An Imperfect Engagement

by Alyssa Drake

  “I will only be gone a few days. You will have plenty of activities to distract you, I doubt you will notice my absence.”

  “I will notice.” She shook her head, sinking her teeth into her lower lip.

  He lifted her hand, dropping a light kiss on the palm of her hand, then relinquishing possession. She shivered. Her eyes rose to his, and she offered him a partial smile. He grinned in return. “Had I more time, I would properly take advantage of you in your current state of undress.”

  “It is not quite morning.” Her eyes gleamed.

  “I want more than tonight,” he replied softly, brushing his lips over her forehead. “I want forever.”

  Rising with conviction, he walked slowly to the door, each step carrying him further and further away from her. Resting his hand on the door handle, he paused, glancing back. “Tell me not to leave.”

  “You will not listen,” Miss Hastings replied, eerily calm.

  “I know.” He smiled, a rueful crook of his lips. “Tell me, anyway.”

  “Please stay.”

  “I cannot,” he replied heavily, watching her heart shatter in front of him. He could not turn away nor could he return to her side. He stood frozen, conflicted.

  “Benjamin.”

  He was losing his battle to remain disconnected. That one word—his name—a whisper from heaven. He could stay. He could wait for Morris to show his hand as Thomas suggested earlier that evening. In doing so, Benjamin would spend many blissful hours in the pursuit of seduction, the idea exceedingly tempting.

  Yet… he would not.

  He could not allow Miss Hastings to place herself in such a precarious situation. Her stubborn temperament, so much like his, gave him no other option. She would move forward with her dangerous proposal to tempt Morris out of hiding. If it cost her life, Benjamin would metamorphose into Mr. Flannery’s twin, madly searching the hillsides for Miss Hastings’ spirit, drawn by her scent, her whispered voice—forever bound to her memory.

  “Benjamin.” Her voice sensed his hesitation, felt his need.

  His wild eyes raked over the girl residing in his bed, the heat rising in his veins simmering precariously. She possessed the power to force him to forego his quest. He knew it. Immobile, fighting his desires, he realized Miss Hastings knew as well. An invisible chain linked them—he would not survive without her.

  Thoughts shifted mercurially across his features. Miss Hastings watched the migration thoughtfully, immobile in her contemplation. Folding her hands in her lap, she tilted her head, capturing his gaze until the smoldering heat growing between them threatened to erupt. She nodded her consent.

  “Do you know where to find Franklin?”

  The corner of Benjamin’s mouth pulled up at her question. Relief ebbed into his veins and released him from purgatory. He stepped forward from the shadows. “We received information claiming he was hiding east of here on an old family farm.”

  “You heard this from a reliable source?” she asked, arching a skeptical eyebrow.

  Benjamin grinned faintly. She sounded very much like Edward. “We believe the letter is truthful.”

  “We?”

  “Mr. Davis and myself.”

  “What does Edward believe?”

  “Edward would prefer not to spend his time chasing rumors.”

  “Was that a direct quote?” Miss Hastings smirked.

  “It was.”

  “I see.” She swallowed her grin. “And Mr. Reid, what was his opinion?”

  Benjamin’s face darkened considerably. “Mr. Reid,”—Benjamin placed severe intonation on the first word—“believes your plan is an excellent idea and mine is a fool’s errand.”

  Miss Hastings rose from the bed and approached Benjamin. “It was not my intention to cause discord between you and your brother.”

  “Stop,” he said, hungrily watching her movement. Slowly shaking his head to halt her progress across the room, he continued speaking only when Miss Hastings paused, halfway between the bed and himself. “Thomas and I differ due to my inability to observe the situation rationally, or so he has accused.”

  She took a small step closer, hovering on the edge of an invisible circle, just outside his reach. “Is Mr. Reid correct in his assessment?”

  “He is.” The heat consuming Benjamin burst into flames, licking enticingly across his skin. Miss Hastings glided closer, a moth drawn by the inferno.

  “Samantha.” He whispered the warning through the rising fire blinding his senses.

