Brooks then abruptly rose from his chair, walking toward his study door and pulling it open. He gestured toward the empty reception room. “Now, I think it’s time for you both to leave. I have work to do.”
Lady Bolton and Charles stood up, walking toward the door. Charles lingered a moment, looking at his old friend with angry eyes. “You will regret this, Brooks.”
“There is plenty to regret but not this,” he said, slamming the door behind them. He turned, wandering toward the sideboard in his study, pouring himself a glass of brandy. He nursed it for the rest of the afternoon while he worked—or at least tried to work. He found himself frequently sighing, leaning back in his chair, and running his hands through his hair.
Brooks was restless, and the brandy was not having the desired calming effect on his nerves. He wondered what August was doing. In the past, he would have left Dover Street by now to call on her. They would play chess and tell each other about their days. He wondered if they would ever achieve that sense of normality again or if he would be forever tense, fearing what might happen next.
In the middle of his anxious reverie, he heard a commotion in the entry hall. Assuming it was his mother, he stood up and went to greet her. She was smiling and humming to herself as she handed Jenkins her hat and pelisse. “How was she?” Brooks asked from the doorway of the reception room, still holding his glass of brandy.
His mother jumped, bringing her hand to her chest when she saw him. “Samuel!” she exclaimed. “You startled me.” Then, she raised her brow. “Do you mean she as in Lady Ramsbury or she as in your betrothed?”
Mrs. Brooks giggled happily at the last word, causing Brooks to roll his eyes. “Either,” he replied, very much unamused. His mother’s face fell when she realized his mood hadn’t improved since morning.
“Both are very well,” she said, glaring at her son. “Have you given any more thought to a date?”
No. Brooks took a sip of brandy. He supposed there was no use delaying it, and if Charles truly intended on driving his clients away from him, marrying his wealthy fiancée sooner rather than later made sense.
“As soon as possible,” Brooks said. His mother’s face brightened at his sudden turn of mood. “Do you think the dowager duchess could procure a special license for us?”
His mother’s face brightened even further. “I can certainly ask,” she said, walking toward her son and grabbing his free hand. He resisted jerking away as his mother stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m so proud of you, Samuel Brooks.”
Proud of what—marrying someone? He wanted to ask. How ridiculous. Nevertheless, he forced a smile and nodded instead, bringing the glass of brandy to his lips once more as he watched his mother ascend the stairs, smiling and humming the entire way.
* * *
Brooks and August were married within a week. Lady Ramsbury happily paid for a special license, unwilling to take any chances given the solicitor’s fickle heart. The wedding was a small affair at St. George’s, with the same people in attendance that were in Ridlington’s study. August said she would have liked to invite the Dunns and her acquaintances from Hardbury, but there was no time.
After the ceremony, the dowager duchess hosted the wedding breakfast at her mansion on Park Street. Charles and Lady Bolton didn’t attend either event, though Lady Ramsbury did invite them. No one but Brooks, Swinton, and Rutley knew what they were planning before August married the solicitor. Still feeling guilty over agreeing to deceive August, Swinton offered Brooks use of his house in Surrey for their honeymoon. He would remain in town until they returned so they could have some much-needed privacy.
Brooks almost said no, but then he realized it would be nice to have some time alone with August before she started living with him and his mother. He may have been approaching his marriage with some reluctance, but he was still a man. He would rather his mother not overhear him exercising his husbandly rights, and he planned to do so frequently—especially at first.
Still, thoughts of their wedding night made him nervous. He had not laid with a woman in a long time, and he did not want to disappoint her. He never wanted to disappoint her, but he was sure he would at some point or another. Now that they were alone in Swinton’s carriage on their way to Surrey, such thoughts dominated his mind. They reminded him they hadn’t been alone together since that night in her bedroom when he behaved abominably.
Although they sat next to each other so Brooks wouldn’t grow ill facing the wrong direction in the carriage, he still felt queasy. There was a heaviness between them, but neither addressed it, at least not until August finally turned and looked at him when they were about halfway to Surrey.
“I am sorry if you feel like you were forced into this,” she said. “That was never my intention. Although it might be hard for you to believe, I always wanted you to come on your own accord.”
“I did come on my own accord,” Brooks said, not thinking twice. She slowly smiled at him, then faced forward. He admired her side profile, taking in her strong jawline, plump lips, and rosy cheeks. Soon, she would be his, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing.
August looked at him again, her blue eyes thoughtful as they raked over his face. “I know you did not want a wife, but I promise I will try and be a good one. Whatever you need of me—do not hesitate to ask.”
His lips twitched, fighting back a smile. He glanced at August’s hands, which rested in her lap, clasped together. He reached for one, taking it for himself, gently squeezing it. She inhaled sharply. “It was never whether or not you would be a good wife that worried me,” he said.
She crinkled her brow. “Then what was it—what is it—that worries you?”
He turned away, sighing—but he still held onto her hand. “Many things worry me, but most of all, I worry I will not be a good husband.”
“Why?”
His head snapped in her direction once more, his gaze serious. “My father was not a good husband.”
