Wayward One

by Lorelie Brown

  Good. He tired of feeling like the only one overset by this marriage. He’d begun to fear he’d chopped his ballocks off and handed them over without realizing.

  It was bloody hell being in love with one’s wife when she didn’t love him back.

  “Absolutely nothing is wrong with me,” he replied, but truly his skin was crawling.

  Throngs of partygoers surrounded them, all seemingly having the time of their lives—even those who deliberately evinced boredom and stupefaction. Here he was a part of it for once. Everything he’d ever wanted, all because of the idealized wife at his side. He’d worked hard over so many years, pored over every choice on Sera’s behalf to ensure this exact moment.

  And it wasn’t enough.

  He fought down the drowning, suffocating feeling choking off his breath. They approached Lady Victoria and Miss Vale, and it wouldn’t do at all to have them guess at how badly he’d been unmanned. How completely he was owned by the slip of womanhood whose hand curled impersonally around his arm. Not that she seemed to wish to own him, not in the same manner he was ready to give of himself. Separate lives, to come together only in the dark of night.

  His neckcloth clutched at his throat.

  In the midst of the congregation of bodies, Miss Vale and Lady Victoria convened court for a small group of admirers.

  Miss Vale held out a hand to Sera and beamed her reckless smile. “Darling,” she cooed. “Your night is a success.”

  Sera shook her head on a little laugh. “It’s not my night. It is the duchess’s, and she was kind enough to include us.”

  “My mother lives for gossip,” said Lady Victoria. An eyebrow winging up, she appraised Fletcher from tip to toe. For such a sweet-looking woman, she wielded authority with equanimity. “To be able to announce the marriage of London’s most disreputable…businessman? She’d have never missed such an opportunity.”

  Disreputable, his arse. Lately he felt about as dissolute as a lion who’d been defanged and declawed to be safely kept in a zoo. As an example of such, he made a leg toward both of Sera’s friends. “We’re grateful, no matter her reasons.”

  Lady Victoria answered with a quiet noise. Her gaze flicked from Sera to Fletcher and back again, before she waved generally to the half-dozen men arrayed before her and Miss Vale. “You’ve been introduced, yes?”

  Fletcher and Sera nodded in unison. One of the only things they seemed able to do together.

  Other than fuck.

  A young man with thick sideburns and a Vandyke beard smiled gamely at Sera. “Mrs. Thomas, I was quite pleased to make your acquaintance tonight.”

  A tiny smile caught her mouth. “But, Lord Venton, we’ve met before.”

  His mouth dropped open as he adopted an overly dramatic pose with his hand clasped over his chest. “Never say so. I’d have surely remembered someone as lovely as you.”

  Fletcher held back his growl with teeth clenched so hard pain lanced up to his temples. He was already beset enough. He didn’t need the little wounds inflicted by Sera’s placid reception of the lord’s attentions.

  It wasn’t even that they talked, or that Lord Venton dared to flirt with his wife right before him.

  The thing that set fury burning through him like a wildfire was that she received it with the same calm endurance she ladled out to him most days. That he was afforded the same banalities she gave to a passing acquaintance set his soul to howling.

  “My wife,” he said with extra emphasis on the words, “looks especially fine decked out in fripperies, does she not?”

  The head of every person in the group swiveled toward him, faces painted with the same confused surprise.

  Of course. He’d shown himself out as lacking the urbane sensibilities of a man to whom words meant nothing. He smiled grimly at them all until most turned back to their empty conversation.

  Sera’s hand clenched lightly on his arm. When he looked down at her, he found quiet censure in her gaze.

  He’d dared to step outside the tiny box she’d hammered out for them both.

  “Mr. Thomas,” called a hearty voice from behind him.

  Fletcher took one last look at Sera, watching her careful mask shutter into place. He tamped down his raging irritation. None of this was her fault. She couldn’t read his mind and know the rash disappointment he was feeling.

  She was who she had always been. Part of why he’d fallen in love with her, along with her wells of practicality, hinged on her cool head. He couldn’t very well ask her to change now.

