by Adele Clee
She glanced over her shoulder at Mr Cavanagh. “It may need a stitch or two. Just to be certain.”
Mr Cavanagh watched her with a look of mild fascination. “With a head injury, it is what you cannot see that proves most worrying.”
The remark raised her pulse a notch. She turned her attention back to the gentleman upon whose lap she sat so brazenly. “Tell me something about your life. Do you have a favourite place? A particular hobby? A treasured memory?”
Mr Trent shook his head, though his gaze never left her.
“Trent strives to live in the moment, and prefers not to think about the past,” Mr Cavanagh informed as if his friend were mute and he was his interpreter. “As to the other two questions, I could not say.”
Men did not speak of such things, she supposed.
Men spoke about feats of courage, about daring adventures. They boasted of conquests, of their stamina and prowess. And yet Mr Trent did not exude the arrogance of a man who liked to brag.
“Well, my favourite place is anywhere other than home,” she said, hoping to keep his attention for the next fifteen minutes at least. “When one has been kept a prisoner, paradise lies but a step past the threshold of one’s front door.”
The walls of her house in Shepperton still rang with the same condescending comments, the taunts and torments of parents who were never satisfied. Had her waist been more slender, had she excelled at playing the pianoforte, had she the voice of a nightingale, then she might have attracted a worthy suitor. As it was, she had to settle for Mr Rowan. The man had land and wealth, even if he appeared haughty and aloof.
If only she had been born a boy.
Oh, how her parents would have rejoiced.
“And regarding hobbies,” she continued, “I would make a lousy wife. My needlework stitches are untidy. My singing sends the crows scattering.” She brushed a lock of hair from his brow and smiled. “But I can sink my blade into an apple when thrown from thirty yards.”
Behind her, Mr Cavanagh chuckled.
Mr Trent opened his mouth to speak, but it took him a few seconds to say, “A m-man requires nothing more.”
“Most men demand obedience and insist their potential bride has immense skill in the feminine arts.” It was one of the many reasons she refused to abide by her parents’ demands and marry Mr Rowan. “Is a wife anything more than a breeding machine and a trophy to display at dinner parties?”
Mr Trent inhaled deeply before saying, “A wife should be … should be a dear friend, a loyal and tender lover.”
Verity looked into his vibrant green eyes, eyes that possessed the power to play havoc with her insides. She shuffled on his lap, became aware of his muscular thighs, of the lustful energy that sparked between them.
Were it not for Mr Cavanagh bearing witness, she might have kissed him, kissed him in the way that spoke to his heart, that told him she cared even if no one else ever had.
“Mr Rowan might disagree,” she said, merely to banish these dangerous thoughts lest she throw caution to the wind and act on impulse. “The man doesn’t have a tender bone in his body.” No, he was sharp, abrupt, easily irritated. Nothing like Mr Trent.
Mr Trent’s eyes sprang wide. “Mr Rowan?”
“The man my parents demanded I marry.” Guilt pushed to the fore. No one wanted to disappoint their kin. A child wanted nothing more than love and acceptance whatever their age.
A flash of pain marred Mr Trent’s handsome features. “You were m-married?”
Verity eased the pressure on the wound for fear that was what caused his mild distress. “Lord, no! My parents locked me in my room and fed me naught but bread for months, refused to let me out unless I agreed to the match.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I can be very stubborn, though I am told it is not a good trait.”
A weak smile touched his lips. “It is a trait I have come to admire.”
The urge to kiss him came upon her again. Instead, she cupped his face and stroked his cheek gently with the pad of her thumb. “You’re the only one who can control my indomitable spirit.” She moistened her lips to let him know her silent thoughts. “I told Mr Rowan I would rather sell my soul to the devil than give myself to any man.”
“You did?” His heated gaze searched her face.
“But that was before I met you,” she mouthed silently.
The atmosphere brimmed with an electrifying energy that sent pleasurable pulses to her most intimate place. The rumbling of the carriage as it came to an abrupt halt intensified the desperate ache in her core.
