The Cynfell Brothers

by Samantha Holt

  Was that why she had run away from him at the ball? He’d been stricken with too many emotions that night. Lust, jealousy...desperation. In green silk, she’d stolen his breath. He wanted to pull it from her, to draw her close, and breathe in her scent. To uncoil her golden hair and see it about her shoulders. Perversely, he wanted to sit and watch her paint. As their dance had come to an end, he’d been struck by the idea of seeing her all covered in paint while her brow furrowed in concentration.

  He wanted her for so much more than bedding, and yet she had denied him again. Josephine’s body had always come so easily to him, but it was her mind that was the problem. Or was it his?

  He could solve this by offering to marry her, but he loved her too much for that.

  “Blast.”

  Yes, he loved that woman to distraction. It was the only explanation as to why he’d obsessed over winning her back. He supposed he’d always loved her in his way. But his love certainly hadn’t been enough. He’d been a real ass.

  However, marriage wasn’t an option. It simply wasn’t. He’d seen what it did to his mother and father—hell, what it had done to him and his brothers. There was no way he’d do that to Josephine.

  Dante retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on before snatching his hat from the hat stand. The streets were bright enough at this time of year but the early evening fog had begun to roll in and it would not do to get caught in it. Pockets were too easily picked in that thick soupy stuff.

  He locked up the office and nodded in the direction of the few workers who remained. Soon his work here would be done, and he’d be at a loose end again. What would he do with his time then? It was hard to recall how he had managed to stay so busy before working. He would have to take a trip up to Lockwood Manor and pester Julian to find him some more work.

  The murky scent of the Thames washed over him, mingling with the odour of oil and metal as he strolled along the dockside. He edged around the thick metal chains and ropes that tethered the ships and barges. Somewhere along the river, he heard the chug of a barge.

  When he turned into the street, he paused. If he walked a little farther and took two more turns, he could be outside of Josephine’s house. But what would he say? What would he do? He had no words or actions left.

  “Cyn!”

  Dante lifted his head and peered through the oncoming gloom. “Foxley.” He strode over and shook his friend’s hand firmly. “How the devil are you?”

  “Good, good. What are you doing around here? I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  “Julian has some business here. I’ve been helping with negotiations.”

  His redheaded friend peered at him as though he might have grown two heads. “You’ve been working?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “A man has to put in an hour or two of work occasionally.”

  Foxley laughed and shook his head. “I suppose you needed to keep your mind off that mistress of yours. Damn shame about things ending between you. She was quite the woman. Still, you know you could have come to the club and forgotten about things just as well there. No need to go about doing something as God-awful as work you know?”

  Dante merely grinned. Foxley wasn’t a bad chap, just a little irresponsible. They’d had some good times together, but he doubted his friend would understand what he felt for Josephine. Foxley went through women quicker than most men smoked a box of cigars.

  “I’m just headed to that new place on the corner of Barrow Street, do you know it?”

  He lifted a brow. “Isn’t that place a little rough, even for you?”

  “Yes, but that’s where the excitement is. Besides their rules are little less rigid. I can win a small fortune without having to worry about pesky things like honour.” He clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Will you not join me?”

  He debated his options. Go home, sit alone, drink, and ponder his fate without Josephine or have enough drinks to get himself thoroughly foxed.

  “Why ever not?”

  They slipped down one of the alleyways and came out on one of the smaller London streets. Had he been on his own, he probably wouldn’t have attempted to come this way. He knew how to handle himself well enough—hell, he regularly got into fights when he’d had too much to drink—but the gangs that roamed the streets could be huge and he’d have no chance.

  Foxley paused in front of a green painted door. Even in the gloom of the gathering fog, he could see the chipped and battered state of it. It looked as though one too many people had been pushed against it and given a sound beating from some of the scuffs on it.

  He rapped on the door, and it inched open before being pulled wider by a small, round woman. She indicated with her head for them to come in. Handing over their hats and jackets to a younger, more comely woman, they ducked into what had clearly once been a house but was now converted into a makeshift bar and gambling den.

  Scents of stale smoke and strong, cheap liquor burned in his nostrils. Underfoot the carpet crunched with the remnants of broken glass. A bar lined the length of the front room while several round tables occupied the rest of the space. Behind the bar stood a burly man with his arms folded. He watched Dante closely.

  “You say there is money to be won here?” he murmured to his friend.

  “Yes, some of the biggest amounts too. Those who prefer to wager things that they ought not to frequent here. I even heard a sister was won recently.”

  “Good God.” What had he let himself in for? He didn’t wish to win a woman. For God’s sakes, he was having enough trouble with one as it was.

  The barkeep poured them a generous splash of brandy, and they propped themselves on the bar while Foxley eyed the tables. It wasn’t the first gambling den he’d been to that likely ran on the wrong side of the law, but he had usually been fairly drunk by the time he’d strolled into one. He’d certainly never noticed quite how squalid these places were.

  Well, when in Rome... He threw back the brandy, ignoring the bitter tang and how it singed his throat and signalled for another. He added another to the mix in his empty stomach and grimaced. He’d regret this come tomorrow.

