A Notorious Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  “That’s a bold question.”

  “Are you?”

  CHAPTER 37

  At half past one in the afternoon, Lucy stood before the door to Lord Thrale’s room listening to the silence of the upstairs. For the last half-hour of this rainy afternoon, the gentlemen had been in the billiards room. In fact, as she passed, she’d heard Cynssyr claim a victory, to much dissent. The gentlemen were fully occupied. She felt confident she would not be interrupted.

  Five or ten minutes was all she needed. Less. In. Find her Milton. Leave a vase of marigolds in its place, and with it a note declining his offer of assistance. Out.

  She appreciated Thrale’s offer. She did. But accepting his help was too risky. Someone would find out who had funded her venture, and all it would take after that was a word in the wrong eager ear, and she would be ruined again. There would be hell to pay for that. For her and Thrale.

  His door was unlocked, the rooms silent and darkened. Nothing could be safer when one wished to enter a room unobserved. As she wished to do. In she went, the note and her vase of marigolds in hand.

  Thrale’s rooms were rear-facing with an anteroom comprising the first chamber and in which she now stood. Doubtless, Thrale had been even more diligent about removing signs of his father’s excesses here than elsewhere in the house. This room, perhaps alone among all the rooms at Blackfern, bore the imprint of the present Marquess.

  The curtains were open, and tiny drops of rain dotted the window-glass. The view was much same as from her room; a portion of the rear gardens, the pines to the north, and fields beyond that. Several issues of The Sporting Gentleman lay on a table, beside them, a pair of gloves. A mahogany box on a desk was carved with the Thrale crest. Next to that, was a stack of letters. A coin, a cloth-bound ledger book. Pen, ink, sealing wax.

  None of the books on the desk and tables were her Milton. She’d known upon coming here that it was a risk she’d not find her book. He might have it with him, or he might not have brought the book to Blackfern at all, despite what he’d said. Both volumes of Lamb were here, though, along with the third volume of The Mad Man of the Mountains. She had half a mind to take that as well. Thrale needed a proper bookmark. Several of them. A folded sheet of paper marked his place in this volume; he was reading ahead, the rogue.

  Lucy turned in a slow circle. If not here, then where would he have put the Milton? The bedchamber door was ajar, darkened and as silent as the anteroom. She made a more thorough sweep of the desk, taking care not to disturb anything. Everything so severe. Even if she did not find her book, she intended to leave the flowers where he would not fail to see them.

  He might well have left the book in the bedchamber. Likely he had. She pushed open the door and went in. The air smelled like him, and it made her think of his mouth and the way he touched her, and she could not think of that. She placed the marigolds and the paper on the mantle.

  On a round table next to the fire was a book of the right size. Her Milton, she was sure of it. She crossed the room, and yes, indeed. Triumph was hers.

  Another sheet of folded paper marked his place in the Milton. His place. In her book. She yanked out the sheet with the satisfying sound of paper against paper. He’d used a letter to mark his place. His correspondence was none of her affair. She placed the letter, written small and crossways, in the center of the table and tucked the Milton under her arm. Neat and tidy. When she turned, her heart stopped.

  Thrale stood at the side of the bed near the foot of his massive four-poster. He wore breeches, his braces, and a shirt, and nothing else. His hair stuck up on one side. Even when he’d dragged his fingers through the thick mass, the unevenness remained.

  He was not wearing a coat.

  “Lucy?”

  Nor a waistcoat.

  “My lord.”

  Nor a neckcloth. Nor shoes nor stockings.

  His untidiness made her want to smooth his hair and straighten his shirt, when she had no right to such fond and familiar contact. He’d been so kind to her. Considerate. Tolerant. He’d been her lover. That was true. Her lover. To tell herself anything else was dishonest.

  She gave him her most exquisitely empty smile. He would not be fooled, but that was no longer the point.

  He ran a hand over his face and managed to look adorably sleepy. “Are you lost, madam?”

  “Not at all.”

  His eyebrows shot up, and when his astonishment faded, there was a different reaction from him. “You are here by design?”

  She kept smiling. She smiled beyond the whirl of challenge between them. She was prepared, of course, with the excuse of the marigolds, but she abandoned that for a far more dangerous path. “I ought not tell you.”

  “I think the opposite.” He made no move to adjust his clothing. “Neither of us wish to misunderstand this encounter, I’m quite sure.”

  He was in his shirt sleeves. The center of her stomach turned to jelly. He’d kept his training regimen here at Blackfern. She managed to bring her attention to his face. “If I do, you must never, ever tell anyone that you know.”

  “Why?”

  “Promise you won’t.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “It’s nothing nefarious.”

  “Then there is no need for secrecy.”

  “Do you, sir, tell strangers your secrets? Or do you suggest none of us have a need for privacy?”

  “If you have a secret to divulge, then, provided I am satisfied with your motives, I will not betray your confidence.”

  “My sisters and I have long played a private scavenger hunt.” Inspiration struck, and it was all she could do to keep from breaking into a grin. “Between the four of us, you understand.”

  “Go on.” He walked to the basin and poured water into it. He washed his hands and face while she spoke.

