Still… he tucked the book beneath his arm, imagining it still carried the faint warmth of her hands or the ghost of her scent.
The wind had eased, and he limped toward the park gate. A Hackney coach drew up at once—unsurprising. The Duke of Brentfield was a recognisable figure in London: heir to an old and substantial estate, a man of some consequence.
His mind was a haze of images as he rode back in the coach, grateful for the respite from the icy blast. Images of the lady mingled with the sweet sensation of her lying on him and he gritted his teeth, fighting the rising longing.
“You are being absurd,” he muttered again as the coach stopped. He stepped down carefully, paid the driver, and limped toward the inn stables.
He ordered his horse saddled, settled the day’s fee, and mounted with a wince.
“Easy, lad,” he said gently to his horse, reaching forward to pat his hunting stallion’s neck gently. He knew that his horse, Stormcloud, could sense his uneasy mood and was feeling restless, too, because of it.
Sebastian straightened in the saddle, mindful of his injuries, and guided Stormcloud out toward the open road.
As they left the city behind, his mind wandered—inevitably—back to the young woman who had flung herself into danger for his sake.
Memories of the lovely sensation of her soft curves pressed to him, her sweet, ripe form inviting and warm on top of him, returned to his mind. He suppressed them, trying to focus. They returned repeatedly, and by the time he reached home—the journey taking almost four hours, due to his slowed pace—he was tired, confused and strained.
“Your Grace!” the stable hand exclaimed as Sebastian limped out of the stable. “You have an injury. Should the physician be summoned?”
“No,” Sebastian grunted. “No,” he added in a gentler tone, knowing the youth was just being helpful. “I am quite all right. It is just a strain.”
“Yes, your Grace.” His reply was quieter than his exclamation had been.
Sebastian stalked upstairs, warding off his mother’s concerned inquiries and Nicholas’ questioning glance as he passed the drawing room.
“I wish to rest,” he told them, already striding up the hallway to his bedchamber.
He reached the room, shut the door behind himself, and collapsed onto the bed. He had set out from London at around four o’clock that day, and it was already dark outside.
He lay back and closed his eyes, exhausted. He was too weary to go down to dinner, and he contemplated asking his valet to bring it up on a tray. He certainly could not face an hour in the dining room, being asked all manner of questions about why he was so late and about his apparent injury. He did not wish to discuss the event with anyone.
As he sat eating his meal, he questioned himself about his secrecy. It was not because he found what had happened scandalous—in a certain light, it could almost be amusing. And, he supposed as he sipped a glass of water, that was why he did not wish to discuss it. He did not wish it to be laughed over. It was not a laughing matter. The memory of that young lady lying on top of him was not amusing at all. It was intriguing, arousing, and dangerous. It was certainly not amusing.
His mind flooded with memories, and as he rang for his valet to remove the tray and readied himself for bed, the images swirled with greater insistence. In the silence, they crowded close, impossible to dispel.
He remembered vividly—almost physically—the feel of her body pressed down against his. Her soft curves had mouldedinstinctively to him; her breath had feathered his throat; her warmth had seeped into him in a way that made his whole frame tense with a forbidden hunger. In his imagination, he reached for her again, drawing her nearer, his hands sliding over the familiar lines his memory had so swiftly seized upon. He imagined the yielding softness of her waist beneath his fingers, the flutter of her breath as he held her, the way her body might press closer in answer.
His mind teased him mercilessly. He pictured her leaning over him, the fall of her hair brushing his cheek, the subtle, intoxicating give of her body as she settled against him. He imagined himself sitting up, gathering her into his arms, the fabric of her gown loosening under his fingers—softened, slipping just enough to reveal the warm, tempting slope of her shoulder, the delicate line of her collarbone. He imagined kissing her there, tasting the satin of her skin, feeling her tremble as his lips brushed slowly downward.
In his fantasy, she gasped softly—whether in surprise or pleasure, he could not tell—but the sound echoed in his mind with devastating effect. He imagined her sinking back beneath him, her breath quickening, her form arching into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed as though the sensation overwhelmed her. Her warmth, her softness, the delicate shiver of response—he felt it all as keenly as if she were still in his arms.
His breath caught, a low groan escaping him. His body ached with the strength of desire—an ache he had not permitted himself to feel in years, and one he scarcely knew how to master now.
Angry with himself for indulging the fantasy so far, he went to the nightstand and rinsed his face, wishing that he could cool his longing as easily as he cooled his skin.
He went to the window and gazed out. The estate gardens were dark below him, the lawn a carpet of black, stretching outto where the dark blue night sky showed between the trees. A walk was what he needed, yet his ankle ached every time he stepped on it, and he truly was exhausted. He limped to the door and headed downstairs.
The dining room was lit up; his mother was sitting with Gemma, William and Nicholas at the table. He could not hear any conversation coming out of the room, and he walked past as quietly as he could, not wishing any of them to spot him and summon him to join them. He was too tired.
He limped outside, pausing on the long terrace that ran the full length of the house. The night air was cool and refreshing, and he drew it into his lungs. He leaned forward, gazing out at the darkened garden. The air smelled of dew and the fragrance of the flowers in the borders around the house; a wild, captivating smell. Sebastian caught himself before his thoughts were tugged irrevocably to daydreams again, focusing on practicalities.
The visit to the solicitor recommended by Nicholas had not been helpful. All he could say was what Mr Wilton had likewise said: that the will and everything in it was binding and that the clause had to be honoured in order for the funds to be inherited. Sebastian gritted his teeth.
He could not do it. Much as he had recalled—vividly—the pleasures of being with a woman after that surprising occurrence in Birdcage Walk, he still did not wish to recreate the lives of his parents, and he could not see what option he had. His mother would force some appropriate choice on him—some society beauty without any spark or any good sense, who would be impossible for him to admire. And that would already make his life almost as difficult and unpleasant as theirs had been.
“No,” he said aloud. He could not do it. There had to be another way, and he would find it.
He walked towards the doors, finding little solace on the darkened terrace, and, as he did so, he recalled the little book ofShakespeare’s Complete Worksthat he had found in the street, dropped by the mysterious woman who had saved him.