August looked as though she might laugh. “And what do your father’s skills as a husband—or lack thereof—have to do with you?” His face fell, and he turned away, letting go of her hand. August wouldn’t understand—how could she?
“Forget I said anything,” he muttered, looking out the window. The sun hung low in the sky, and the carriage moved slowly. The roads were still muddy from rain earlier that week. They wouldn’t reach Swinton’s house in Surrey until suppertime.
Suddenly, he felt August’s gloved palm on his cheek. She gently guided his gaze in her direction, finding her upturned face very close to his. His eyes landed on her lips. He realized then if he wanted to kiss her, he could. She was his wife now. Nothing was stopping him, and that knowledge sent a jolt straight to his groin. He nervously swallowed.
“You will make a fine husband, Samuel Brooks,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”
“Is that so?” he asked, lifting his hands to twirl some of the loose curls that framed her face between his fingers. Slowly, August nodded, chewing her bottom lip.
He could not stand it any longer, and she must have known what she was doing to him, chewing on her bottom lip like that. Brooks quickly bent his head until his lips crashed into hers, and she responded almost immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck. Meanwhile, his hands hungrily explored the curves of her lower back, her breasts, and her neck. He broke away from her for a moment, and they both loudly panted. Brooks leaned forward.
“I like it when you call me Samuel,” he whispered against her neck. He peppered a trail of kisses from her earlobe to the swell of her bosom. When he looked up, she was smiling with her head thrown back and her eyes closed.
“Samuel,” she said breathlessly. “Samuel.”
He moaned, reaching for her, needing to taste those luscious lips of hers once more. He grabbed her by the waist, pulling her toward him until she was sitting on his lap, her skirts bunched up around her waist. He felt her bare thigh graze against the hardness forming
in his breeches, and she gasped.
“Is this what you wanted, August?” he asked against her chest, lifting his palms to her breasts, gently rubbing his thumbs over her nipples until they became two erect points. “Is this what you wanted that night in your bedroom?”
“Yes,” she replied, unabashedly moving in a slow back-and-forth motion on his lap until he was stiff with need.
“If you keep doing that, I’ll take you right here in this carriage,” he warned. August opened her eyes, looking down at him. She grinned.
“What if that’s what I want?”
Little minx, he thought, grunting. If she wanted him to take her right then and there, he could, and he would. He didn’t give a damn if the postboy out front heard them. She was his wife. No sense of propriety stopped him now.
Brooks reached in between them, deftly undoing the buttons of his breeches until his hard length sprung free. August gasped again as his most intimate part brushed her inner thigh, this time with no fabric to separate their bare skin.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, holding her close. There was some sense of hesitation, a tiny voice telling him he should wait to bed his new wife until they were actually in a bed, but August didn’t seem to give a damn about such things. He marveled at his dumb luck in finding her.
“I’m sure,” she said, leaning forward and kissing him, taking his face between her hands. He moaned against her mouth and grabbed hold of her hips, lifting and positioning her over him.
Slowly, he lowered her until he was inside her. She grabbed onto his shoulders, and he gritted his teeth as her fingernails dug into his upper back through the fabric of his jacket. Although his hands remained tightly fastened around her hips, she rode him on her own accord. All the while, August’s eyes remained locked on his.
He had never experienced something so wonderful, so intimate. He arched his neck against the curve of the carriage seat, closing his eyes, thinking of nothing but how it felt to be inside her. He did not want it to end, but his climax came quickly—too quickly. He groaned as he released his load deep inside of her, shuddering beneath him. She grew still, pressing kisses to his forehead, brow, and cheekbones.
When August retook her seat beside him, she nestled into his side. He sighed happily at the feel of her against him, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. “I know I’m not a virgin, but I hope that was… adequate,” she said into his chest with a hint of uncertainty.
He took her chin between his finger and thumb, gently forcing her to look at him. “That was more than adequate. That was wonderful.”
She smiled at him, burying her face into his chest once more. When she eventually fell asleep, Brooks carefully watched her, counting her breaths and the different shades of blonde in her hair until he forced himself to face forward. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t lose his head over her, though anyone with half a brain could make a solid argument that he already had. He swallowed hard at the prospect.
August was still sleeping when they finally arrived at Hart House. Brooks gently woke her, helping her out of the carriage and bringing her inside. The dimly lit entry hall hadn’t changed since he last been there, with its gray stone floors and walls of dark wood.
For a moment, Brooks wondered if he made the right decision bringing August there. He remembered his sister Lucy descending the wooden staircase on her wedding day three years ago. He glanced at August. She and his sister had been the same age.
“Mr. Brooks.”
The housekeeper, Mrs. Godwin, appeared out of the shadows. She smiled at him, her skin crinkling around her brown eyes. “It is a pleasure, sir. I was beginning to think we would never see you at Hart House again.”
Brooks felt August’s curious gaze. He did his best to ignore it. “I was thrilled when Mr. Swinton wrote to say you and your new wife would be staying with us a few days,” Mrs. Godwin continued. She looked at August.
“Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady August Brooks,” he said, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. She had not even been Lady August Finch for all that long. “August, this is Mrs. Godwin. She has been the housekeeper here since I was a little boy.”
The older woman nodded. “It’s true. Your husband and Mrs. Swinton—God rest her soul—used to visit Hart House all the time as children.”
August followed Mrs. Godwin’s gaze toward the portrait of Swinton and Lucy hanging in the entry hall. Brooks looked at it as well, frowning. August walked toward the painting until she was only a few feet from it. When she glanced back at him, she smiled.
“I have never seen Mr. Brooks’s sister,” August told the housekeeper. “She is beautiful—just like his mother.”
Brooks tilted his head to the side, studying Lucy’s portrait and noticing the similarities between her and his mother as well. They shared the same dark hair, strong brow, and defined chin. But Brooks had no desire to dwell on the dead—not that night, anyway. He turned to Mrs. Godwin. “Have you prepared supper?” he asked.
The housekeeper nodded, taking them further down the hall and into the dining room. At first, they ate in silence, all the while Brooks desperately thought of something to say. He knew he should tell her something about Lucy. Hart House was her home for two years, after all. But nothing came to him. August must have realized it was bothering him, for she put down her knife and fork in the middle of her meal, looking at him intently.
“I wonder why you chose this place for our honeymoon,” she said. “Aren’t the constant reminders of your sister difficult for you?”
Brooks put his knife and fork down as well. He took his napkin, dabbing his mouth with it. “Swinton insisted after what happened.”
August raised her brow. “Oh?”
He sighed, knowing he would just have to tell her. “There is something I haven’t told you,” he slowly said. She frowned, carefully watching him as he spoke. “There was a reason Swinton wanted to call on you at Park Street and dance with you at Ridlington’s ball.”
Brooks explained everything then, from Swinton’s confession at Ridlington House to Charles and Lady Bolton’s visit the day after the ball. August’s frown only deepened the more he spoke. “Do not worry,” he said, reaching across the table for her hand. “I will not give them your inheritance. That money should be yours to do with however you sit fit.”
August drew her hand back, shaking her head. “But your clients,” she said. “Surely you need your income more than I need my inheritance. From the beginning, I have said I didn’t want to cause anyone trouble. I should give the money back.”
Brooks pursed his lips. “I will repeat what I told you the first time, then. We must rid you of this self-sacrificing behavior of yours. I will not have you throw away your future for Charles.”
“But it’s not for Charles. It’s for you, and my future is you. I will not allow him to turn all your clients against you.”
“I will find new clients.”
“Nevertheless, it’s my money, and it should be my decision. I want to give the money back to my brother.”
Brooks stared at August, feeling his temper rising. She may have been a little minx, but she was also stubborn as hell. Couldn’t she see he was doing this for her? He took a deep breath.
“Well, the money became mine the moment you married me,” he said, picking up his knife and fork again. He carved into a piece of roast beef. “And I’m here to protect your best interests. I will not let you waste your inheritance on Charles, who will only fall into debt again the moment he pays off Rutley.”
But August would not listen. “That may be so, but at least your practice—”
“Enough, August.” Their eyes met, and she was glaring at him. He glared back at her, her nostrils flaring as he did. She rose abruptly, the wood legs of her chair scraping against the floor as she did. “Where are you going?”
“I am going to bed,” she angrily said. “I will not eat with someone so… so… hypocritical!”
He furrowed his brow. “H
ypocritical?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Hypocritical! You cannot tell me the money is mine to use however I please and then not let me do what I want to do with it. It’s not fair!”
“August—”
But she turned to the two footmen who attended their dinner. They stared back at her with wide eyes. “Could one of you show me the way to my bedroom?” she asked.
“No, it’s fine,” Brooks said, rising from his chair and throwing napkin on his still half full plate. “I will show her the way.”
He walked around the table, offering her his arm. She reluctantly took it, following him out of the dining room and back into the entry hall. They climbed the stairs to the second floor, and he took her to the bedroom he always used when he stayed at Hart House. She seemed surprised when he closed the door behind him. He arched his brow at her.
“Did you think I would be sleeping in a different room?” he asked. “On my honeymoon?”
She blushed. “N-no. Of course not.”
He slowly walked toward her, and she backed away until she ran into the bed, her knees buckling as she did. She landed on the mattress with a thump.
“Since we are on our honeymoon, I think we should agree not to talk about your money or your family until we return to town,” Brooks said. “After the past two months, I have grown tired of both subjects. Perhaps we could begin focusing on other topics, such as our mutual desire for one another.”
He reached for her, but she backed away. Narrowing her eyes at him, she crossed her arms across her chest. “Fine, but that does not mean I forgive your hypocrisy.”
He couldn’t help but smile at her obstinate nature. So he got on his knees, slowly making his way toward her across the floor. Her eyes grew panicked. “W-what are you doing?” she asked.
“One could say I’m groveling,” he said, still smiling. “Won’t you forgive me, August?”
Her blush deepened, and she quickly turned away. “I will not!”
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