“I shall rouse Dr Redman.” Mr Cavanagh threw open the carriage door and vaulted to the pavement. “With luck, he will treat your wound here.”
As soon as Mr Cavanagh closed the door and disappeared into the night, Verity’s thoughts turned to kissing. But her mind had no time to dwell on whether it was wise to excite the patient, or whether Mr Trent felt the same burning desire thrumming in his veins, too.
One large masculine arm snaked around her back. The other slipped up to cup her nape. Mr Trent drew her lips to his, paused a mere inch away. “I have spent my life striving to be a man of principle, but everything changed the night I met you.”
“Is that your way of saying you wish to kiss me, Mr Trent?”
The gentleman moistened his lips. “I want to do more than kiss you, Miss Vale.”
With that, he captured her mouth in a searing kiss that curled her toes and sent delicious shivers racing down the length of her spine.
Excitement and lust and something more intense burst to life in her chest. The need to taste this man, to hear his needy groans, to feel the power of his body pressing against her, proved so overwhelming she was the one who teased his mouth open, who dove deep inside the place that felt like home. Like heaven.
It took nothing more than one brush of her tongue for his defences to come crashing down. She sensed the shift as the seducer woke from his slumber.
Deft fingers caressed her nape. His strong arm rocked her back and forth on his lap in a way that heightened the clawing ache within. When he jerked his hips, let her feel the solid bulge of his arousal, she dragged her mouth from his on a gasp.
“That is how much I want you, Miss Vale.” His hands settled on her frilly pantaloons, edged up under her skirts to clasp her buttocks and rock her to a devilish rhythm. “This is how it will always be with us.” Ravenous jade-green eyes settled on her lips. “A desperate need kept at bay by morality’s thinnest thread.”
Even with her lack of experience, she knew it would take little effort for the thread to snap.
“Do you know what you’ve done to me?” he drawled, the slow, almost slurred tone an indication of passion and not the effects of his head injury. “Do you know how my body burns to push inside you? Yearns to make love to you until you shudder beneath me and cry my name?”
Heavens above!
She swallowed hard.
“There, that’s the truth of it,” he added. “Make no mistake. Neither of us will have the strength to stop this thing once it’s started.”
Verity gathered her courage. “What if I don’t want it to stop?” What if she could love this man, gain his love in return? This addiction she had, to his taste, to his touch, was more potent than anything she’d experienced before. “Everything about this feels right. You cannot deny it.”
“Right for two people who crave the affection that such an intimate relationship brings. Not so when I’m forced to consider the fact you’re untouched.” It was as if the last comment awakened him from a blissful dream, and he was suddenly faced with a harsh reality. His full lips thinned. “I’ll have you, Miss Vale, the whole delightful package, in every way a man might have a woman. Else I shall not have you at all.”
It took effort to comprehend his meaning.
Was he speaking of marriage?
She was deciding how best to extract an answer when a knock on the carriage door sent her heart skittering.
Mr Cavanagh coughed lo
udly. “Dr Redman is dressing and will be down in a moment.”
Mr Trent drew his hands from under her skirts, clasped her chin and said, “I do nothing in half measures, Verity. Take time to think about what I’ve said.”
What had he said?
There had been no direct mention of marriage. No mention of love—other than the arousing way he’d spoken about claiming her body. She would have to find an opportunity to probe him further, to understand his motives.
“Wait!” he called to Mr Cavanagh before turning to her. “I’ll not have him see you looking dishevelled.” With extreme care and attention, he pushed the stray locks of hair behind her ears, straightened her costume. He glanced at the swell of her breasts and sighed. “Perhaps it is better if you sit next to me. The urge to sleep abandoned me the moment you claimed my mouth with your skilled little tongue.”
Mr Cavanagh knocked on the door again. “Dr Redman is here.”
Verity glanced at the door. She longed to have time to talk to Mr Trent without any disturbances, to determine the nature of these strange feelings commanding her mind and body. But his head injury might need stitching, and his welfare took precedence over her own. Indeed, every instinct said she shouldn’t leave him to sleep alone tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
“I’ll not trouble Wycliff when all he wants is time alone with his bride.” Mr Trent stared at Mr Cavanagh with a stern look of determination. “And I’ll not spend the night with you in Jermyn Street, either. I shall stay at Jaunay’s Hotel as arranged.”
