“Sir Robert,” Connor bit off.
A brief silence followed.
“Ah.”
“Hell.”
“You went through with it,” Connor snarled. “You delivered those damn letters.”
“Sure and we did,” Gregory agreed.
Michael’s voice turned defensive. “The rotter tossed us in prison. What did you expect?”
“I expected you to follow my bloody orders!” Connor roared. “I told you to destroy the papers. I told you Adelaide wanted me done with it. You said you understood.”
“And so we did,” Gregory replied.
“A man ought be putting his wife first,” Michael agreed.
“Then why the devil—?”
“Well, she’s not our wife, is she?”
Gregory peered over Connor’s shoulder. “Would you be caring for more than one husband?”
“Thank you, no.”
“There you have it, lad.” Gregory’s wrinkled hand pounded on Connor’s shoulder. “She’s yours, entirely.”
“Demands and all.”
“She didn’t demand . . .” Connor dragged a hand down his face. “Go. Just go. I’ll deal with you later.”
“But what happened to—”
Connor slammed the door shut, then swore viciously when a soft knock sounded not five seconds later. “I bloody well told you—!”
He swung the door back open to reveal a young, wide-eyed maid holding a bottle of brandy and two glasses. “Beggin’ pardon, sir,” she said nervously. “Mrs. McKarnin said I should bring this straightaway. But if you’re not wanting—”
“No. I want it.” He took the bottle, ignored the glasses, and muttered something Adelaide very much hoped was an apology. The maid bobbed a lightning-quick curtsy and dashed away.
Adelaide studied Connor’s face as he turned. Color had returned, but it wasn’t what one might call a healthy hue. It was too dark, and steadily growing darker. He slammed the bottle down on the writing desk and began a steady pace at the foot of the bed. Hoping the exercise would serve to settle his temper, she decided to keep quiet for several minutes. She changed her mind when he began to flick dark glances in her direction every fifth step or so.
She lifted a hand to gesture at the brandy. “What are you going to do with that?”
“Drink it.”
“Right from the bottle? Fine nursemaid you’ll be then,” she teased, hoping for a smile. “Will you at least share?”
“No.” He all but snapped at her. “You’ll have laudanum.”
A little indignant, she frowned at him and plucked at the counterpane. “Are you angry with me?”
“No . . . Yes . . .” He spit out a word she’d never before heard and therefore assumed was highly profane, and then he stalked around the bed to crouch over her, his hands gripping the pillow on either side of her head. “Take me with you?”
“Oh. That.” She offered him a weak smile. “I didn’t mean it.”
His eyes narrowed. “And did you mean to step in front of a bullet?”
“Certainly not.” She’d meant to step in front of the gun. She distinctly recalled hoping bullets would not come into play.
Apparently, Connor failed to see the distinction. His face took on a tormented expression. “It was for me to fight him. For me to protect—”
“You were too far away. There was nothing you could do. And—”
“There was. I needed more time, that’s all. I—”
“Isn’t that what I gave you?”
There was a long, long moment of silence in which a muscle in Connor’s jaw grew increasingly more active.
“Yes,” he finally bit out. And it was amazing, really, how much reluctance could be fit into a single word. “But I’d have come up with it on my own. You had no business—”
He broke off, his entire body tense and straining, and then, suddenly, the fight went out of him. The anger drained from his face, and a rush of breath spilled from his lips.
“Oh, God.” A deep groan rumbled from his chest and he bent his head, resting his forehead against hers. “I thought I’d lose you,” he rasped, closing his eyes. “I thought . . .”
“I thought the same.” She ran her palm up to stroke the knotted muscles in his neck. “But here we are.”
And it seemed wondrous that they should be so, glorious that she could feel his breath, strong and sure against her skin. Closing her eyes, she let herself steep in the miracle of both. Connor was alive. He was whole and hale and safe. She couldn’t ask for more.
She might have been killed.
Connor struggled with the emotions warring inside him. There was anger, relief, and regret. But first and foremost, there was fear. Over and over again, he saw Adelaide stumbling back from Sir Robert. He watched helplessly as she collapsed to the ground, the bright stain of blood seeping through her gown.
He’d never known such fear; not in the darkest hours after his parents’ death had he ever felt terror like this. He couldn’t be rid of it, couldn’t shove it aside or blanket it with anger. He could feel himself shake with it even now.
“I want to . . .” He wanted to wrap her in cotton batting and lock her away. More, he wanted to erase her own memories and spare her every second of fear, every heartbeat of pain.
“I’m sorry.” His voice shook. “Adelaide—”
“Shh. You’re not at fault.”
“If I’d stopped it all earlier. If I’d made it clear to Gregory and—”
She gave a small huff of annoyance. “If Sir Robert had not hit you over the head with a dueling pistol and delivered you to a press-gang. If your father hadn’t neglected his wife and child. If—”
He shook his head. “I should never have begun this. It was my fault Sir Robert took notice of you. I should never have brought you into it.”
“I’m grateful you did. I’m so grateful to have found you.” She brushed her hand through his hair. “I love you.”
