge of her pillow. Good . Phoebe reached down, pushing away a wisp of black hair that had tumbled across Emily’s cheek and bidding her a silent goodnight.

She was glad they’d managed to pass a pleasant day together despite the incident in the village. Even with Phoebe’s best efforts to smile cheerily, Emily had been quiet during the carriage ride home, seemingly far too perceptive not to notice the shadow cast by the encounter with Harriet . However , after the two of them had enjoyed tea and an ample portion of sugar plums in the drawing room, and Marigold had come along to inspect their bonnet-trimming endeavors, trying to capture the yellow ribbon within her paws, Emily had brightened once more. There’d been no cause to speak of it.

But that didn’t mean Phoebe neglected to think of it. No matter what she did, her aunt’s gossip wouldn’t stop turning through her mind. She ached for her young charge, gleaning a small bit of comfort from knowing that as long as they remained on the grounds of Beaumont Manor , she could keep her safe from the malicious rumors that Emily might not be able to avoid once she grew old enough to enter society. The marquess, though, had no such protection. What was she to do about him?

She tiptoed into the corridor, creeping through the dimness and down the stairs. All day, she’d remained on high alert, listening for any whispered words between servants about preparations for Lord Rockliffe’s departure. However , she’d heard nothing, nor had she noticed signs of trunks getting packed or a carriage being made ready. Which meant that to discover the marquess’s plans, she needed to go right to the source.

She continued her careful footsteps as she reached the ground floor, peering about to ensure no one else lingered in the corridor. Lord Rockliffe had been keeping himself so secluded from her that she had no way of knowing where he was or if he even remained at home this evening. She had few options but to check all the rooms he seemed most likely to frequent, assuming he was, in fact, in residence. His study. The library. The dining room. His bedchamber, if it came down to it.

Given the hour, she deemed the study the best—the safest —place to start. Down the main corridor and three doors to the right. She knew the route well after doing it in reverse the night she’d fled from his study with the salacious book in hand.

Tonight , the door was slightly ajar, and the subtle glow of flames shone from within. With a racing heart, she tapped gently against the wood, and when no answer came, she eased it open enough that she could slip inside.

Almost at once, her eyes fell on the impressive figure in the chair beside the fire, and her breath caught. She’d guessed right, then, finding him in the first place she looked.

She folded her legs into a curtsey, having performed the gesture enough times for it to become automatic. “ Good evening, my …” As she rose back to her full height, she trailed off, blinking in the low light. Lord Rockliffe was asleep.

For a moment, she stood unmoving, simply taking in the way his head rested against the back corner of his wing chair, tucked close to his shoulder, and his broad chest rose and fell. Perhaps him sleeping was her signal to go back to her bedchamber where she belonged. After all, he’d already given her sufficient chiding for her attempts at interference.

But she didn’t retreat; she’d never been good at heeding caution. Holding her skirts tight to her body so the fabric wouldn’t rustle, she crept across the carpet, a mouse entering a lion’s den. A very foolish mouse who went all the way to the front of Lord Rockliffe’s chair, positioning herself between him and the weakening fire.

Still , he didn’t rouse, his closed eyelids displaying an even row of lashes that glinted auburn in the firelight. He looked so different like this—younger, for the lines that creased his forehead and mouth had melted away. She could detect little resemblance between him and his daughter, but in sleep, they had something in common. An expression of tranquility that came only when reality turned into dreams that proved far more pleasant.

Her foot began tapping silently against the rug. She needed to speak with him, urgently, before he fled north and the opportunity no longer existed. But if he’d fallen asleep sitting up, he had to be exhausted, and she couldn’t be the one to disturb his peace. Nor could she continue hovering above him, contemplating. Something about this felt highly intimate, bordering on invasive. Not unlike the day when she’d stumbled upon the sight of him propelling through the lake?—

A hand shot out, clamping down around her wrist, and his head snapped upright, his eyes flying open to reveal two orbs of ice. “ What’s this?”

The air rushed from her lungs, and she gave a little jump, his iron grip the only thing preventing her from stumbling backward. “ My … my lord, I …” She tried to remember titles, polite greetings, explanations, but her heart, having momentarily stopped, now pounded rapidly, and her tongue refused to cooperate.

“ What are you doing, Miss Windham ?” Lord Rockliffe’s voice, while made of steel, also contained the huskiness of sleep. For a split second, his eyes wandered to reevaluate his surroundings. The low fire. The empty glass on the end table beside him. The book he’d left open next to it, the page displaying an illustration of some sort of corn.

But then, just as quickly, he brought his piercing gaze back to her. Waiting .

In her head, she’d gone through what she should say dozens of times. Her concern at him being so far away should Lady Emily experience a relapse with her health. Her steadfast conviction that his daughter shouldn’t be left in the expansive house without a trusted family member nearby. That his daughter needed him, even if she refused to show it.

