by Sylvia Day
Good Lord, she thought, feeling wicked for wanting more, for not shying away when he touched her most intimate areas, when he teased her from within. Her hips rocked; she wanted, needed something . . . needed him. She kissed him with the fervor he demanded, gasped when his hand left her leg and reached up to cup her breast. Every touch set her aflame in a new way, and somewhere in the back of her mind she thought of how this experience was far better than she had anticipated.
Thank God.
He kissed her deeply, searchingly, then rose from the bed, quickly disrobing entirely, all while keeping her gaze, daring her to scan his glorious body.
When she didn’t break eye contact, he used his hands to trail down his chest, causing her gaze to dart to the motion. Smooth skin, hardened planes, and masculinity that made her body tighten further filled her gaze, and she swallowed, a bit of her reservations falling upon her at the sight of his most intimate areas.
“Stop,” he whispered, coming back to the bed and kneeling over her.
“Stop what?” she whispered. Dear Lord, was that her voice? That squeak?
“Worrying. All the pieces fit, Diana,” he said against her neck as he shimmied her night rail up over her hips, then higher. He gave her one lingering kiss on her neck and commanded her to sit up. She leaned forward and watched as the discarded clothing fell to the floor. A shiver started at her toes, but it was short lived as every inch of her body was covered with his. He threaded his hands through hers, leaning down to tickle her breast with his tongue. Fire and need sliced through her like a blade, and belatedly she realized that he’d entered her, filling her entirely. The pain was gone as soon as it appeared, and all that was left was pleasure.
Dear Lord, the pleasure was exquisite.
The movements he began only escalated the indulgence of the moment, calling her higher, demanding something from her body she was all too willing to give. She arched against him, needing more, reaching for something she couldn’t name as she tightened around him without knowing how, and lost her breath at the same time. His movements intensified, and a moment later he gasped against her, the ridged and sculpted planes of his back seized, and his breath came in short gasps as she finally came down from her own release.
He hovered over her, breathing against her neck, kissing her gently by turns.
All she could think was color.
All she could do was breathe.
And in that moment, Diana realized the truth that had ruined many a woman.
Sex didn’t require love.
It didn’t even require like.
But she was indeed afraid for the first time since they started their lovemaking.
Because while sex didn’t require those things . . . she had the sinking sensation that it led to them.
And falling for her husband was out of the question.
Wasn’t it?
CHAPTER 9
The next morning, Brook watched Diana with an intrigued eye. The trip to London would take most of the day, arriving just before dinner at his London home, which afforded him much time to observe the creature that was his wife.
She had been a goddess in bed, reacting to every touch and sensation like she was meant for seduction. He’d nearly lost his control a few seconds before she finally found her release. It had been ages since he’d lost his own self-composure during sex, yet she bled it from him, demanded it, and he was powerless to silence her siren call. Part of him wondered if she was already carrying his heir; the other part hoped she wasn’t. He was in danger of hoping for a long time of practice to procure said heir, which could lead to entanglement . . . for her.
Women had a hard time separating sex from love.
Hell, men did, too. But not him.
It was a means to an end.
And a delightful, pleasurable end . . . but an end nonetheless.
“Have you ever been to London?” he asked as the carriage swayed.
Diana glanced over to him from the scene the window afforded. “No. I have not. But I’ve heard much. How would you describe it?”
Brook blew out a breath, thinking. London often defied explanation or definition. But that was truer about London Society rather than London the city. “The city is rather looming and not as regal as we English would like to think of it. It’s rather sooty, and, as in most other areas of England, it rains often.”
“You’d think that would clear away some of the soot,” Diana deducted.
“One would think. It’s a kaleidoscope of culture, however. Plenty of opportunity to meet new people from different regions of the world. In that capacity, it will not disappoint.”
“And what of the social strata?” Diana asked, her green eyes direct in their frank gaze. He knew what she was asking; it was what everyone who hadn’t been raised in London would be expecting.
“You mean, is it as mercenary as often described?”
She raised a shoulder, pretending indifference, but her eyes spoke of a sharp interest. “More or less.”
“Yes. Probably worse than what you’ve heard.”
He watched as her eyes widened ever so slightly before she composed her reaction. “I see.”
“Yes, but you do have one advantage.”
“Oh? And what is that?” Her dark eyebrows furrowed slightly.
“Me.”
“You?” She frowned; then understanding dawned on her features. “Because I’m married.”
“Yes, but not simply that.” He nodded. “You see, you’re not just married, but married to me. You’re not a threat to the other ladies vying for husbands, so you aren’t competition. But you will draw the fascination of many—”
“Because?” she asked. Her controlled manners made him suspect she had her own assumptions on that quarter.
“I’m not exactly marriage material.”
“I see.”
A bit of an awkward silence stretched, and Brook had the distinct urge to tug on his cravat.
“Is that a label you’ve given yourself, or taken on because of others?” Diana asked with an interested tone, as if she was honestly curious.
About him.