  She reached out her hand, tentatively stroking one finger tenderly across his full lower lip. Moaning, Benjamin sprung forward, wrapping his arms around her. He pulled her against the hard length of his body, inhaling her scent. Without a thought, his mouth descended, attacking her lips with fervor. She sighed, molding herself to him. Tightening her arms around his neck, she pulled him closer, allowing Benjamin to consume her breath.

  “Benjamin.” The siren voice called again, filled with longing. Her eyes glittered brightly, alight and energized. Her body warmed, rouging until she glowed from his touch.

  Growling, Benjamin lifted her easily, entwining her legs around his waist as he carried her back to his bed. His mouth wandered over her lips, nibbling down the side of her throat until she cried out his name. They collapsed together.

  She tugged at his shirt, skimming her hands over his exposed chest. He sucked his breath in sharply and bit down gently on her lower lip. Wiggling impatiently underneath him, she slid her palms over his muscles. His shirt disappeared, flung unceremoniously across the room. Her fingers danced across his bare skin, sending tremors vibrating through his skin in every direction. Smiling at the reaction, Miss Hastings’ lips curved sensuously. Her hands wandered across his stomach, brushing lightly against the top of his pants.

  “Slow down, Samantha.” He inhaled shakily, gathering her arms and pinning them over her head. His tongue travelled wickedly along her jawline until she writhed beneath him.

  “Benjamin,” she begged, her body bowed in anticipation.

  His hands inched their way to the hem of her nightdress, whipping the garment over her head. She lay momentarily still, holding her breath. Benjamin’s green eyes hardened to steel. Bruises of varying sizes decorated her pale skin, previously hidden—a map of torture. Benjamin roared and slammed his fist into the wall.

  Miss Hastings’ hands hastily covered the worst contusions, but Benjamin easily captured her arms again and moved them out of the way. His narrowed eyes inspected every mark as Miss Hastings watched him warily.

  “Does Edward know the extent of your injuries?” Benjamin looked up from his examination when Miss Hastings did not answer.

  She bit her lip hesitantly. “No.”

  Benjamin brushed his thumb tenderly down the side of her cheek. “Why did you not tell him?”

  Miss Hastings returned his gaze with melancholy. “He would have left with you,” she whispered. “I could not take him from Wilhelmina and the girls.”

  Releasing her arms, Benjamin encircled Miss Hastings’ face with his palms, forcing her to hold his stare, his voice rumbling thickly. “I will return to you.”

  Languidly he lowered his head until his lips were millimeters from hers, her warm breath tickling his skin. He grazed his mouth across her lower lip, sucking it gently. She sighed and melted against him. Her hands slid through his hair before she tightened her grasp and roughly pulled him against her.

  The urgency which possessed him earlier returned in full. He needed to feel her, to be surrounded by her. His hand slipped between them, unfastening his pants. Quickly tugging his trousers from his hips, he lowered himself in agonizingly slow increments until he filled her completely. She moaned, her eyes half-closed. Leaning back, she exposed her neck to his sinful ministration. Obliging, Benjamin’s mouth nipped her sensitive skin, caressing a path down to the midpoint of her chest.

  Fully sheathed in her warmth, he ground his hips into her. She cried out his name, her hands gripping h
is waist, wanting more. He slowly pulled back, pausing before sliding into her again and stilling, his tongue wandering wickedly across her exposed breast. His teeth closed around the nub, tugging gently. She growled with frustration, writhing again, begging for release. He complied, slamming into her with every ounce of the desire coursing through his veins. Her sapphire eyes glowed wildly as she rose to meet him. Benjamin lost the last shred of his control, increasing the rhythm of his hips as they moved together in unison.

  She began to tremble beneath him, her fingers gouged into his back, leaving red marks. His name tumbled from her lips, swallowed by his greedy mouth. Once more, he pushed deeply into her, reaching his own climax as she continued to vibrate uncontrollably. He shuddered and collapsed on top of her twitching form.