  He turned to find the Earl of Linsley behind him, Lady Linsley on his arm. She was a beautiful woman, though fine lines were beginning to stretch around her dark eyes. Fletcher and Sera stepped forward from the group of relatively young lordlings in order to greet the earl and his countess more appropriately.

  Fletcher glanced from Lady Linsley to the woman on his own arm. In point of fact, they shared a certain resemblance, primarily in their dark coloring and similar slender build.

  “Lord Linsley,” he said on a shallow bow. Sera dipped in a curtsy beside him. “It’s good to see you tonight.”

  “We were pleased to attend.” The earl was a handsome man. His hair was beginning to sprinkle with white at the temples, but his snub nose gave his features a boyish accent.

  Lady Linsley laughed, but there was nothing malicious about it. Simply the overwhelming enjoyment of life she always seemed to carry. Fletcher liked the woman for it. “Indeed. If we’d dared to risk Lady Honoria’s wrath for missing one of her events, we never would have missed welcoming your new bride.”

  Lord Linsley nodded his agreement. “Indeed. Please introduce her to us.”

  Fletcher obeyed, a shining thread of pride winding through him at how well she held up under their scrutiny. Over and above the fancy school he’d chosen for her, Sera’s innate dignity dazzled. The earl, particularly, seemed to watch her intensely.

  “Mrs. Thomas, have we met before?” he asked.

  Sera shook her head as a tiny wrinkle of concentration folded between her brows. “No, my lord. I don’t believe we have.”

  “How curious,” he murmured. “There’s something about you that’s familiar.”

  “I’ve unremarkable features.”

  The hell she did. Fletcher thought she was easily the prettiest woman in the room. Her happy constitution shone through to imbue her with a radiance that the finest cosmetics only wished to copy.

  Lord Linsley didn’t seem to agree with Sera’s assessment of herself, either. He chuckled. “If you say so, ma’am. But still…I can’t shake the idea.”

  One hand stroking his arm with an easy assurance and familiarity that Fletcher sorely envied, Lady Linsley leaned into her husband’s side. That the earl and his countess had developed a love match somewhere along the way had always been patently clear, no matter how unfashionable the idea might be.

  “Darling. Perhaps it’s her necklace. It seems to bear a striking resemblance to…” A pink flush tipped Lady Linsley’s cheeks, surprising in a woman of her age. “An item we’ve seen before,” she finished lamely.

  Sera smiled patiently under the other couple’s scrutiny. Her fingers slid over the emeralds at her neck. “This? Lovely, isn’t it? My dear husband gifted me with it just this evening. He has admirable taste in all things,” she said, obviously neglecting to speak on her opinion of his taste in house furnishings.

  “It is remarkable,” Lady Linsley agreed. “I particularly like the locket below. It adds a sweet touch to the entire ensemble. Hearth and home and all that.”

  Fletcher’s eyes narrowed, but the countess seemed sincere in her compliments.

  “I thought so.” Sera’s fingertips grazed over the cool metal, then she folded them over the hand already resting on Fletcher’s arm. The side of her bosom brushed against his biceps.

  Lately little torments consumed the entirety of his days.

  “It was my mother’s. Mr. Thomas kept it in safekeeping for me and recently returned
it.” She turned her luminous face up to him. In moments like these, he could almost believe they were on the same page. When he’d taken them as opportunities for daytime kisses—not that he would be so foolish to do so in a crowded ballroom—she’d rebuffed him.

  “Your mother’s,” echoed Lord Linsley. The corners of his eyes wrinkled as a faint frown took his mouth. Not disapproval, but Fletcher had a hard time putting a name to whatever it was that flickered over the older man’s face. A silent conversation passed between him and his wife, ending with Lady Linsley giving a tiny, almost invisible shake of her head.

  The hackles at Fletcher’s neck rose, and the tiny hairs there lifted in a purely animal antagonism. He covered Sera’s hands with his own. No matter the railroad syndicate or not, he wouldn’t allow anyone else to trouble Sera. Never.

  He gave her enough trouble all on his own.

