The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London Book 4)

by Adele Clee

  After a quick bolt to the finish line, the wild activities next door came to an abrupt end.

  “I am not the marrying kind, regardless of my title and position. When I’m dead, I’ll not give a fig who sleeps in my ancestors’ bed.”

  “You never used to think that way.”

  “Too much has happened,” he said, repeating her words. “I’m not the person you remember.”

  “No, there is rather a lot more of you.” Something akin to admiration flashed in her eyes. She scanned the breadth of his shoulders, absently moistened her lips. “One thing is certain.”

  “What is that?”

  “Neither of us smile like we used to. We have turned into morbid cynics during our years apart. Life has lost all meaning.”

  He was about to tell her that things would have been different had she not abandoned him, but pride kept him from opening his mouth.

  A suffocating silence pressed heavily upon him.

  He couldn’t bring himself to sit in the chair for it brought an intimacy to the moment, a level of civility, he was trying desperately to avoid.

  “And so you escaped the smugglers,” he said to distract his thoughts, “and found work in Paris.” Fabian would want to know the details.

  “Madame Bonnay died. Not long after, her husband was found dead in the woods. With both of them gone I had no choice but to escape, though I doubt I shall ever stop looking over my shoulder.”

  “But you’ve not seen the smugglers since.”

  “No. After that, I spent two years working as a maid but—” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. A few drops landed on her porcelain cheeks. She shook her head and sucked in a deep breath. “After leaving there, I moved to—” A choking sob escaped.

  Vane saw a multitude of emotions pass across her face: grief and shame and sorrow. He closed the gap between them, took her hand and brought her to her feet.

  “Sometimes it is better to cry than to bury the pain inside.” He was a hypocrite. Every negative emotion he’d ever felt lingered in the hollow cavern of his chest.

  Tears came in a constant stream now. She seemed so small and helpless, not at all the wicked vixen he’d painted her out to be. The sight of it tore at his heart. He cupped her cheeks, wiped away the evidence of her misery with the pads of his thumbs.

  “Oh, Ross, I cannot tell you how dreadful it has been.”

  “Hush now.” Against his better judgement, he drew her into an embrace. Almost instantly her essence penetrated the fine fabric of his coat. The strange energy that had always bound them together flowed between them as though the last eight years had never existed. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

  “I will never be safe. I have no home.” She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her forehead to his chest and cried until there were no more tears left to shed. It was the sound of someone devoid of all hope.

  No matter how many women he’d taken in his arms, no matter how many he’d taken to his bed, no one touched him like Estelle did. Despite the gravity of her situation, despite all that had happened, the urge to hold her and never let go almost knocked him off his feet.

  And then she looked up at him, all lost and forlorn, those wide doe-like eyes swollen and red.

  He bent his head, brushed his lips once across hers and whispered, “I’m sorry for all you have been through.”

  She looked into his eyes, yet it felt as if she’d found the secret door to his soul, opened it and stepped inside. When she came up on her tiptoes, he froze.

  “I’m sorry, too.” For what, she did not say. But she closed her eyes and kissed him. One chaste peck led to another and another, each one more daring than the last. Her breathing grew short and shallow. Small hands skimmed his waist and drifted up over his chest to clutch the lapels of his coat. “Oh, Ross,” she gasped against his mouth. “I have been alone for so long.”

  The comment resonated with him. Yes, he had kissed women but never truly tasted them. He had entered their willing bodies but never made love to any of them. A man could count a hundred lovers and still be lonely. He could lie next to a warm body at night and still be frozen to his core.

  “Won’t you kiss me?” she whispered. “Just once, like you used to.”

  He wanted to deny her and yet found he could not. She wanted the sweet, tender kiss of a young man but she would get the sinful kiss of a scoundrel.

  Vane crushed her to his chest, covered her mouth and devoured those plump wet lips. She tasted as he remembered: of rightness, of hope, of something infinitely addictive. The carnal need for more, the need to satisfy the clawing hunger, led him to tease her lips apart and enter the only place in the world he’d ever wanted to be.

  Estelle met him with equal enthusiasm, letting her tongue tangle with his. Her pretty moans conveyed delight in the erotic dance. Their desperation to explore, to sate their lustful urges was yet another thing they had in common. A whimper resonated in the back of her throat. One of pleasure, not pain.

  Liquid fire burst through his veins. Dangerously hot. Wickedly sensual. His pulse galloped. His desire spiralled. Their passion ignited like a blinding fury: wild, intense, uniquely satisfying.

  With his large hands settling on her buttocks, he shuffled forward until she had no choice but to collapse on the bed. He followed her, covering her body as he’d always planned to do.

  They were lost in their heady kisses, panting as their bodies writhed to an ancient rhythm.

  Years of practised skill in the steps of bringing a lover to a bone-shattering climax abandoned him. While his fingers fumbled with the hem of her dress, dragging it up past her thigh, his mind rushed to the denouement. They were fully clothed, but he imagined them naked, pictured the moment of bliss when he entered her body.

  Good God, he was liable to spend himself long before then. The thought was sobering as was the sudden banging and moaning again from the occupants next door.

  Was this what he wanted?