  They lay, entwined, trying to slow their breathing. The blush of passion slowly faded from her alabaster skin as she curled into Benjamin. He dropped a light kiss on her neck, eliciting a tiny shiver from her. She pushed up slightly, resting on her arms and smiled at him.

  “You truly are the World’s Most Wicked Rake.”

  “I believe you used the word Notorious.” Benjamin corrected her with a smirk.

  “So, I did,” Miss Hastings replied, idly drawing a pattern on Benjamin’s chest with her fingertips.

  “Samantha.” Benjamin warned her with a playful smile, removing her hand. “There is nothing I would like more than to spend the next twenty-four hours showing you how truly wicked I can be, however…”

  “You cannot.” She sighed heavily. “Will you at least stay with me until I fall asleep?”

  “That I can do,” Benjamin replied, softly stroking her hair. She purred contentedly, her head resting in the crook of his arm.

  He glanced around the room. An old traveling trunk resided at the foot of the bed. Aside from that intrusion, very little of Miss Hastings’ personal belongings permeated his space, yet she had always been there. His eyes flicked to the loose brick in the fireplace. With the pistol and watch both removed from the cubby hole, only one other delicate item remained. Actually, two items, he corrected himself—letters from his past. One letter was the last correspondence he ever received from Miss Hastings and the other, his long belated response.

  He peeked down at her. She slept dreamlessly, her face buried in his chest. Slowing sliding out from underneath her, Benjamin rose from the bed, retrieved his pants from the floor, and yanked them over his hips. Padding over to the hearth, he carefully he loosened the brick, pulling it free from the fireplace. Reaching into the cubby, he grasped two letters and extricated them from the recesses of his hiding place. He replaced the brick gently, checking to make sure the noise did not wake Miss Hastings.

  Both letters were folded neatly together, their worn creases an indication of the frequency with which he read them. Taking a seat in the armchair next to the dying fire, Benjamin unfolded the two letters. He began with the last letter from Miss Hastings.

  * * *

  Dear Mr. Reid,

  I HATE YOU!

  P.S. Why did you stop writing me?

  Sincerely,

  Miss Hastings

  * * *

  The childish writing of a twelve-year-old. Benjamin’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. He expected this particular response once he was forced to cut all communication with her. After ignoring several letters, Miss Hastings finally wrote this last attempt to regain his attention. She did not know at the time Uncle Ephraim and Edward had demanded Benjamin discontinue any future contact with the impressionable little girl.

  The letter behind hers—his response to her unanswered missives—was never delivered. Edward ensured that. However, Benjamin continued to hold on to it. So many years it remained hidden, for what purpose he never understood. He perused the letter, debating old wounds.

  * * *

  Dear Miss Hastings,

  I am sorry to hear your good opinion of me has changed. I regret I will not have the opportunity to convince you otherwise. However, there are circumstances outside my control which require me to terminate our friendship. Before I never speak with you again, there are three points I wish to make.

  First, my correct title is Lord Westwood. It has been my salutation for some time now. Mr. Reid, to whom you consistently write but have never met, is my brother. However, rest assured, I have not shared any of our correspondence with him.

  Second, I see no reason why a girl should not learn how to shoot. As you have already mastered the fine art of fencing—a skill from which I still bear the mark—I believe learning to use a pistol would be suitable to your temperament. You may share with Edward my sentiments on the subject.

  Third, if I had the ability, I would pursue our acquaintance further. However, I am not your guardian and as such, do not have the right to make that particular judgment. I have enjoyed our discussions and regret they will not continue.

  Sincerely,

  Lord Westwood

  * * *

  Benjamin folded both pieces of paper again, staring at the fire as it crackled. A bird chirped outside the window, announcing the early morning hour. Rising from the chair, Benjamin stuffed the papers back into the cubby and pressed the brick flush, a shower of dust sprinkling to the ground. Discreetly, Benjamin scraped the brick residue into the fireplace grate with the side of his foot. He took one last look at Miss Hastings’ sleeping figure, silhouetted in the firelight, her delicate skin glowing with bruises.