  Whatever their concern, the couple was willing to let it go. They engaged Fletcher and Sera in a few minutes of small talk, mostly about the passable abilities of the musicians the duchess had engaged, and then they took their leave.

  Fletcher gave another small bow while Sera dipped in a curtsy.

  If he hadn’t thought it petty of Sera, he’d have believed the smile she wore could be described as smug.

  “That went well,” she said.

  “Lord Linsley has never been anything but unswervingly polite,” Fletcher drawled, watching the earl and countess weave through the throngs of people. “Even when he’s pretending not to hear my suggestions for his business interests.”

  “No, you’ll see.” She turned her smile on him. “They’re already being swayed to your suitability. The dinner will seal any doubts. You’ll be accepted in your rightful place.”

  “My rightful place,” he repeated. The sharp twang turning his guts felt nothing like wonderment or appreciation. Bitterness ate him alive through and through. “Our rightful place, you mean.”

  “Certainly. Why not? You’re a rich man, and I’ve the social training to see us through.” She shrugged. “We’ll never be true aristos, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t aspire to a higher level of society.”

  He couldn’t help himself. He gripped her arm. The skin was soft and cool under his touch. “Is that all you’re after? That’s all it will take to make you happy?”

  Confusion darkened her eyes even further than their normal beautiful brown. “I don’t understand, Fletcher. You said you wanted to go straight. This is the first step. I thought you wanted this.”

  He did. He had. At one point, he’d wanted nothing more than to be a better class of man than his father. Every single one of his choices, both for himself and for Sera, aimed at this moment and the continuation from there.

  Now he also needed to know that if they didn’t succeed, she’d be happy with him. With who they were together.

  The thought of her resenting him for life made his blood run like train oil in his veins. Slow and thick.

  “I might want legit business, but that’s not the same as whoring myself out for social standing.”

  Her eyes went wide, then darted over her shoulder. But no one was paying a lick of attention to them.

  They’d been a one-minute wonder. Introduced by Lady Victoria’s mother and then forgotten again. Without blue blood, they might never become fully a part of this world. Sure, Sera brought social connections and Fletcher money. Sometimes, in the shifting sands of the aristocracy, that would be enough for occasional invitations. They’d never be feted and hailed as the ton darlings, and Fletcher had not the slightest idea if that was enough for Sera.

  Because she never let him in.

  “Let’s not do this here. It is absolutely inappropriate.”

  “Then where?” he growled. “Do we wait ’til we get home and I’m allowed the privilege of scratching at your door like some mongrel dog? Maybe you’ll allow me in, maybe not?”

  “Come with me,” she whispered. She stormed out of the room in what passed as high dudgeon for Sera. She never stomped or flounced like some women, but she neglected to return greetings or speak to anyone else.

  At the edge of the ballroom, she finally threw him a glance over her bare shoulder. Color rode high in her cheeks and turned her lips to near crimson.

  The petty part of Fletcher was happy. Glad he’d made her furious. It was the least he could do when she’d turned him into a caricature of himself, someone he had no hope of knowing except what was reflected in her eyes.

  By the time she led the way down a shadowy back hallway that was obviously not intended for most guests’ use, then threw open the door to a tiny morning room, she’d calmed. Her hand didn’t even shake as she turned up the gaslight.

  Unbelievably calmed. When Fletcher felt more turned around than ever.

  She took a stance in the middle of the room, looking rather as if she were about to begin a lesson on deportment at the school she assisted. Her fingers laced together, palms resting open and up. She blew out a deep breath before pinning him with a gaze meant to quell him.

  He didn’t feel particularly amenable at the moment. He felt like a mess. An angry, rollicking mess. The young boy inside him, who had pulled girls’ hair when they refused to pay him attention, felt it wasn’t right that she be so cool when he wasn’t.

  “I realize you must be under a lot of stress at the moment,” she began, and it was obvious that sometime between the ballroom and here she’d prepared a speech.

  Prepared a bloody speech. As if he needed to be handled.

