Of Valor & Vice: A Revelry's Tempest Novel

by K. J. Jackson

  “Yes.”

  “Yes—no—maybe.” She sighed, her right hand lifting to her forehead and rubbing it. “I don’t know what I think at the moment, Toren. You appear out of nowhere, angry as a demon out of hell in one second and wounded that my friend doesn’t like you in another. I don’t know what to think. And I definitely don’t know what to feel.”

  He looked around the room, his hands slapping his thighs. “This place, there are too many people here. It is not private.”

  “Private for what?” Her eyes narrowed, wary. “No. Absolutely not, Toren. It will be the death of me if you think you can burst in and out of my life, take me to bed when the mood strikes you and then leave. I cannot handle that—not yet.”

  “I was not the one who left, Adalia. That was you.”

  That was true. Brutally true.

  He stood, holding his open hand down to her. “Please? Somewhere else?”

  “Fine.” She glared up at him, taking his hand. “But my home, not yours.”

  “Then I bow to your needs.”

  { Chapter 17 }

  His hands clasped behind his back, Toren moved about the perimeter of the room. The study in the Alton town house was well appointed. Classic furnishings with staid, thick chairs that wouldn’t break under a man’s weight, a wall of well-used tomes, a coffered walnut ceiling that matched the straight lines of the mantel, and centered in the room was a wide mahogany desk with ledgers piled high on each end.

  After a painfully silent carriage ride to the town house, Adalia had quickly moved to the far side of the desk once in the room and seated herself in the wide chair. Her back was ramrod straight, her elbows propped on the desk with her hands clasped, fingers entwined.

  Toren hid the slight cock of his eyebrow at her movements by turning away from her to study the paintings on the wall. If Adalia needed to have twenty stone of well-oiled mahogany furniture between the two of them, then he would give her that. Her actions also told him exactly what he would be dealing with as far as his wife was concerned.

  What had he hoped for? That she would see him and immediately fall into his arms? Declare her love over and over? Beg to come home? Apologize profusely for being so idiotic as to come to London and reopen her damn gaming house?

  Fanciful notions, all of them.

  But the lack of any and all of that hadn’t stopped his own body from flying into a licentious rage. The second he saw her in the crowd at the Revelry’s Tempest, he had wanted her pressed up against him, naked, her body writhing—no, not wanted—he’d needed her body on his. And then in the next instant she’d been slammed onto that table, glass cutting into her delicate skin, and he had lost all rational thought, a guttural, ancient fury taking hold of his body.

  He had thought he had been prepared for anything with her.

  But not that.

  Not blood. Not Adalia’s blood. Not his wife’s blood.

  Facing the wall, he closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath in an effort to battle the fury exploding in his veins. She was fine. Cuts, nothing more. And she currently needed space. Space from him. He could give her that courtesy.

  At least for a few minutes.

  He opened his eyes.

  An oil painting framed in gilded, delicately carved rosewood hung before him, a man and woman dressed in the most exquisite finery from two decades ago. He exhaled slowly, concentrating on the thin strokes of cobalt blue along the woman’s gown.

  “These are your parents?” he asked, not turning around to Adalia.

  “Yes.”

  He studied Adalia’s mother. She bore a striking resemblance to Adalia. She was beautiful, and the artist had captured an elegance—an innocent refinement—about her. He wondered if that had been the artist’s interpretation of the woman before him, or if Adalia’s mother had actually possessed the same sharp cunning as Adalia.

  Not that Adalia wasn’t refined—she was, but she also possessed a fearless independence that skirted her to and fro along the line of propriety. Being raised by three brothers had prodded that peculiar trait to the top. A trait Toren had found, begrudgingly, that he enjoyed—until she had left him.

  That was when his amusement at her independence had waned. When, night after night, his body had screamed out for her, unsatisfied—with nothing to calm the craving that had not dissipated in the slightest since she had left the castle.