  “We must remove an item from a room, an innocuous item, such as a candlestick from a parlor, or a book from the library, and replace it with something else—the following day, you see.”

  He turned. His open shirt exposed a portion of muscled shoulder. He returned her smile, thoroughly entertained, it seemed. “You do this why?”

  She lifted a hand. “It is a game we made up when we were girls. Anne thought of it. To distract us. After our mother passed, and Papa was so—unhappy.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ve played ever since. With refinements, of course, over the years. And we are playing today. Emily, I’ve no doubt, has snuck into Aldreth’s room and taken his braces.”

  “Braces.”

  “Yes. It’s a private joke amongst us now, the way Aldreth’s braces appear in the oddest places. A chandelier, once.” Her story was spinning away from her, and she forced herself to take a breath. To slow down before she invented details so absurd the paper thin excuse between them would tear away. “And so, I came in here, thinking you were playing billiards with Aldreth and the others.”

  “No.” He returned to the bed. Near it. The other side, though. Closer to her.

  “So I have discerned.”

  “As any clever woman would.”

  “In the event, my lord, I have settled on my common item.” She lifted the book. Perfectly within the rules, as you can see. A volume of no importance—”

  “To you.”

  “—which tomorrow, I must place elsewhere in the house to be found in an unexpected location.”

  “Where might that be?”

  “I’ve not decided. Such things require the proper consideration, you know.” She was beyond delighted that he continued to play along with this game. “A hint of the absurd.”

  “I feel you have achieved that.”

  “You say so because you’ve never played.”

  He propped one hand high on the bed post and leaned toward her. The open placket of his shirt gaped wider. “Is there a winner?”

  “Yes, of course. There must always be a winner.” She curtsied. “My lord.”

  “To much private hilarity, I expec
t.”

  “As you may well imagine.”

  “I do. Indeed, I do.” The way he was looking at her, with such hunger when they weren’t lovers anymore, they hadn’t been since coming here, sent a secret thrill through her. She wanted them to be. She wanted him.

  “The prize, sir, is in the winning. In having been the cleverest. Mary once secreted a quill in my serving of soup. It was devious of her.”

  “Was she declared the winner?”

  “Yes, she was. But we are sworn to secrecy, my sisters and I. If you were to ask them, they would deny everything.”

  “Yet you risk all by revealing your secret to me. Why?”

  “I am discovered.” She waved the book in the air. “Mercy, sir.”

  “Have you not, in being discovered, lost the game?”

  “Not yet.”

  He ran the side of his thumb across his lips and looked her up and down. Slowly. In a way that made her decidedly warm. “Are you asking for my assistance in cheating?”

  “Never.” She looked him up and down, too. “I am explaining why my presence in your bedchamber is innocent and proper.”

  Thrale leaned against the end of the mattress. She could not stop looking at his chest. That portion of skin exposed. “Innocent, to be sure. But proper? Never. Suppose Aldreth came in here and found us like this? Or Bracebridge? Or, God forbid, Cynssyr?”

  “They’re downstairs.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  “I do.”

  “You thought I was downstairs, and you were wrong about that.”

  “But not the others.” She curtsied. “I’ll be on my way now.”

  “I should hate,” he said, as grave as anyone could ever be, “to be obliged to marry you. Just as you would not care to find yourself obliged to marry me.”

  Her mouth went dry as dust.

  “Does anyone know you planned to come here?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well then,” he said, softly, “You might stay.”

  The words were miles from what she expected he would say. Her silence overtook them both, and was that not delicious?

  CHAPTER 38

  He glanced behind him. After these days, weeks of seeing her and having no good opportunity to find her alone—with all four of her sisters here, her father and brothers-in-law, and all her nieces and nephews, she was never alone. They were alone now.

  “There’s a bed here,” he said.

  “Yes. I see that.” In the semi-dark of his room, her voice was low and silky and full of knowing, and his soul answered that.

  “Think what might be done there.”

  “I can’t imagine since, alas, my lord, I am not the least tired.” She was wearing a blue frock with lace and ribbon and what not. He wondered how long it would take to get her out of that pretty confection. “Have you something in mind?”

  “Words.”

  “Will you find better ones in that bed?” she asked.

  During his time in Bartley Green, he had learned to bring together his admiration of her, the delight he found in their banter, the glimpses into her intellect, with his reaction to her beauty. Aspects of the same person. The whole of Lucy.

  “No. In fact, I hope to lose them.” He reached for her hand. He’d been in love once before, but he could not recall wondering whether she might return his feelings. They had fallen in love at the same time, and out of love at nearly the same time. He had no such certainty about Lucy’s feelings for him. He’d never been so afraid of taking a wrong step.

  “That’s careless of you.” The curve of her mouth sent him wild with lust. “Fortunately, I have a good store of them. What else?”

  “Kisses. Like this, perhaps.” He drew her near and kissed the tips of each of her fingers. He would not think of anything but this. Not of her leaving him, nor her preferring to live alone. Not the gut-wrenching fear that she would meet another man. “In interesting places I might otherwise not reach.”

  “I confess myself intrigued. Is there more?”