  He stalked near enough that her scent—lilies, he’d learned—filled him and firmed his cock to the point that his trousers became uncomfortable. “I’m sure I have no idea what gave you that impression.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Perhaps it was when you referenced whoring in mixed company.” The words were sharp-edged, but her voice was still honey smooth.

  Christ, what would it take to shake her? To tumble her upside down the way he was?

  “I never pretended to be anything I wasn’t, Seraphina.”

  Her lips parted on a silent gasp. “And I did?”

  A bittersweet sadness washed through him. “No. You never did. I’m beginning to believe I convinced myself of something that wasn’t there.”

  Then, because he couldn’t stand to see her disappointment, he kissed her. He framed her face, angular with withheld fury, in his hands and tilted her mouth for his full-frontal assault. He swept his tongue in with little warm-up.

  He expected her to push him away. She had before, when he’d come at her with gentle kisses in daytime hours or near-public places such as their carriage.

  Apparently he should have given up the siege and moved into full-out warfare a long time ago.

  Her hands curled into his jacket and held.

  Triumph ricocheted through him, filling him with a rush of power and, worst of all, hope.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sera knew she shouldn’t be doing this. Instead of dealing with their problems, she and Fletcher had tumbled headlong into an agreed ignorance.

  Worse than that, she was kissing him in the east morning room of the Duchess of Faircroft’s manor. Not some little-respected hostess, but a duchess. She’d alienate Victoria’s family forever if she were discovered. She wasn’t some young, ignorant debutante being led astray; she indulged fully in the carnal appetites that were driving her mad.

  Fletcher was driving her mad.

  His very existence seemed a goad to her sensibilities.

  His mouth played recklessly over hers, stroking and promising and wedging deep in her soul. He traced the tender inside of her lip. Took it into his mouth on a suck before he sent an aching want rocking through her with a single nibble.

  Her hands slid up from his lapels, pushed over his thick shoulders. The lace gloves she wore deadened the sensation, but apparently not for Fletcher. When she laced her fingers over the back of his neck, he shuddered.

  Such power he gave her, so willingly.


  He threw himself open to her and to her every inspection. To her every desire.

  He tried to palm her hips, but the ruffles and swags of her skirt and bustle got in the way. He tore his mouth from her and cursed wildly.

  She didn’t care. She felt as wild as he.

  She wanted his hands on her. She wanted his mouth on her. She wanted him inside her.

  Stepping back, she scooped her skirts in heavy, overflowing handfuls. Cool air blew over her bare limbs. Her eyelids felt too heavy to raise.

  She hadn’t the courage to lift any further, but it didn’t matter. Fletcher advanced on her as she backed toward the wall.

  “Do you see this? Between us?” she whispered. “It can’t be healthy.”

  He shook his head. “You’re wrong. This is everything.”

  She kept backing up until her shoulders hit the wall. Until she had nowhere else to run. “What lives between us isn’t right. It isn’t normal.”

  He stalked her like prey. Yet she didn’t feel weak. She couldn’t when his eyes were so haunted and she knew she’d done that. Turned him into a fiery copy of himself. His hands flattened on the wall, on each side of her head, but she wasn’t trapped.

  “Do you really want normal when it means throwing away this?”

  “More than anything,” she said, but she lifted her mouth to his anyway. She kissed him, rubbed across his lips with her tongue.

  She’d made a desperate mistake when agreeing to marry him. No church vows could tame the hunger they had for each other. Some might descend willingly into it, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She’d always striven to be better than herself, not to give into being her mother.

  What they created together was a living, slavering monster. His kisses couldn’t tame it, nor could her fingers wrenching deep in his silken hair. She’d like to strip her gloves off, feel the rough silk directly, but that would mean letting go. She couldn’t make herself do that.

  She poured herself into their kiss. Tried to push away all her frustration and confusion.

  And he took it as he took her.

  His hands swept roughly over her. He stroked her thighs beneath her bloomers, then jumped up to her torso. One hand palmed her breast, but through the thick layers of silk and corset and chemise it wasn’t enough. She whimpered into his mouth.