  “Here, let’s try a hand.” Foxley motioned to the table with two empty spots.

  Both the men playing appeared well-dressed though Dante didn’t recognise either of them. The game started off with fairly low stakes, but the pot increased dramatically when the chap opposite Dante threw in some deeds. Taking another man’s land had never appealed to Dante. He knew too well what it was like to have nothing of your own.

  He glanced around at the withered faces. The faint buzz of alcohol was slowly dissipating. He eyed his cards, then the slips in the centre of the table.

  Laying down the cards, he shoved his paltry winnings and stake into the centre. “Sorry, chaps, I have somewhere to be.”

  Dante didn’t even listen to Foxley’s protests as he left the den. He barely paused to think until he was standing near Josephine’s house and pondering what the devil to say to her. Hand to the wall to steady himself, he drew in a breath. He would smell of liquor—that might not go down too well. And he still had no answers for her, only that he would try harder to be a better man.

  The taint of the gambling den still haunted him and he felt dirty—and even a little ashamed. There had been many a night when he should have returned to Josephine but instead had haunted places like that.

  Had he been mad?

  Before he decided on a course of action, her door opened and out stepped that blasted Robbie Allen. He curled his hand into the brickwork of the building next to him and peered around the edge of it. She didn’t go on tiptoes and kiss him sweetly, thank the Lord, but she did give his arm a little squeeze as he put on his hat and tapped his cane to the cobbles.

  Dante dropped back when he saw her radiant expression. He’d hurt her that evening at the ball. He wasn’t sure why but he couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t take away her radiance. Maybe he would have to resign himself to giving her up fo
rever.

  Chapter Ten

  Josephine hadn’t set foot in the house she’d lived in for four years since she’d moved out. It was an odd sensation—staring up at the wide windows and cream stone and recalling the many happy memories there. The sad ones had been somewhat clouded. She fought to recall them, to hold onto the anger and indignation at being treated so.

  She had spent hours listening for his footsteps, hoping for his return. Many more trying to express what she wanted out of life. But Dante had wanted little more than her body. At least, that was what she had thought.

  Pulling the bell, she waited. Now she wasn’t so sure. Oh why did he have to confuse her so? It was as though the world had been put on its head. Dante was working and enjoying it by all accounts. He was interested in her art. He was—she supposed—the man she had first met all those years ago with one exception. He possessed...she wanted to say a confidence to him, but that didn’t seem right. Dante had always been confident. She supposed it was something to do with self-assurance—as though he might have found his place in the world. The trouble was, she wasn’t sure she had quite found hers.

  Miss Smith opened the door and greeted her with a brilliant smile. Her heart panged a little for the friend she had lost. Yes, she had been her housekeeper but also her confidante and companion.

  “Mrs Beaumont, I wasn’t expecting you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m only here for the few brushes I left behind. Do you recall? The ones that I—”

  “Yes, I have them. I did send word by the lord, but he must have forgotten to tell you.” She stepped aside to let her in. “He’s been so busy of late that I’m not surprised to be honest.”

  “I didn’t know if you might have cleared everything out for the next tenants.”

  “He’s been keeping the house open for—” Miss Smith glanced down.

  For his next mistress? She hadn’t seen him in weeks, much to her disappointment, and in spite of herself. Perhaps he had found someone else. That thought was particularly unpleasant and sent a jagged pain through her.

  “I left them in the room where you use to paint.” The housekeeper indicated upstairs. “Do you mind if I leave you? I have some errands to run today. The grocery boy was late with his delivery and, well, you know how it is.”

  “Of course. I shall fetch the brushes and be on my way. It is...It’s lovely to see you again.”

  “And you, Mrs Beaumont. I’ll be keeping an eye out for your paintings when you’re rich and famous.”

  Josephine gave a warm smile. She wasn’t sure that was achievable on her own but she would try damn hard to make it happen. “Thank you.”

  “Well, have a good day.”

  “And you.”

  Josephine climbed the creaky stairs and walked into the room she had turned into her art studio. Splashes of paint still marred the floorboards and she noted Dante hadn’t changed much. A chaise still sat under the window while a small table that used to hold paints and brushes now held a vase filled with wildflowers. The painting she had left behind hung in the place of one of the older paintings she had taken with her. She paused in front of it and reached out to stroke the canvas.

  “Do you remember when you painted that?”

  She snatched her hand back, but she couldn’t help smile as his baritone warmed her chest. “I do. You wouldn’t sit still for long.”

  Two gentle hands came to her shoulders, and she leaned back into the warmth of him. Yes, she had missed him in bed—her body still craved him—but she hadn’t realised how much she had missed simple touches and his enjoyable company until now. Her vision began to cloud and she sniffed, feeling foolish. Why could she not let him go?

  He used his hold on her to turn her around. “What’s this?” Dante skimmed a finger over her cheek and swiped away a tear.