  Franklin would never touch her again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Day 1

  Emptiness oozed into her bones. Without opening her eyes, Sam felt Lord Westwood’s absence. It permeated the room, seeping under the sheets, leaving Sam with icy chills. Refusing to confirm the truth she already knew, Sam stretched her arm out to her side. Her fingers slid along the cold linens, searching for his warmth, agonizingly aware her action was fruitless. With a sigh, Sam retracted her hand and opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling.

  He was gone.

  “Samantha.” She spoke aloud. “Get out of this bed. You already know he departed early this morning. You heard the door shut.”

  She had half hoped Lord Westwood would change his mind. However, the light click of the door awoke her. She sat up immediately, instantly recognizing the sound of the latch. Racing to the front-facing window, Sam ripped the drapes aside. Hovering impatiently, her eyes scanned the drive. After a few minutes, she saw a flash of light in the darkness near the gate to the main road. It lingered, dancing like a firefly in the night. Sam imagined Lord Westwood raised the lantern as a final farewell. Pressing her hand against the smooth glass, she watched until the lamp disappeared.

  Two hours later, she had finally relinquished her post at the window. Lord Westwood did not return. Shivering, Sam slid under the bed covers, but sleep eluded her. In an attempt to trick her mind into slumbering, she squeezed her eyes tight and breathed deeply, concentrating on each breath... one… two… three. The endeavor failed. Now, as the first beams of the morning crept across the floorboards, Sam abandoned the idea. Rolling off the bed with a grunt, she paced the room, her bare feet carving circles in the decorative rug.

  The room suffocated, its walls closing around her like a cage. She decided fresh air would be the best remedy for her melancholy attitude and dressed quickly, needing to escape the prison in which she now found herself. Nearly tearing the seams on the muslin dress as she yanked it over her head, Sam rushed from the room as if it were ablaze. Slipping quietly down the stairs, she scurried toward Lady Westwood’s extensive gardens.

  The sun warmed her frozen skin but did not penetrate the surface, leaving ice chunks swimming in her blood. Her hands clutched at her shoulders, she frowned. The missing shawl, draped carelessly over an armchair, waited forlornly in her chamber. She sighed, shivered, and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Her sigh, visibly frosting, tingled icily on her lips. She really should retrieve her shawl, Sam argued silently with her melancholy. As she dissented, Sam wandered t
oward the gazebo situated in the center of the gardens. When she reached the wooden stairs, she glanced into the shadows of the gazebo and gasped.

  “Benjamin!” She joyfully leapt into his arms, knocking him backward onto the floor of the gazebo. Her zeal carried her forward as well, and she landed on top of his supine body.

  “Wrong brother,” Mr. Reid replied, detangling himself from Sam’s enthusiastic embrace as he gently rolled her to the side. Sitting up, he brushed dirt from his coat.

  “Mr. Reid,” Sam replied with chagrin, mortification burning her face. She flung her arm over her eyes and lay face up on the floorboards. Her heart sank, splintering during its descent. “Please accept my apologies for my exuberant behavior,” Sam mumbled through her sleeve.

  “I think I prefer Benjamin’s greeting,” replied Mr. Reid. He climbed to his feet and offered Sam his hand. “Would you like some assistance, Miss Hastings?”

  Sam debated remaining on the gazebo floor. It was not the most comfortable place to rest, but it made it easier to hide her embarrassment. Sighing heavily, she sat up.

  “Am I that horrible to converse with?” Mr. Reid teased, a grin tugged at his mouth.

  “Not at all, Mr. Reid.” Sam shook her head and flushed.

  He studied her a moment, his head tilted to the side. “This must be extremely difficult for you.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I look just like him.”

  “You really do,” replied Sam with a tiny smile, accepting his aid and rising—almost gracefully—from the floor.

  “Benjamin left early this morning,” Mr. Reid said, his brown eyes holding none of their usual twinkle. “I was unable to dissuade him.”

  “He would not allow his mind to be changed,” Sam replied softly, feeling the need to ease Mr. Reid’s guilt.

  He took a step nearer and spoke forcefully, “Benjamin will be cautious. Of the two of us, he is the most pragmatic.”