  He had grumbled through the first two weeks without his need for her sated. It wasn’t until the moment in the middle of the third week when he had snapped at Josalyn at the breakfast table that he realized something had to change. He had never once snapped, never even considered speaking sharply to the girls. But in that moment, his voice still echoing against the stone walls of the breakfast room, he had watched Josalyn’s tiny face crumple in front of him. Innocence turning into tears she stubbornly refused to shed, even as Mary took her hand and pulled her away from the table.

  Stubborn. Josalyn was stubborn. And it only pointed out the fact that he was damn well more stubborn. He missed Adalia, and he hadn’t allowed himself to admit it.

  Hell, he more than missed her. It felt as if his life had unraveled in a thousand disparate shreds, everything fraying a little bit more and more each day, until he had snapped and yelled at Josalyn.

  Josalyn’s reaction had been something he never wanted to witness again—never wanted to cause again. Especially when she hadn’t deserved it—she had merely been chatting about the roses with an enthusiasm that reminded him of Adalia, and he had barked at her. He had apologized, of course, fearing he had irrevocably wounded her spirit. But she had forgiven him once he explained he wasn’t mad at her, and that it wasn’t her fault, that she had merely stumbled in front of his misplaced anger. She even giggled at his words, all forgotten.

  Also like Adalia. She forgave easily, dismissing anger with nary a look back over her shoulder.

  He hoped to high heaven Adalia had not lost that trait.

  The devil, he had to get this right. Say the right words to Adalia. He had no clue what they were, but he had to get them right.

  He studied the slight smile on his mother-in-law’s face. Adalia would have that same serene smile if she weren’t so canny. But no, not his wife. Her likeness would someday be painted with the grin that was so quick to brighten her face. The grin that just waited for life to amuse her, and if life wasn’t doing so, she would create the mayhem herself.

  He had realized in the time she was away how the very air around Adalia spun with excitement. It always had. So much so, that the air had crackled around her on the silent carriage ride to the Alton town house.

  His eyes flickered to Adalia’s father. He looked like a slightly older version of Theodore.

  “Your parents appear young here.”

  “They were, though not as young as one would think,” she said, her voice soft. “It was the last portrait done of them. They had commissioned an artist to do one of our entire family after I was born, with all four of us and them. But their ship sank along the coast before it was started. Caldwell told me he remembered my parents sitting for this painting, and that it had been utterly boring for him. He remembered watching it being done with Theodore and Alfred, and that they kept stealing the artist’s brushes and creating general mayhem. There are some smaller portraits of them in the house, but I always liked this one the most for the obvious pride on their faces. I imagine it was pride of their three boys.”

  Toren nodded, leaning closer to the oil painting to study it. “Your mother was with child at the time?”

  “She what?” Adalia’s hands slapped onto the desk.

  Toren glanced back to her and then stepped to the side, pointing at the painting. “These lines here, they look to be a swollen belly, yet your mother is slight in the rest of her frame. Her hand is splayed on her belly. It looks protective. I believe it is a common sign.”

  Adalia jumped to her feet, rushing around the desk and across the room to study the painting. For a long moment,
she said nothing. “Yes. You may be right. I had never noticed that—I tend to look at their faces. Caldwell never said exactly when it was done.”

  “Maybe it was pride at the fourth babe on the way.”

  She looked up at him. “No . . .” Her eyes went to the portrait, studying her mother’s face. “Do you think?” Her voice dipped and became small, vulnerable, an obvious lump in her throat.

  Toren watched her profile, recognizing the hope in her green eyes. He set his hand gently on her shoulder. “I think it is very possible.”

  She awkwardly dipped away, dropping from his touch and skittering several steps from him. After a quick glance back to the safety of the desk, she looked at him, her feet holding her ground. “What are you doing here in London, Toren? Truly?”

  “I came for you.”

  “Because I opened the Revelry’s Tempest?”

  “Yes. Because it is not safe for you here. It is not safe for you to be exposed to people in that situation—there is no control.”

  “I am perfectly safe there—your guards have more than made it so.”