A shiver of pleasure raced over him, followed by a steely determination. What was done was done. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t retrieve what had been stolen from him, erase who he’d been, or ignore what he’d done. But he could learn from his mistakes. He could treasure what he had now. Careful so as not to jar her, he settled his weight on the mattress, then took her face in his hands.
“You asked me why I compromised you, why I married you, and why I burned those papers. And I’ve given you . . .” He’d given her vague answers and half-truths. He wanted her. She mattered. He needed her.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you with . . .” He faltered. “I love you more than . . .” He stumbled again. “Hell.”
He couldn’t find the right words. He’d thought they would come once he got out the hardest bit, but now everything else seemed trivial and inadequate. And nothing, not even those hardest words, seemed capable of expressing the immeasurable contents of his heart.
He took her hand and pressed it to his chest over his heart, willing her to understand.
“I love you.” He kissed her softly, brushing his lips across her cheek, her brow, her lids. “I love you.” He took her mouth hungrily, pouring every ounce of himself into the kiss.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I don’t have any other words.”
Eyes bright with unshed tears, Adelaide framed his face with her hands. “They’re all I need. They’re everything I’ve ever hoped for.”
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Practically Wicked
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
Life was best experienced through a thick layer of fine drink.
Inferior drink might do in a pinch, but Maximilian Dane was certain that nothing accompanied an evening of debauchery with the demimonde quite so well as several goblets of excellent wine at dinner, followed by a glass, or two, of expensive port in the billiards room, followed by a
liberal tasting of superb brandy in the card room, followed by any number of flutes of champagne in Mrs. Wrayburn’s ballroom, followed by . . . whatever it was he had poured in the library. He recalled an amber hue and delicate bite. He also recalled forgoing the actual pour and drinking straight from the bottle.
In hindsight, that may have been a mistake.
Because at some point following that final drink, he left the library in search of . . . something or other, and rather than finding his way back to the ballroom where this something was most likely to be found, he had landed here—in a quiet, unfamiliar room illuminated by only a spattering of candles, and seated in a plain wooden chair before a plain wooden table, which had both initially appeared to be adequately sized for a man of five-and-twenty, but, upon his sitting, had proved to be entirely too near to the floor. His legs were bent at an angle he suspected would be impossible were it not for the limbering quality of all those glasses.
“What in God’s name is the matter with this furniture?”
“Lord Highsup cut the legs off for me when I was six,” a woman’s voice explained. He liked the sound of it, lower than one expected from a woman and warm like the fine drink from the library.
He looked up from the golden wood grain of the table and squinted until the form sitting across from him came into focus. His companion wore a night rail and wrap. They were white, ruffled, and provided a sharply contrasting background to the dark braid of hair that fell over her shoulder and ended just below a well-formed breast.
“You’re not six.”
“Indeed, I am not. How astute of you to ascertain.”
“Plenty tart, though, I see. Who are you?” He threw up a hand, narrowly avoiding a thumb to the eye. “No . . . No, wait. I know. I never forget a lady.” Leaning closer, he took in the young woman’s pale gray eyes and delicate features, along with her rigid posture and indifferent expression. “You . . . are Miss Anna Rees, the Ice Maiden of Anover House.”
There was a slight pause before she spoke. “And you are Mr. Maximilian Dane, the Disappointment of McMullin Hall.”
“Ah . . . Not”—he informed her with a quick jab of his finger at the ceiling—“anymore. At half past seven this morning, or somewhere . . . thereabouts, I became Viscount Dane . . . the Disappointment of McMullin Hall.”
“Oh.” Her tone softened as the meaning of his words set in. “Oh, I am sorry.”
“’S neither here nor there,” he assured her with a clumsy sweep of his hand. “Speaking of which . . . Where is here, love?”
“Anover House.”
“Yes, I know. Lovely party. Where in Anover House?”
“The nursery.”
“Ah. That would explain the miniature furniture, wouldn’t it?” He shifted a bit and grimaced when he caught the side of his ankle on the table leg. “Bit long in the tooth for the nursery, aren’t you?”
“It was the nearest room, my lord. You—”
“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t call me that. I’ve hours yet.”
“Hours?”
“Until everyone hears, until everyone knows I am Lord Dane.” He curled his lip in disgust. “Until I have to be a bloody viscount.”
“Very well. Mr. Dane, then. If you would—”
Something about the way she said his name sparked a memory.
“Mrs. Cartwell,” he said suddenly and made a failed effort at snapping his fingers. “That’s why I came upstairs.” The reasonably attractive and exceptionally accommodating widow Cartwell had invited him to her guest chambers. He’d stopped in the library for that last drink, something to further blur the face of his brother, and then . . . he’d become a bit turned around. He gave Miss Rees a quizzical look. “Came down the wrong hall, did I?”
“If you were after Mrs. Cartwell, yes. She is a floor below.”
“I climbed an extra set of steps?” Strange; he’d not have thought himself capable. His legs felt like pudding. “Huh. And how is it I came to be in your company?”
“I was in the hallway. You waved, tripped, and landed at my feet.”