However , none of those grand speeches would come to her now. As she stared into his eyes in the dimness, all that remained was the essence of the matter. “ Don’t go.” Her own voice was croaky, and she shook her head, making sure he understood. “ Don’t .”

His fingers sank farther into her wrist, the touch searing through her sleeve to brand her skin. A sensation skirting the line between pleasure and discomfort. Did that mean she could touch him, too? She raised her unconstrained hand, bringing it toward his face inch by inch. Could she run her fingers over the sharp line of his jaw, a surface grown rough from the shadow of a beard? Could she push away the strand of hair—not quite red, not quite brown—that flopped onto his forehead?

If she dared.

And maybe she did, because if she captured him as he captured her, perhaps he would have no choice but to sit there and listen.

“ Don’t go,” she repeated, a breathless whisper. So much less than what she should be saying, but all she had to give at present. “ Stay here instead.”

His chin jerked right before her fingers landed, and the deep crease returned to his brow. “ Where is this coming from?”

She froze, her heart ready to beat out of her chest. It comes from needing to make you understand but not knowing how. It comes from having too many feelings I don’t know what to do with . She bit her lip, fighting back the sudden sting of tears. The rumors of his past kept whirling through her head. How was she to tell him that she knew ? That she wanted to make things better for his daughter. That she wanted to make things better for him, too.

“ Lady Emily and I had an encounter in the village today.” She paused, considering her next words carefully, for none seemed right. “ It involved some … talk …”

Understanding washed over his features instantly, and his lip curled, showing a flash of teeth. “ If anyone dared utter an untoward word to my daughter?—”

“ They didn’t,” she rushed to say, her gaze darting to his twitching jaw. “ Lady Emily was well out of earshot. Nonetheless …”

“ Nonetheless , you are now well informed.” He released her wrist so quickly that she almost staggered, and he leaned against the chairback, folding rigid arms across his chest. “ The talebearer didn’t forget anything, I hope. Did you garner all the details of my wife’s affair? Of her attempt to disappear to India with her lover? Of how her efforts left her and her unborn child dead in Saint Helena and nearly killed the daughter she already had?”

It hurt to give a nod of confirmation. “ I’m sorry,” she whispered, her stomach feeling like it had just received a blow. Listening to her aunt gossip about the marquess’s tragic situation had been horrible enough. Hearing the details come from Lord Rockliffe’s mouth, though, in a voice that rang cold and detached, made things so much more real, and so much worse. There was nothing she could say beyond repeating the useless words. “ I’m so sorry.”

“ Stop .” All at once, he was on his feet, his body towering above hers in a motion so fast that her breath whooshed away. “ I don’t want your pity.”

She took a moment, making herself inhale and exhale. Behind her was the fireplace. In front of her, his chair. Their bodies occupied the limited space between with only a hint of a gap between them. “ It’s not pity.” She closed the gap, letting her weight rest against his unyielding torso. “ It’s not.”

Pity wasn’t the right descriptor at all. This was understanding. Because she knew what it felt like to get a piece of one’s heart ripped from one’s chest, and she knew what it meant to lose.

“ Regardless , Miss Windham .” He tilted his head so their foreheads nearly touched, his breath a heated stream against her cheek. “ All that talk of scandal should make you run as fast as you can in the other direction. Not compel you to keep up with this misguided insistence that I remain at Beaumont .”

She brought her hand up again, and this time, when she reached for him, he didn’t shrink away. Her fingertips landed on the edge of his face, trailing down over his sturdy jawline. “ I’m not running. You shouldn’t, either. Stay .” She locked eyes with him. Uttered words that had once made her forget reason in favor of rising to a challenge. “ I dare you .”

Silence , heavy enough to swoop down and crush them, filled the room, making time stop and their future hang in the balance. Until behind her, a flame popped in the grate, and in the next instant, his lips crashed into hers, hot and insistent.

Her body became as pliant as melting candle wax, sinking into him farther, and his arm shot out to encircle her waist. How many times had she imagined this? Had she allowed herself quick, forbidden moments in the dark when she thought of the way his hands—his mouth—would feel running over every part of her. Yet her mind’s inventions couldn’t compare to the reality of receiving his kiss, of the delicious pressure, of the way his tongue stroked and teased until her lips parted.

He tasted of brandy. A drink she’d never much imbibed, but when it came from his mouth, she couldn’t get enough of it. The brandy was like fire. Everything was on fire, her skin pricking with warmth that didn’t come from the grate behind her.