  His look drifted down to her left hand, wrapped thick with the strip of white linen. “Yet that happened.”

  She glanced at her wrapped hand and then set it slightly behind her skirt out of view. “A mere skirmish that was being handled, Toren. I was safe.” Her green eyes pinned him. “Do you mean to shut down the Revelry’s Tempest?”

  “I do not know yet what I mean to do.”

  “Why not?”

  He took a step toward her. “I thought I was here for one purpose, but I did not know everything I needed to. Not until tonight. When the guards I sent with you reported back to me that you had traveled to London and were preparing the gaming house for opening, I set off as soon as I knew the twins were secure.” His right fingers curled into a fist that he had to forcibly relax. “You were quicker than I, though, and opened it before I could stop you.”

  Her right hand went onto her hip as her eyebrow arched. “You think you could have stopped us?”

  He shrugged. “I could have sufficed whatever needs you were attempting to satisfy. That alone should have done it.”

  “You don’t understand the Revelry’s Tempest in the slightest, do you, Toren?”

  His head slanted to the side at her sharp words. Challenging. Always challenging. “What is there to understand?”

  “That the house is about control over one’s own future, Toren. You wouldn’t have stopped us from opening it, because I wouldn’t have allowed it. The Revelry’s Tempest is the one thing that Violet needs right now. Control over her own future. Her life was decimated—everything around her had been a farce—and she hadn’t known it. Merely paying off the debts would have solved one problem, yes, but I needed to tether Violet to a future she could want.”

  “Tether her to the future?”

  Head shaking, Adalia’s hand slipped from her hip and flattened on the front of her black silk gown, her thumb and forefinger pressing in against her rib cage. “How I found her, Toren . . .” Her voice faltered for a moment before she took a quick breath and rushed on. “Violet needed something, anything, as a reason to wake up the next day. That is what the Revelry’s Tempest is right now for Violet. A future she will wake up for. Do not take it away from us. I need my friend.”

  Her green eyes pleaded with him, and not for her own benefit, as he had thought this whole debacle to be. She was doing this for her friend, and Toren doubted he could ever sway her off that course.

  Not that he would try. It was quite possible that he was actually, to his own amazement, beginning to understand his wife. “Your friend, Violet, do you consider her your family?”

  “Yes. Of course I do.”

  His jaw shifted to the side. “I had always believed family was only by blood and marriage. That was the very direct meaning of the word that I understood.”

  “And now?”

  Now? Now what? How could he answer that? He cleared his throat. “I am reconsidering.”

  She took a small step toward him. He could stretch out his arm, touch her now if he so chose. But he kept his hands firmly clasped behind his back.

  “Why did you come to London, Toren? You could have easily sent word to your men to close down the Revelry’s Tempest.”

  “I . . .” He sighed. “I lied to you, Adalia.”

  Her eyes went wide, her chin bowing as she looked up at him with a mixture of bewilderment and trepidation. “What did you lie about?”

  “When we first married, you asked me why Theodore trusted me.”

  The suspicion thickened in her eyes. “Yes.” The one word left her lips, slow, drawn out.

  “I lied when I said I did not know. I do.”

  “Why?” Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but her green eyes still harbored heavy suspicion.

  “Theodore and I were once drunk—near to oblivion—in a tavern a day’s travel from London—don’t ask why or how we ended up there.”

  “A Theo plan of mayhem?”

  “Yes, and if I recall correctly it had to do with an actress and a certain bauble she wanted him to recover for her.” Toren waved his hand, dismissing the absurdity of the situation. “Regardless, it was not the most artfully designed adventure, and we quickly found ourselves in trouble that would not end well—at least for us. But then your eldest brother, Caldwell, appeared, and he got us out of the tavern we were about to die in. All of it—the entire thing—was nothing but a grand time for Theo. And your brother was furious with him.”

  “As it always was.” Adalia’s face had softened as he talked, a small smile warming her lips.

