“What’s this?” Her grin faltered. “You’re leaving?”
He shoved his feet into his pants, aggravated. Not with her. Never with her. With his father. The duke had the unamiable ability to wreak havoc in his world no matter the distance. Brock sought a calming breath as he fastened the flaps, leaned down, and took her chin. Planted a hard kiss on her lips. “I’ll return before you can blink.”
She dropped the paper and gripped his arms. “Don’t leave, John. Please, don’t leaveme.You don’t know what my parents are capable of.” She snatched up her chemise. “I-I’ll go with you.”
“Darling, I can’t take you with me.” How did he explain the reaction from the duke upon learning of his son’s intention to marry the daughter of a lowly baron? His father did not anger easy, but in this Brock was unwilling to chance. They had to remain sensible. He just had to clarify things first. “I promise, darling. I’ll be back. Hold your father off for a fortnight. Can you do that? Just a fortnight. I’ll return, come hell or high water.”
“Two weeks! John, please, no. That’s forever,” she whispered.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Ginny said now.
Her soft tone startled the waking nightmare back to the fringes. “And where else should you be?” he said roughly, tugging her closer. He smoothed his hand over her shoulder, down her arm, feeling the rounded rough, scarred burns, to the dip of her waist, and up over her hip.
The truth of why he’d left all those years ago was on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated at ruining the moment. He wanted those long, luscious legs wrapped around him. He rolled on top of her and nuzzled her neck with his nose. Suckled the lobe of her ear. Worked his way down her body, taking her slowly, savoring her like a sip of Henri IV Dudognon Heritage Cognac Grande Champagne. Scars or no, she tasted as outrageously delicious as he remembered.
She writhed beneath his touch, but he held her in place until she begged for release.
His skin burned from need where her fingers clutched his shoulders. Fire erupted, leaving a blazing trail of sensation. Still, he held back his urge to plunge, lashing his tongue over her hip bone, delving into her navel on his downward quest.
One firm press at the crest of her nether curls and she exploded again, her scream muffled by the pillow she’d had sense enough to grab. He moved back up her body and eased in with a slow push. He pulled out and repeated the process, perspiration dripping from his forehead, slicking his back. On his third entry, any control he harbored was relinquished in a climax that roared through him, his shout buried in the pillow she still held.
On shaking arms, he lifted and yanked the pillow away, tossing it aside. No more secrets between them, he vowed. He pulled himself from her body and crawled from the bed. At the basin, he dipped a cloth in the cool water and pressed it to his face and neck. Dipping it again, he then took it to the bed, spread her legs, and gently cleaned her, kissing the inside of each knee as he did so. He dropped the cloth on the floor and reached for the coverlet, blanketing them. “About my father—” he said.
But there was no response. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Sleep had consumed her. He snuggled in. Time enough to talk tomorrow.
Ten
L
oren smacked his gloves against his hand, cursing the day he’d ever gotten involved with the French, and in turn, the Slavs, and frankly, the entire bloody war. As vile a group of undesirables as he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. Crossing Markov was out of the question. Who knew how many others would surface if the man met an untimely demise?
He took the servant stairs closest to the family wing, irritated he’d missed a good portion of last night’s parlor event. Furious that any ground he’d gained with Lady Maudsley was probably now lost.
If his own situation wasn’t so desperate, Loren would be inclined to sit back and enjoy the show. The new Maudsley sniffing after her while the sidelined marquis seethed and chomped at his bit. It was an enticing image.
Unfortunately, by the time Loren had ventured back into the parlor, long after midnight, Lady Maudsley and Brockway were nowhere to be seen. Talk twittered of the man’s abrupt departure, hauling the lady out with him. There was even implication he’d actually thrown her over his shoulder.
Rage simmered below Loren’s skin, making it itch. He turned the corner for the hall to his chambers. A soft noise halted him. He ducked in a shadowed corner and waited.
Lady Maudsley appeared, her long mahogany locks streaming scandalously to her waist, stealing guiltily to her chamber door, clinging to her loosed frock as she peered around before disappearing inside. The turn of the lock sounded curiously loud in the wee morning hours. His gut clenched, spiked his anger to something dangerously murderous. He dipped his hand into his pocket, reaching for the pistol he’d removed upon returning from the unsatisfactory meeting with Markov.
Fury blinded his stride to her door. He raised his leg, prepared to smash through the oak—
“Papa?” Winslow’s quiet hesitance pierced through the fog.
Loren blinked, then lowered his foot, his harsh breaths palpable and audible over the pounding blood in his ears. Slowly, he turned, facing his son. He was small for his age, and shy. A sweet boy of eight, he was the light in a long, dark tunnel.
Loren stepped back from an invisible shield. “Hello, Winslow. ’Tis awfully late for you to be about.”
“Yes, Papa. But I haven’t seen you since you returned to the country. I missed you.”
Loren’s gaze swung to Lady Maudsley’s locked door and back again.
He flexed his fingers to still the tremors and, with as much calm as he could muster, laid a gentle hand on Winslow’s shoulder and led him back to his chamber without a backward look.
Eleven
G