  She shrugged, unable to express the confusion inside. Was she a fool? Should she just accept whatever she could of him? Or was it too late? She couldn’t quite admit to how her heart was breaking over letting him go for good. She supposed she’d always imagined he’d try to win her back. Maybe she’d even clung to that idea. After all, it was very pleasant for one’s ego for one of the more notorious rakes to be pining for you.

  Dante slipped that finger under her chin and raised her head. His gaze searched hers and he released a slow, audible sigh. “Some of my best memories are from this room.” A lazy smile slipped over his lips. “Some of my worst too.”

  “Your worst?”

  “Coming here after you’d left me, for example.”

  “I see.” Another hot tear escaped as her vision clouded further. This was what she wanted was it not? A life of her own. A chance to seek her own future. But seeing the reflected pain in his expression made her doubt all that. What if life wasn’t better without him? What if she failed and there was no one there to pick her up?

  And yet...and yet she knew she had to try. She couldn’t be held back by fear anymore.

  Dante used his thumb to trace her mouth—his eyes solemn.

  What was this? A last moment before telling her he’d decided to take another lover? But, as he leaned in to kiss her, she didn’t care for the reasons. All she wanted was to feel his mouth upon hers, to revel in the excitement and anticipation Dante always brought with him—even if it was for the last time.

  But his kiss, while it reached down inside her and knotted her insides, was gentle, almost reverent. He skimmed his mouth over hers in a feather light touch. It was so unlike Dante. Patient, careful, undemanding. It was as though he was awaiting her permission.

  When he touched his lips to hers again, she wrapped her arms around his neck and twisted her fingers into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. He put his arms about her waist and drew her close. She felt the restrained power there. When they touched, sparks always lit between them and now was no different, except...except Dante seemed different.

  Josephine pushed the kiss deeper. She nibbled on his lower lip and sighed with gratification when his tongue met hers. Sorrow, confusion, jealousy...they all faded away. Nothing but the simmering need this man created existed now.

  He smoothed his hands up and down her back, rasping over the cotton. His hands were rougher than usual but his touch was soft, as though committing every part of her to memory. He’d had four years to do that, so why he needed to now, she did not know.

  A hand came up to cup her face, his thumb pressing into her cheek. He broke away long enough to gaze down at her. Her breath trapped in her chest. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him look at her like this either. His eyes were no longer dark with desire but soft and gently passionate. She clasped the back of his neck and dropped her head forward so that his lips pressed to her forehead. Savouring the touch of him there for a moment, she drew back and lifted her chin.

  “Kiss me,” she begged.

  Perhaps this was more foolish behaviour, perhaps this was opening her heart up again, but at present, it seemed as though not having his kiss, his touch, his lovemaking, would be far worse than suffering whatever wounds it inflicted.

  Dante bundled her close this time. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered, bringing his lips to her ear. He nipped and drew her lobe between his teeth, making a shudder run down her body. “Jo-Jo, you have no idea—” He broke off to skim his lips down her neck and back up to run along her jaw.

  His mouth sought hers once more while his hands moved up to her hair. Pins pinged to the wooden floor. Her golden locks began to spill around her, and he kissed every part of her face. Her nose, her chin, her closed lids. He left no part untouched.

  Not even her heart. It stretched and pulsed in time with his kisses.

  Dante eased her around again so he could begin undoing her laces. He swept aside her hair and kissed the back of her neck. She eyed the painting of him, taking in his beautiful features. It had been one of her best pieces, she suspected. She’d never realised it before but, although she’d managed to capture his sinful good looks, she had als
o picked up vulnerabilities that she’d never noticed before. His eyes were searching and a little lost. That was the difference in him now. He didn’t seem so lost. Not found as such but close.

  His deft fingers could have unlaced her gown in seconds. He could have had her naked in minutes, but it seemed he wanted her so hot and wanting that she feared she might shimmer and explode in a ball of flames. It took all her willpower not to wrench her garments off herself.

  Down came her gown, bringing a little cool relief. Then he set to work on her corset. Her ribs expanded as he loosened it bit by bit with all the patience of a saint. That dropped to the ground, leaving her in her combination, stockings, and shoes. She was tempted to kick them off, but Dante seemed determined to do everything himself—and at his leisure.

  She’d be lucky if he hadn’t driven her mad by the time she was naked.

  He kneeled behind her and slipped off her shoe, caressing her ankle. She bit her lip so as not to giggle. Every movement he made was so intense and serious. She didn’t dare shatter the moment. He reached up inside her undergarments and untied her stockings to draw them down and off. Cool air breezed about her calves as he stood to remove her combination.

  The garment came down slowly, skimmed her breasts, her stomach, her hips, and finally her thighs. She stepped out of it, and his hands came around her waist to draw her back against him. His hardness pressed against her rear. Surely he had to be in as much agony as she?

  He cupped her breasts and plucked her nipples into harder points. She sighed and leaned back against him.

  “You’re so perfect,” he murmured. “So. Damn. Perfect. Goddamn, I could kiss every inch of you.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  She twisted in his hold. She couldn’t bear it anymore. With a hand to his chest, she pressed him back until the back of his knees struck the chaise. He wavered for a moment so she pushed again. He fell down onto it. Dante lifted a brow.