It was satisfying. She had nothing to gain. She was married to him, and he’d already pledged his assistance to her family provided she fulfilled her duty. She didn’t need to invest in him, yet she was, even if it was just simply asking a question no one else had thought to ask.
“That’s an interesting question.”
A laugh escaped her lips, drawing his attention to them. “And your saying that leads me to believe it has an interesting answer.”
He tore his attention away from her lips, thinking about his answer. “Neither, actually.”
“Ah, I do believe you have a story to tell.”
“Are you sure you wish to hear it? It might not have a happy ending.”
Diana glanced around the carriage. “We have nothing but time, my lord. I’m your captive audience, quite literally.”
“Ah, but ‘captive’ implies I stole you away. You’re here quite voluntarily.”
“More or less,” she added, but with a teasing manner that made her otherwise heavy connotation considerably lighter.
She adjusted her posture, and waved her gloved hand for him to begin.
Only Brook wasn’t quite certain where to begin. Few knew the story; fewer even cared. But if anyone deserved, rather, was owed the truth, it would be his wife, so it was with a slight trepidation he started at the beginning.
“It was my destiny,” he said succinctly. When he met her gaze, he paused for her to reply, but she didn’t open her mouth, just waited. He continued. “It turns out my mother was quite . . . liberal with her attentions to suitors. It’s well known amongst the ton, her exploits.” He took a breath. It was an old story, but it was still concerning something he cared about, even if Diana never fully learned to care for him herself.
“When it was apparent that she wasn’t just sharing my father’s bed, it created the problem of speculation on m
y biological father. My father never quite accepted me as his blood heir, but without any other option and as to admit anything less would be quite humiliating—more so than a wife who couldn’t keep track of her own partners—he opted to claim me as his own.” Brook still remembered when his father sat him down and explained the whole sordid tale.
Brook had come home on holiday from Eton, a black-and-blue eye creating quite the stir. An altercation that ended in fisticuffs had given him a shiner, but the boy who called Brook’s mother a whore was missing his front tooth.
It was then that Brook’s father had told him that it was the truth. From that moment, his world shifted. As an adult, he could look back and see the lack of insight on his own part, but he’d made a subconscious decision. If given the choice between being the type of person his mother was or his father was, he’d always choose to be like his mother. She was infinitely kinder, laughed often, and was everything that was charming and lovely.
He shared the story with Diana, then paused, watching her reaction.
“What was your father like?” she asked, her expression almost unreadable.
“Calculating, cool, very good at business.”
“So you clearly inherited his business sense.”
Brook laughed without mirth. “That’s exactly what he said.” He paused, then repeated the words his father had spoken over his future: “ ‘You’ll have my sense; that much is clear. But I’m afraid you’ll be just as much of a whore as your mother, and for that I pray you never marry and break someone’s heart.’” Brook watched Diana’s eyes widen, expecting for her to retract her earlier friendliness. It was better this way, he told himself. It was better for her to keep her expectations low, to know that he was incapable of giving anything more.
“Your father was heartbroken, wasn’t he?” Diana’s voice pierced through his musings.
“What?” He thought over her question. “He never seemed as such. Angry, yes. Heartbroken, no.”
“Many times anger is what brokenness bleeds,” she whispered.
“Pardon?” He’d never thought of it like that.
“When people are hurt, it often comes out as anger, not sadness. The blood of brokenness is anger,” she answered. “It’s something my grandmother would say when someone would be particularly nasty to her or someone she loved.”
“Your grandmother was a gracious person.”
“And your father was not,” she answered. “So you took on those words, didn’t you?”
“It was only natural. I was always ever more like my mother than father, if, indeed, he was my father. But I rather fancy that he was; we look an awful bit alike.”
“So that is how you came up with the name the Devil’s Bachelor?” she asked, her lips tipping into a smile.
His own lips betrayed a grin; it felt foreign but welcome. “And what is so amusing about that name? It’s rather famous, I’ll have you know.”
“Clearly, since even I am aware of it!” she teased.
“Ah, yes, even the far reaches of Sussex have heard of my legendary name.”
“We are far more knowledgeable in Sussex than rumored.” She winked. “So did you give yourself the name? Or was it given?”
“A friend gave it to me our last year at Eton. It stuck, needless to say.”
“And I’m sure you did nothing to deserve such a name,” she replied archly.
To this he felt equal; his charm rose to the occasion and he was on level footing. He could banter; he could flirt; oh, how he could flirt. “Well, you can easily speak for yourself on such a thing.”
Her skin flushed vermillion. “I suppose, but I’d rather not.”
He chuckled. “So my reputation is deserved?” he couldn’t resist asking.
“Yes.” She met his gaze brazenly. “Which is a welcome truth.”
He paused, not entirely sure how to interpret her last phrase, but chose to accept it as a compliment. “I thank you.”
She gave a token eye roll, and it suited her. It wasn’t exactly ladylike, but it fit the rather unladylike conversation.