  “Yes, and I saw it. I saw your brother’s anger at Theodore, and I wanted it.” He stopped, his eyes closing as he envisioned the scene from years ago. “Wanted it to be directed at me. Wanted it to my core. It was the first thing I ever truly wanted in my life. Stupid really, to want someone to be furious with me. But I wanted it because all of that ferocity came from blood . . . from family.”

  “From love.”

  He opened his eyes to her. “I was drunk, and I told Theodore as much as we were drifting off to sleep. That I wanted that. I wanted his family.”

  “You said those words?”

  “Yes. And I didn’t even think he heard me. But he did. And he knew. He knew if I ever had that—a family—there wasn’t anything I would not do for them.” He met her wide green eyes fully, his voice rough. “I don’t think Theodore could say the same about anyone else he knew. Which was why he extracted the vow from me to marry you, should the need arise. Why he sent you to me. He knew what you needed.”

  “And he knew what you needed.” She took another step toward him, her look not wavering from his as she reached up and set her fingers gently along his cheek.

  Toren nodded. “Better than I could ever recognize it myself. Your brother was smarter than I ever gave him credit for.” He paused, glancing to the coffered ceiling for a moment, bracing himself.

  How he just wanted this to be enough. He wanted to reach out and grab her, haul her up to his lips, kiss her, strip her down, and let everything in his body say the things he could not.

  But that would not be enough for her, and he knew it. She would still demand more. And he would fail her. The lies he had told guaranteed it.

  Her hand dropped from his face, and his breath stopped in his chest. This was the moment she would walk away again.

  He concentrated on the dark wood of the ceiling, manifesting indifference.

  Let her go. This was not fair to her.

  Her sudden hand on his chest, fingers slipping inward past the lapel of his dark tailcoat, startled him, and his look fell to her face.

  She stared up at him, a wicked smile on her face. Wanton. Purely wanton.

  “Well, I can be the one furious with you, Toren, if that is what you need of me.” The twitch of her grin showed pure delight at the prospect. Her fingers maneuvering, she unbuttoned his waistcoat in short order.

&
nbsp; He exhaled, relief shuddering through him.

  She hadn’t disappeared. Hadn’t turned from him. He hadn’t given her enough—he knew that—yet she had accepted what little he had to offer. And this—this he could give her. His body had always known exactly what to do with hers.

  He dipped his head to her neck, inhaling the sweet smell of honey from her hair as his lips brushed her skin with his words. “You have already proved your capacity for anger at me, Adalia. Far too often for my liking, I daresay.” He started unlacing the ribbons along her spine that held her dark gown in place.

  She moaned, soft and lusty, as she angled her head to improve his access to her. “Too often, or not enough? Just remember it is because I am your wife and we are family.”

  He chuckled into her neck, her skin already hot beneath his lips. It had been far too long since he’d tasted her, felt her body under his fingertips.

  Pushing off his coat, Adalia suddenly jerked away from his hands, holding it up. “What is that?”

  She draped the dark tailcoat between them over her left forearm and plucked an obnoxious pink-and-turquoise-striped handkerchief from the inside lapel pocket. She snapped the fabric, freeing it from its square folds.

  He chuckled, tugging the silk handkerchief from her fingertips. “The twins are working on their embroidery.” He pointed to the two D initials on the opposite ends of the fabric. “Somewhat warped, but one can possibly make out the letter.”

  “You managed to convince Josalyn and Mary to embroider? That is a feat in itself.”

  He shrugged. “They discovered my mother’s sewing box and were fascinated by the many tiny hidden compartments and shelves that swing open. The box was an engineering wonder. I said they could have it only if they knew what to do with it, so Miss Mable started giving them lessons. They gave this to me for my birthday.”

  She stared at the fabric in his fingers, a frown tipping the edges of her full lips.

  “I apologize, Adalia, should I not have had Miss Mable teach them?”

  She shook her head, her eyes lifting to him. “No. It is not that—that part is commendable. It is just . . . It was your birthday? While I was away?”