He closed his eyes in thought, found it made the room spin unpleasantly, and let his gaze drift over Miss Rees’s face instead. He recalled now, smiling at the pretty lady, losing his feet and finding them again with the lady’s assistance. She smelled sweet and flowery, like sugar biscuits and roses. “So I did. What the devil did I trip on?”
“I couldn’t say,” Miss Rees replied and rose smoothly from her chair.
In a display of coordination that surprised him, he reached forward and took hold of her wrist without falling out of his seat. “Where are you going?”
“To ring for assistance.” She tugged at her wrist, but he held on with a gentle grasp. He liked the way the heat of her skin seeped through the cotton and warmed his palm.
“Don’t. I don’t want help. I don’t need it.” And the moment she rang for it, she’d leave. He wanted that least of all. The ballroom below was filled with ladies like the widow Cartwell—worldly women clad in silk, rubies, and the promise of sin-filled nights. But it was the prim little creature before him now who intrigued him. “You’ve a different sort of promise.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He shook his head, lightly so as not to lose it entirely. “Never mind. Don’t ring for help.”
“You cannot stay here in the nursery, my lord, and—”
“Mr. Dane,” he reminded her. “Why not? Are there children about?”
Surely not. Surely no one, not even the most depraved friends of Mrs. Wrayburn, would be so ridiculous as to bring a child to one of the woman’s parties.
“No, but—”
“Then we’ll stay. Sit,” he pressed again. He considered and rejected the idea of tugging her back onto her seat. His current level of coordination was unpredictable at best. He wasn’t looking to do the woman an injury. “Talk with me.”
“I can’t. It isn’t proper.”
He snorted a little in response. As far as good society was concerned, the words “proper” and “Anover House” were mutually exclusive. “What do we care for proper, you and I?”
“I care,” she replied, and he watched with fascination as her already rigid back straightened just a hair further. “My mother would most assuredly care.”
“Then she ought to have had the sense to move you out of the house by now.”
If he remembered correctly, rumor had it Mrs. Wrayburn had, in fact, tried to marry her daughter off on more than one occasion, but Miss Rees was content to stay as she was—a reclusive and spoiled young woman, and a burden on her overindulgent mother.
Well, the little darling could indulge someone else for a change.
“I want you to stay,” he informed her. “And now that I’m a viscount, I’m fairly certain you have to do as I say. Sit. Talk.”
Unless he was very much mistaken, her lips twitched with amusement. “No.”
This time, when she pulled at her wrist, he had no choice but to grant her freedom or risk being yanked from his seat.
He squinted at her willowy arms. “Stronger than you look.”
That dubious compliment earned him a bland expression. “I daresay a kitten would give you trouble in your current condition, which is why I need to ring—”
“That’s insulting.” Quite possibly true, but nonetheless insulting. “Unless you are referring to one of those giant breeds of cats? Tigers and such? They have exceptionally large kittens.”
“Cubs, Mr. Dane. And no, I was not.”
“Then I’m insulted.” He made a show of slumping in his chair, but when that failed to lure out a smile, he tried another tack. “Before passing along your next barb, you might consider taking into account the sad, sad nature of events which has led to my weakened state.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He wondered if he was, perhaps, not expressing himself as clearly as he imagined. “There’s been a death in the family, you’ll recall.”
It wa
s unforgivable to make mention of his brother’s passing in such a careless manner, and he might have felt a little guilty for it, were he not so damnably angry with his brother just now. And so gratified to see Miss Rees’s expression soften once again. And so stupendously drunk.
But softened or not, Miss Rees appeared implacable in her resolve to leave. “Please understand, Mr. Dane, I am most sorry for the loss of your father. However—”
Baffled, he straightened in his chair. “My father?”
“The gentleman from whom you’ve inherited the viscountcy.”
“Ah, no. My elder brother, Reginald. My father shuffled off the mortal coil years ago.” He gave that additional thought. “Maybe only two. Strange, seems longer. And not long enough.” The viscount’s baritone voice had grown happily dim in his memory.
“I am truly sorry for the loss of your brother,” Miss Rees corrected patiently. “However, I cannot continue to keep company with you in here, like this. I may not come from good ton, but I am an unmarried young woman, and, as a gentleman, you—”
“Good Lord, child, where did you acquire the impression I was a gentleman?”
“Very well,” she conceded. “As a viscount, you are expected, at the very least, to make a show of adhering to the strictures governing a gentleman’s behavior, and as such, you must respect my wish to not risk being seen in—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he groaned, “just go.”
A lecture of what he must do was the last thing he wanted to listen to at present. He’d done nothing but follow the mandates of others for the first four-and-twenty years of his life. It had been an appalling experience. He had discovered in the year since that it was far better to be a disappointment than a pawn. Better still if he didn’t have to suffer through someone else’s long-winded opinion on the matter.
Miss Rees glanced at the bellpull, then back to him. “Will you allow me to ring for—?”
“No.” If he couldn’t sit with the pretty lady, he’d sit alone for a bit and find his own way back downstairs.
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