He had married the woman.
But unraveling her secrets was proving as futile as the night was dark.
He shifted, thinking better of leaving his whisky untouched, for his head was thumping, and his skin felt as if it were on fire. The pressure behind his eyes threatened to explode. Even his throat was raw and sore. He gulped down the whisky, stifling a wince at its bite. The room around him seemed to swirl for a moment, until he forced himself to concentrate.
Sleep. He needed it. Ordinarily, when his moods struck him, they did not last more than a day, perhaps two. But there was no time to sleep, and waiting for him on the other side of the door connecting his chamber to hers, lay the woman who had consumed him from the moment he had first seen the inky cloud of her hair and the snapping fire of her eyes.
Ever since he had tasted her lips.
And her cunny. Though not in the way he would like.
Perhaps his true problem was he needed to bed someone. Anyone. Anyone but her. He cast his glance about the chamber, watching his guests laughing, talking, and disappearing into chambers. Music played faintly over the din, but no one came to Blayton House to dance the cursed minuet. They came here for sin.
Leo had not joined in the depravity since he had gone to Harlton Hall—since he had kissed the banshee—and what better night to reclaim his wicked streak? If only his face was not so hot, his body not so aching. He was tired, but despite his need of a warm bed and half a day’s worth of rest to restore himself to an ordinary state, the cockstand in his trousers would not be relieved.
And he had tried.
Thrice daily.
To his shame, he could not spend without thinking of sinking his prick into either her sweet cunny or her pink mouth. Especially her mouth. Releasing his seed down her throat and watching her swallow.
Ah, fuck.
This was not good.
He tipped back his glass of whisky once more to find he had already drained the contents. A lone drop landed on his tongue, a symbol of the futility of his attempts at escapism, it would seem.
The sea of lords and ladies and scoundrels and mistresses shifted. For a moment, his eyes lit upon a familiar figure. Golden hair, swept into a knot, curls framing the sweet, angelic face. Recognition gripped his gut.
Eyes he had gazed into many times before met his.
Jane was here.
His Jane.
No. Ashelford’s Jane. For she had never been Leo’s, regardless of how much he had once loved her, and she had proven so with her defection. She was the Duchess of Ashelford now, walking toward him with contrition making her beautiful face solemn.
Christ, she was just as beautiful as she had always been. But what the devil was she doing here, at one of his notorious fêtes?
She was happily in love with her husband. And Leo had begun these sordid parties initially because of her, but later, as a means of concealing the true nature of his covert work with the League. Appearing the dissolute rakehell tended to keep one from being suspected of running the most elite, clandestine group of men in England.
He was burning up now. His skin prickling with gooseflesh. Part of him was hot as the flames of hell, and part of him was beginning to take chill. He gritted his teeth, looked away from her, and motioned for a servant to refill his whisky. He needed more. If Jane intended to speak to him—if she had dared to enter his territory in such fashion—he needed to numb himself.
And then she stood before him, ethereal in an evening dress of pink silk, smelling of rose petals, just as she always had. “Leo.”
“Your Grace,” he bit out, reminding her they were no longer betrothed. No longer on familiar terms.
Hell, he was not well enough for this unexpected meeting, whatever it was, between them.
“I hope you do not mind my trespass,” she said softly.
For a moment, he did not know if she referred to the fact she had been carrying the Duke of Ashelford’s child whilst promised to him, or if she referred to her presence at Blayton House this evening.
“Of course I mind,” he told her unkindly, for as far as he was concerned, he owed her no benevolence at all. She had betrayed him with another and thrown him over, and all these years later, he still had not forgotten what she had done to him. Though he had moved forward, his anger and hurt had not entirely dissipated. Perhaps they never would. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She flinched as if he had struck her. “I arrived with Lady Edgemont. I had hoped to speak with you.”
The Countess of Edgemont was as lusty as they came. She had six children by, it was rumored, six different lovers, and she was a regular in attendance at Blayton House. He had not realized Jane was now running with such a fast crowd, and he had to admit the knowledge gave him pause.