Her hand remained on his jaw, grazing the stubble, just as his stayed anchored at her lower back, his fingers making kneading motions that nearly caused her to moan. But it wasn’t enough. She arched her back, experiencing another shower of sparks as her breasts pushed into the heat of his rigid chest and the erection tenting his breeches brushed along her abdomen.

Lord Rockliffe had far too solid a frame to be toppled by her weight. Yet suddenly, he collapsed into the wing chair, dragging her down on top of him.

Yes . Without missing a beat, he claimed her lips again, continuing the kiss as they sat in a tangled sprawl of limbs. Gripping his shoulders for support, she readjusted her body, swinging her leg to one side so she straddled his lap and the hardness she craved settled between her thighs. Only a suggestion of it, tantalizing her through too many thick folds of material, but enough that, this time, she couldn’t contain her cry.

His hand went to her hair, clamping down on the thick knot near her nape and tugging so her head tipped back and exposed her throat. “ So sweet.” He leaned in, his breath teasing the sensitive spot just below her ear. “ You torture me. You make me want .” And then, his lips hit her neck, creating the most pleasurable suction, while his hand traveled to her neckline, toying with the fabric before slipping down the curve of her breast.

He was wrong; she was the one tortured. For his wicked fingers kept sliding over her, up and down, one side to the other, but never quite touching where she most wanted. Her desire spiraled, and she shifted in his lap, absorbing the quick burst of friction. “ More ,” she murmured, her voice so breathless and needy that she hardly recognized it.

He wrenched his mouth away from her, a low growl rising in his throat. She began to form a protest from the loss of contact, but before she could make a sound, fabric split, and her dress was suddenly looser about the neck. His hands worked in a seamless flash of motion, shoving away the black bombazine, tugging down her stays, pushing aside her shift. Until suddenly, her breasts were bared to him, and he came forward, capturing her nipple in his mouth.

His tongue flicked over her, first one side and then the other. So insistent and so assured, causing desire to pool between her legs. She could feel herself wriggling, hardly knowing what she was doing, only that he made her crave and want , just as he said she did to him.

“ Lift your skirts.” His guttural command fell upon the cleft between her breasts, and his eyes, dark with desire, shifted upward to lock with hers.

She didn’t think; she simply acted, rising just enough so she could bunch the layers of bombazine around her waist and drop back onto his lap.

“ Good .” He set a hand upon her bare thigh, inching upward, and she sank her fingers back into his shoulder before anticipation caused her to wobble. “ Is this what you want?”

His fingers were so close to her sex, to touching the parts of her that ached for him, that her reply sounded more like a moan. “ Yes .”

He closed the distance, sweeping along her entrance and through her folds. Moving upward until he hit the bundle of nerves at the apex, and his fingertip lingered. Stroked .

The pleasure of it felt ready to consume her, each caress driving her closer to a peak. But not without him. She wanted … She needed …

She couldn’t think straight, and her limbs were too unsteady to operate smoothly. Yet with clumsy fingers, she reached down, pulling at his fall. He jerked from the touch, a resulting shudder racing through her body. For despite her ungainliness, buttons were coming away, until at last, she managed to free him.

Her breath stopped as his fingers left her, as he took his rigid length in hand. She sidled forward, raising herself, anticipating?—

But suddenly, two sturdy fingertips were inside her instead. “ So impatient.” He swirled through the wetness, bringing his lips back to the spot on her throat where he’d no doubt left a mark. Staying just long enough to run his tongue over the heated skin and rasp, “ Let me see you come first.”

He took hold of her hip, making her plunge the rest of the way onto his fingers, and then returned his hand to his shaft, guiding the tip to her pearl. Circling it over her, a combination of silk and steel that made her moan.

The sensation, his eyes upon her, his words—it was all too much. She shattered, her intimate muscles pulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure overtook her.

“ You need to tell me you’re certain about this.” His voice, not altogether steady, reached her as the strongest spasms faded away, although her body remained in a state of unrest. Not done wanting . “ I need you to?—”

Yes . Had she possessed all her faculties, she would have shouted the word. There was no question of certainty. She knew, beyond a doubt, how deeply she craved him. How she wished to sink onto the swollen length of him, have him fill her …

But he was no longer speaking, nor was he looking at her. He angled his head, tilting an ear toward the doorway, his face stony and unmoving.

She hadn’t heard anything beyond her own cries, hadn’t been able to focus on a single thing besides her position on the marquess’s lap and her burgeoning desire.

The world outside the study hadn’t ceased to exist, though; she could recognize that now. Something thumped in the corridor, gradually getting louder. A rhythmic tap, tap, tap . Something approaching. Some one approaching. Her brain remained too foggy to put it all together.

But Lord Rockliffe understood. His expression shifted to one of abject horror, his hand flying to haul her dress back onto her shoulders. To rapidly refasten his fall.

As he uttered a single word. “ Goddamn .”