  To take his dream and turn it into something soiled and sordid. Eight years of pining, of heartache, reduced to a quick fuck in a coaching inn. Everything he touched bore the Devil’s mark. Would he ruin the one thing he’d always held sacred? The only truth in his life: his feelings for Estelle.

  He tore his mouth away and scrambled to his feet. His hard cock throbbed against the material of his breeches, the ache for satisfaction muddling his thoughts. The need to dominate surfaced, too. He could kneel between her legs, taste her arousal with his tongue. Suck and lick her into submission. Give everything, take nothing. Show her the pleasure she had denied herself long ago.

  Vane looked down at her — the angel of his dreams, the devil of his nightmares. During all the solitary moments when he had played out this scene, he was strong, commanding, knew his mind. But in reality, he did not know what the hell he wanted anymore.

  “We should leave,” he heard himself saying, “before we both do something we may well regret.”

  He turned to the window, desperate to look at anything other than her swollen lips and bed-tousled hair.

  The people outside were busy going about their business oblivious to his inner torment. All except one woman who stared up at him intently. She stood too far away for him to distinguish her features. Perhaps it was a coincidence or a consequence of his strained nerves. Suspicion flared when she turned and hurried away from the courtyard.

  A creak and a weary sigh drew his attention back to the room and led him to conclude Estelle had stood too.

  The tension in the air was palpable.

  “Emotions are running high,” he continued. “We still have much to discuss, but we shall leave it until another day.” Did he want to know what prompted her to leave Prescott Hall, to leave him? He wasn’t sure.

  “You’re right,” she said weakly. “No doubt Mr Erstwhile will wonder what happened to me, and he has enough worries at the moment.”

  Vane turned to face her and wished he hadn’t. Sadness filled those dark brown eyes. He pr
eferred seeing the fire of passion alight there.

  “You speak of the theft at the shop.”

  Estelle patted down a few stray locks of hair and gathered her bonnet. “The intruder stole nothing. He left the money box full of sovereigns and only sought to cause unnecessary damage.”

  “Then it is not the mark of a thief but of someone with a point to prove,” Vane said, grateful that someone else’s problem distracted him from his own. “Has Mr Erstwhile upset anyone?”

  “I highly doubt it.” She brushed her hand down her dress to remove the creases. “There is not a kinder more honest man than Mr Erstwhile.”

  “How did you come to work for him?”

  “We spoke on the crossing to Dover. He has a way of seeing what other people cannot, of understanding a person’s secrets without a word passing from their lips.”

  “Like a seer? Like a man renowned for his moral and spiritual insights?”

  A brief smile brightened her face. “Yes, exactly like that. I owe him a debt of gratitude.”

  “Then I shall escort you on your errand to gather provisions.” Part of him wanted to return to Berkeley Square, to put this woman from his mind and concentrate all efforts on ruining Lord Cornell. Part of him needed to remain at her side, to know she was safe, to discover more about this Mr Hungerford. “It’s the least I can do after dragging you away from your errant knight.”

  She frowned. “Errant knight?”

  “Mr Hungerford. Clearly, the gentleman has designs on securing more than your company.” The thought roused Vane’s ire.

  “He is just a lonely man who cannot function without a wife.”

  The cryptic comment proved intriguing. “And you believe he has marked you for the role?”

  Estelle shrugged. “When it comes to understanding the motives of men, I am often left baffled.”

  “Likewise, I gave up trying to understand a lady’s motives eight years ago.” He spoke of the way Estelle had professed her love only to flee on a ship heading to France.

  A howl of satisfaction from the adjoining room brought another blush to her cheeks. “Now I know why the landlord insisted I visit him before leaving. The sounds of pleasure and pain are often the same.”

  Never had truer words been spoken.

  “Then I shall meet you downstairs in a moment.”

  She looked at him with some confusion.

  “The landlord will want to see you alone,” he added. “To ensure your opinion is your own.”

  It was not a lie but an exaggerated truth. Vane needed a minute to gather himself. The mask he’d held in place these last few minutes needed adjusting, repositioning.

  Estelle nodded. “I shall wait for you downstairs.”

  Vane watched her unlock the door and leave the room, then he sat on the chair and buried his head in his hands.

  The day had been enlightening on many levels. He’d discovered something of her savage life, of the woman she’d become in his absence, of the criminal things she’d done. He sensed there was much more to tell, most of it equally harrowing, deeply unpleasant.

  For his sins, his own mind was a muddled mess of confusion. He’d lost count of the conflicting emotions tearing through him: anger, pity, raging lust, and another indeterminable feeling hovering just out of reach. In short, Estelle Darcy had managed a feat beyond the capabilities of any other woman.

  She had made him feel something.

  And yet amid all the chaos one frightening thought remained constant.

  He would never stop wanting her.

  Nothing she could say or do could banish the intense longing burning inside of him. No other woman would ever compare, and so he was destined to live a vapid life of meaningless liaisons.

  Fate had marked him unworthy of love, marked him to live a lonely, empty existence.

  Chapter Eight

  Head bent over a ledger, the landlord of The Golden Goose scrawled away with quill and ink as Estelle approached the counter. Sensing her presence, the man glanced up, dispensed with his writing implement and straightened his spectacles.