Then, on impulse, he reached over and grasped her gloved hand, kissing her wrist tenderly. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?” she asked with a confused frown.
“For asking.”
She slowly withdrew her hand as he released it. “I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t ask, my lord. And the fact that you even said ‘thank you’ tells me one thing in particular.”
He tipped his chin. “And what is that?”
She tilted her head, regarding him softly. “That you need better friends. And lucky for you, I happen to know how to be a great one.”
It was strange how he had been searching for a wife, never once expecting to find something vastly more important.
A friend.
CHAPTER 10
Diana reflected on the trip to London as she gazed about her sumptuous suite of rooms in Brook’s London home. It had been a curious ride to Town, but it was pleasant, far more so than she would have expected. They conversed, sat in comfortable silence by turns, and then they had arrived. Brook had taken care to introduce her to the staff, who had all worked hard to shutter their curious and surprised reactions. More than once Diana had to bite her lip to keep from releasing a smile of entertainment. But the staff had been more than gracious, and she was thrilled to have a few moments to herself in her rooms.
The past few days had flown by; with so many changes taking place, she desperately needed some time to just think, to be, to absorb it all. Exhaling a deep breath, she walked over to the large window. Drawing back the sheer curtain, she noted that her room faced the front of the house, affording her a view of the beautifully tree-lined Mayfair district. Glancing down the road, she could catch a slight glimpse of Hyde Park, or so Brook had said.
The glass was cool on her fingertips as she touched it, mentally comparing the view to that from her window at home. How was her family? How were Tully, and Eva, all her sisters? Had her mother recovered from her earlier sickness?
Determined, Diana strode over to the oak writing desk and searched the drawers. Thankful that the desk was well stocked with parchment and ink, she wrote a quick letter to her sisters, asking for the particulars of their situation, and giving only the barest details of her own. She wasn’t quite sure how to categorize it herself, so it was useless trying to tell someone else. She would feel so much better if she knew her family was well.
She had no reason to believe otherwise . . .
But it would be reassuring to know for certain.
She rung the bell for a maid, and after dispatching her with the letter, she was once again alone in her rooms.
Drat, it was so silent.
How was it that the silence was loud?
She supposed that she was far more accustomed to the constant chatter of her sisters, and it was painfully absent. Would Brook allow her to bring her sisters to Town? Perhaps even give them a Season? Yet as she thought it, she remembered the main temptation of her agreement with her husband: freedom. She would have the means and the freedom to beckon her sisters to London, and much more. It was liberating, yet at the same time, it was an insecure feeling.
Drat, everything had some sort of emotion attached to it. With a resigned sigh, she decided she needed an escape before the upcoming appointment with the modiste.
The staff was more than helpful to point her in the right direction to the library, and as she perused the shelves she realized what she was looking for: the book she had started on a nervous impulse in Brook’s rooms as she waited for him on their wedding night.
It hadn’t been a lie—the book was very diverting—and she wished there were another copy in the library, but all searching turned fruitless.
After exiting the library, she halted a parlor maid and asked if she was aware of her husband’s whereabouts. The maid dipped a polite curtsey and pointed toward a large wooden door that presumably led to his study.
It
was the first time Diana had sought him out, and she wondered how such a move would be received. Knocking, she waited.
“Enter,” Brook called from inside, his voice muffled by the door. The brass handle was cool on her gloved hand as she twisted it and opened the door.
An older gentleman was sitting across from her husband; a wide, highly polished desk separated them.
“Diana.” Brook spoke her name with surprise but not displeasure as he waved her inside and stood.
“My lord.” Diana gave a proper curtsey.
“Allow me to introduce you to Lord Walker.” He gestured to the older man, who rose slowly, his age evident in his stiff movements. His expression was kind, yet he studied her with a scrutiny that wasn’t expected.
Diana gave another curtsey to the older man. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Lord Walker started, shifting his gaze to Brook.
“Thank you, my lord,” Diana replied, as Brook nodded in agreement.
“Tell me, Lady Barrington, how did you meet your husband?” Lord Walker asked, with more than a token amount of curiosity.
“Well, it’s not a long story, my lord, but our lands border one another in Sussex. My family has known Lord Barrington’s for decades.” It was the truth, and she waited to see if he’d inquire further.
“I see.” He nodded. “So your family is still in Sussex?”
“Yes, my lord. I have four younger sisters and my mother at home.”
“Interesting.”
“Perhaps, I rather find my story quite uninteresting, but it is dear to me because it’s my own,” Diana replied, offering a smile to the older man.
“Diana, did you need something?” Brook asked, pulling her attention away from the gentleman.
“Ah, yes. It’s not important, though. I see you’re quite busy. I’ll ask later.”
“Are you certain?” Brook asked.
She hesitated. “Actually, I was just wondering if I could borrow your book?”
Brook’s brow furrowed; then understanding dawned. A secretive smile teased his lips and he glanced down. “It’s on my nightstand. You’re of course welcome to take it.”