“You should not be alone tonight.” Mr Cavanagh’s remark echoed Verity’s concern. While Dr Redman believed the wound would heal without the need for stitches, it paid to err on the side of caution. “You heard what the doctor said. After a head injury, it is not uncommon for one to fall asleep and never wake up.”
“After all that has occurred tonight, I shall not leave Miss Vale at the hotel.” Mr Trent looked more formidable than ever. “And she cannot spend the night with you.”
“No.” The golden-haired gentleman relaxed back in the carriage seat, although the vehicle remained stationary. “Not unless she wishes to be the talk of the ton tomorrow and marked as my latest conquest. That said, I welcome any opportunity to rouse Cassandra’s disapproval.”
The way Mr Cavanagh’s mouth curled downwards at the mere mention of the woman’s name caused a prickle of intrigue.
“You only have to breathe, and Cassandra expresses her disapproval,” Mr Trent replied, seemingly eager to steer the conversation away from where he should convalesce. “When it comes to Cassandra, you must rejoice your illegitimacy. Else your father would have you shackled to the lady, forever taunted by the depths of your inadequacy.”
Mr Cavanagh laughed, but his eyes failed to reflect his amusement. Indeed, he looked, dare she say, almost sorrowful. “Then I’m grateful the Earl of Tregarth is a wicked scoundrel.” He gave a snort of contempt. “Besides, the chit is betrothed to that feckless fool Murray. Let him suffer a life of infernal whining.”
Mr Cavanagh was a terrible liar. For a man so astute, Mr Trent’s inability to recognise the fact proved equally surprising. Or perhaps he feigned ignorance out of concern for his friend’s secret turmoil.
“Have you been friends for a long time?” Verity assumed they had. The men conversed with ease, like close siblings who knew each other’s fears and ambitions, who had lived through the same trials and tribulations.
“We met at school at the age of thirteen.” Mr Cavanagh smiled, the first genuine expression since learning Mr Trent would survive his injury. “Trent saved me from a beating, and Wycliff joined to even the odds.”
Mr Trent’s eyes brightened at the memory. “Being men of questionable birth, we soon founded our own club. Indeed, we’ve been close ever since.”
Mr Cavanagh chuckled. “Which is why I refuse to leave him alone tonight and insist on joining him at Jaunay’s.”
Disappointment formed like a dead weight in Verity’s chest. How might she break down Mr Trent’s barriers? How might she offer to care for him with Mr Cavanagh bearing witness?
“There’s no need.” Mr Trent appeared more than reluctant to accept his friend’s help.
“I insist.” Mr Cavanagh lowered the window and instructed Sleeth to ferry them to Jaunay’s Hotel in Leicester Square. “We’ve yet to identify the man who pounced from the shadows and walloped you on the head. Equally, what if Wincote is tired of your meddling and seeks to take advantage of your vulnerability?”
Mr Trent arched a brow. “Even with a pounding ache in my temple and the odd lights flashing before my eyes, I am more than a match for Wincote.”
The carriage jerked forward, and Verity slid closer to Mr Trent. Whenever they touched, heat flooded her stomach, sent tiny pulses to her core. The gentleman reached out to prevent her from falling forward. Their eyes locked, and the power of that magnificent green gaze touched her soul.
“The question now is, who the devil hit you if it wasn’t Wincote or Layton?” Mr Cavanagh mused.
“You questioned Sleeth again.” Mr Trent’s attention remained focused on her face, despite replying to Mr Cavanagh. “He’s certain he saw both men leave with what we think might be a body rolled in a rug?”
Verity had failed to think of a plausible reason why the men might transport such an unusual item at night.
“Sleeth saw a man dressed in a black domino, his counterpart dressed in Elizabethan garb. Identical costumes to those worn by Wincote and Layton.”