  “Everything all right, miss?” Doubt lingered in his voice as he scanned her face and figure as if searching for a sign of distress.

  “Thank you,” she said, sniffing away her tears. “Everything is fine.”

  Everything was far from fine.

  The pain in her chest had nothing to do with reliving her nightmares. Nor did she allow herself the luxury of feeling anything when it came to her brother, Fabian. She’d come to terms with the fact she would never see him again. Knowing he was happy made the decision much easier to bear.

  No.

  Spending time alone with Ross was her mistake. Her heart felt like it was breaking all over again. More unshed tears choked the back of her throat. Her body trembled. She could still feel the heavy weight of him pressing her down into the mattress. The intimate place between her legs still burned with need. She moistened her lips. The spicy masculine taste of him coated the delicate skin.

  “Pardon me for saying, but you don’t seem all right.” The landlord glanced at the stairs with curiosity. “Is his lordship remaining behind?”

  Estelle shook her head. “No, he sent me down to see you and will join me shortly.” Did he think her a servant girl done away with her deviant master? “I have not hit him over the head with the chamber pot if that is what you’re thinking.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “I assure you he is alive and well.”

  The landlord raised his chin in acknowledgement. “Gentlemen of his quality enjoy playing games with us lesser folk.” No doubt he’d made his judgement about her class from the simple style of her clothes, coupled with the fact a lady did not accompany a man to a coaching inn, let alone spend an hour alone with him in a bedchamber. “Made you false promises has he?”

  The need to defend Ross pushed to the fore. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I am the one who has led him a merry dance. I hoped he’d put the past behind him. But clearly he has not.”

  Why she blurted her business to this man, she had no notion.

  He glanced at the stairs once again. “Men like to hold a grudge.”

  “And women thrive on malice and spite,” she countered.

  “But not you,” he said, seeming to know her after nothing more than a brief conversation.

  “No. Not me.”

  The heavy thud of booted footsteps on the stairs alerted her to the gentleman in question.

  Ross strode over to join her. “I assume all is in order?”

  “Aye, my lord.” The landlord inclined his head. “Although you have paid for another hour.”

  Ross raised a brow. “Perhaps you might offer an extension to the couple next door. I imagine they might make better use of the time.”

  Heat warmed Estelle’s cheeks. Just like those in the adjoining chamber, they too had almost fallen prey to their desires.

  Part of her wished she had known Ross’ body, wished that she had an erotic memory to cling to when she lay alone at night. But this man was dangerous beyond measure. Just being in his company fed her addiction for him. Lord, he approached kissing with the skill and mastery of a great painter: varying his strokes, applying different degrees of pressure, bringing a vibrancy to life that touched her deeply.

  “Where is it you need to go?” Ross’ voice broke her reverie. With a hand at her elbow, he guided her away from the counter and towards the door.

  Estelle blinked in confusion and looked up at him. “Excuse me?” Where could she go? The ends of the earth were not far away enough to escape this man.

  “You said you need to collect provisions for Mr Erstwhile.”

  “Oh, yes.” She straightened. “I must call in on Mr Potter. He has agreed to lend Mr Erstwhile a few herbs and tonics so he may open the shop.”

  “Then I shall be your escort.” Ross seemed colder now, a little distant.

  They left the coaching inn and made their way along St Marti
ns Lane to Mr Potter’s shop on Castle Street. The apothecary had packaged the necessary items, but Estelle did not have an opportunity to mention the intruder.

  Ross carried the parcel as they headed back to Whitecombe Street. While his outward manner was that of any considerate gentleman, she could not shake the thought of how savagely he’d claimed her mouth.

  She cast him a sidelong glance, wondering what emotion lay behind the stone planes of his face. At some point, he would ask her the only question that mattered. Why had she left Prescott Hall instead of marrying him? To tell him the truth would only confuse matters. The prospect of a life together vanished the day she left. They were different people now, on different paths. And the sooner she put some distance between them the better it would be for both their sakes.

  “May I ask something of you?” She had no right to expect anything from him, and yet somehow, she knew he would not refuse her request.

  Ross glanced at her. “That all depends on what it is.”

  “Don’t tell my brother you found me.”

  “You want me to lie?” A weary sigh left his lips, and he turned from her to focus ahead. “I gave Fabian my word. That may mean nothing to you, but it does to me.”

  Oh, if only he knew why she’d left he would not be so cold.

  “I am not asking you to break an oath. I am merely asking you to delay.”

  “Why, so you can run again?”

  “Yes.” What was the point of lying? “You do not understand. Fabian will want to hear everything, every detail of my life. He will want to punish those who have harmed me, want to seek vengeance. All I ask—”

  Ross came to an abrupt halt and swung around to face her. “What do you mean those who have harmed you? Do you speak of the smugglers?”

  She could not risk telling him about Faucheux, or about the merchant’s son, Monsieur Robard. “A woman alone is an easy target. You know that.”

  A growl rumbled in the back of his throat. Just like the landlord, he scanned her body as if signs of her mistreatment were still evident there.