  “Caresses.” He drew a finger along the top of her shoulder. Such soft skin. Delicate. Bruises showed easily on skin like hers.

  “That sounds…pleasant.”

  He tugged on her hand, and she came closer. “Pleasant. You sound as if you think I’ll bore you.”

  “Would you? Please?”

  His pulse doubled. Tripled. “Bore you?”

  “Will you?” Her eyes danced with amusement.

  “If you insist, yes. I’ll use you well. Both of us. I promise that.” With but inches between them, he touched her cheek with one finger. His world, his very existence, condensed and intensified. He led them away from his bed. She had the Milton clutched in one hand. So complete was her control over herself, and so deft was she in the way she intended others to see her, that he had for too long dismissed the possibility that the marginalia in the pages of that book was hers. They were hers. Her words. Her passion and wit.

  At the fireplace, he took the volume from her and placed it on the mantle. Next to a vase of marigolds that had not been there when he went to sleep. And a note. He walked away from the fire, away from the mantle-to-ceiling chimney glass. At the window, he read the note. She had signed it with the letter L.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t accept your kind and generous offer.”

  He put her note into one of the drawers of a chest of drawers. “Will you move in with Aldreth or Cynssyr?”

  “The duke, I suppose. I get on better with Anne than Mary.”

  He returned to her.

  “The Milton is mine,” she said. “I want it back.”

  He traced a finger along the neckline of her gown and was gratified to hear the intake of her breath. “I am aware.”

  “Why did you take it, then?”

  “I can think of more interesting uses for your hands than holding a book.” He slid his finger along her neckline once again. If it took him half an hour to get her naked, he would enjoy every minute. “I shall return the book by and by.”

  “Unfair.”

  “What?”

  “We are nowhere near the bed now.”

  “Forgive me. You said you were not tired.” He dipped his head and kissed her, and she kissed him back. They were in his room. His bedchamber, and he was not dressed, and she was still kissing him, and there was a danger in that, in assuming she would want more from him than a kiss.

  For once, though, their interlude here would not be foreshortened by the danger of being interrupted. Flint could be counted on to be discreet, if it came to that. He could kiss her as long and as often as she would tolerate from him. His body’s response made him selfish and impatient even when he knew both those things tended not to provide the outcome he wanted here. If this went on much longer, he’d lose his mind.

  He drew back and rested his hands on her shoulders. If he had learned anything from his youth and young manhood it was how to control his impulses. He did so now. His cock remained full staff, but he set the sensations at a distance because he was no more defined by his erection than she was an object to be acquired and possessed. “Join me in that bed?”

  She knew what he meant. No pretenses this time. Deliberate decision, not passion run away with them. Not madness shared, but open agreement between them. Not capitulation but a grant of herself to him. She pressed against him, ran her palms along his back and shoulders, her hands warm through his shirt. “I cannot think when you are so near.”

  “If we’re to be lovers in that bed, there are things you must understand about me, and that I ought to understand about you.” She might tell him no, more disappointing than any other no she might give him, but he did not think so.

  Her arms stayed around his shoulders, and they were close enough for him to recognize her retreat into herself. So familiar now. Dangerous to them both. “What do I need to know besides you have invited me there?”

  She smiled when she spoke, but her voice held a note of cynicism. He return
ed the smile, though not the false emotion.

  “We’ve given in. To each other. We’ve played, the two of us, and I hope to God you have enjoyed that as much as I have. The words, the pretense.” He put his mouth by her ear and whispered, “The fucking.”

  Her fingers toyed with the hair at the back of his head. “You have not yet shocked me.”

  “I hope to soon.”

  “Is it possible you don’t know how very like the rest of your sex that is?” Her voice went lower yet. “To want your cock in a woman. You can’t shock me with that information.”

  She was playing with him, and he loved it. He adored her for it. “I want my cock in you, Lucy. But you must know by now I want more. You know my inclinations in that regard.” He cupped her shoulders. “I am wrong to think you share them to a degree? Or at least do not despise them?”

  She licked her lower lip, and he bent his head and licked there, too. She pulled back slightly, and then relaxed. He kept a hand on her shoulder. “I do not want a misunderstanding between us in this regard.”

  “I am here, sir. In your bedchamber. Not elsewhere in your house.”

  “Yes, but have you merely submitted to my desire? Or have you given in to yours?”

  She lifted her chin. Her lower lip glistened with damp. “Is there a difference?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you say, but as a practical matter, I think not.”

  “Yes. Yes, there’s a difference.”

  “A nice distinction, I suspect.”

  “Very nice.” With his thumb he traced her lower lip. “It’s the difference between eating your favorite meal when you are hungry and eating because food is put before you.”

  “I won’t apologize for what I like.”

  He managed not to smile his triumph too soon. “Don’t ever.”

  “Nor for what I did with Devil.” She lost some of her control, for her eyes were desolate. “Nor how I felt with him. Or with you.”

  He kept his arms around her, brought her close. “I can restrain myself, be tender, if you prefer that. Gentle.”

  She leaned toward him. “Never the other? Is that what you mean to say? Never so hard I’ll count my bruises later?”