“Is there another entrance or exit out of Clement’s Lane?” she asked, keen to find a distraction from lascivious thoughts of the handsome man sitting beside her. “Perhaps they knew you were following them, and one returned to the house from another direction.”
A look akin to pride flashed in Mr Trent’s eyes. “A plausible theory, Miss Vale. A crossroads cuts through the lane, giving them ample opportunity to choose an alternative route.”
Mr Cavanagh sighed. “We should focus our attention on discovering more about Layton and Wincote.”
“Not we. Tomorrow, I intend to visit Wincote and knock his teeth down his throat.” While Mr Trent sounded most excited about the prospect of confronting the man directly, his tone was dark enough to frighten the devil. “After I’ve throttled the truth from his lying lips, I shall call on Layton and do the same.”
Panic flared in Verity’s chest. “These men are unpredictable. Look what happened tonight. You mustn’t go alone.”
“Tonight, I made a foolish mistake. Tomorrow, I intend to follow your lead and bear arms.”
Verity shuffled around to face him. “Perhaps we should discuss this in the morning. Once you’ve slept and thought on the matter.”
“I’ll not spend another day wasting time traipsing around town. When it comes to discovering the truth, Miss Vale, I lack patience.” He bent his head so that she could feel his breath breeze across her cheek. “And when I discover which rogue attacked you in your bedchamber, I guarantee the man will lack the necessary implements to abuse any other woman.”
The vehemence behind the comment should have frightened her, but it only strengthened her connection to him. Lawrence Trent would give his life to protect her. Of that, she was in no doubt. The warm feeling filled her chest again. The yearning in her heart pulsed with a need to love this man.
“Once he’s made up his mind, nothing will sway Trent’s decision,” Mr Cavanagh informed. “You’ve more chance of luring a bull from a gate.”
“Perhaps” was her only reply. She would reason with him, find a way to make him see sense.
They spent the next few minutes in silence. A few fat raindrops hit the window, and she watched them trickle down the pane. The heavens opened, and the downpour pelted the roof in a rhythmical patter, the sound like a pleasurable song when one had the benefit of shelter.
When they arrived at Jaunay’s Hotel, they had to pull the bell cord to gain entrance. Only the dissolute returned to a h
otel during the early hours. When she hurried into the lobby and shook off the rain, she glanced at the longcase clock and noted the time.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” she whispered in disbelief. “I doubt any of us shall rise before midday. Come, Mr Trent. We must get you to bed so you can rest. Take my arm, and I shall help you upstairs.”
A grin formed on Mr Trent’s lips. “It’s a minor injury, mild concussion. Trust me, Miss Vale, I’m fit enough to sweep you into my arms and take us both upstairs to bed.”
A delightful shiver of anticipation ran from her head to her toes. “Is that a statement of fact, sir, or an offer one shouldn’t miss?”
“Were we alone, Miss Vale, it would be an indication of my intention.” He gestured for her to follow the liveried porter carrying a lamp. “I believe I have already made my position clear on the matter. The decision is yours as to how we proceed.”
Mr Cavanagh put paid to any decisions when he informed the porter of his need to play nursemaid to his injured friend. Upon reaching their rooms on the first floor, the porter held his lamp aloft. He cast a faint light on the keyhole and unlocked her door with the tasselled key.
While Verity hovered on the threshold, a host of chaotic thoughts flooding her mind, Miss Trimble yanked open the door of room ten and came out into the corridor in her nightgown and wrapper. The candle flame flickered in the brass holder she carried. With her sharp gaze, she stared down her elegant nose at the men dressed in their masquerade costumes. One look at Verity’s frilly pantaloons and the woman arched a disdainful brow.
“You may leave us, Barker. I shall see Miss Vale into her room.”
Mr Trent straightened to his full height. “I do not appreciate being accosted in the corridor in the dead of night. May I suggest you return to your bed and leave the other guests to attend to their business?”
“When an unmarried woman travels alone, her welfare is my business. Ladies must look out for one another when there are rogues aplenty roaming our streets, which is why I have taken the room next door.”