“Mr. Musgrave,” she said in a deep-throated tone, “what have I told you about that whistle?”
“Need you, Mrs. Shillingham. Sir Cackles is loose and headed for the orangery.”
“Again?” The housekeeper rolled her eyes. She placed a light hand on Rayne’s arm. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“By all means,” he answered. “We’ll find our way from here.”
“Very well.” She smiled. “Ta.”
Rayne sent Julia another hard look and then continued down the hall.
“Rayne?”
He opened the door. “Your room, Lady Julia.”
She bit her lip and stepped into the room. If her insides had not been on fire, she would have marveled at the gossamer fabric that hung like an extended tent from ceiling to wall—not to mention the enormous, pink-pillowed bed. As it was, she barely noticed the furnishings.
She winced as Rayne closed the door.
“Eloping, are we?” His voice was terribly gentle.
Julia shrugged out of her coat. “Rule two—best not to ask questions.”
“I’m not sure I need you to answer any questions. Apparently, Farring’s letter explains everything.”
She closed her eyes. Think, Julia. Think. What could Farring have possibly written?
Someone rapped against the door, and Julia nearly jumped from her skin.
Saved. For now.
But she had to find the letter first—and make sure Rayne was not able to leave before they had discussed this like reasonable adults.
Rayne opened the door. “Fräulein Anna,” he greeted a woman in brightly colored clothes, “you’re looking well.”
She set down a tray with two steaming mugs of chocolate and a single plate of cheese. Then she held out her hand and grinned.
Rayne grasped her fingers. “Lovely ring. Congratulate Shillingham for me, will you?”
“You can do so yourself when we dine. Is everything to her ladyship’s liking?”
Rayne snorted. “If it’s not, I am sure she’ll make it so.”
“Very well, then.” She curtsied and turned for the door.
“Excuse me,” Julia called. “Might you…” She paused, desperately trying to think of an excuse to make Anna stay. “Might you tell me about your clothes?”
“Swiss, ma’am. The most beautiful place in the world.”
“Are you from the Alps, Fräulein Anna?”
Anna exchanged a glance with Rayne. “London, more like. Seven Dials.” She repeated her curtsy. “Will that be—”
“Mrs. Shillingham mentioned a bath. Would that be for Lord Rayne?”
“Yes.” Fräulein Anna frowned. “Unless he doesn’t wish—”
“Oh, he wishes,” Rayne interrupted.
“If you had a bath drawn so quickly”—the words practically tumbled from Julia’s mouth—“might I assume Periwinkle Gate boasts a water closet?”
“Why, certainly. You share one with Lord Rayne right through that door. We’ve six altogether.”
“Six! Imagine that, Rayne.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m imagining all sorts of things.”
“Well,” Julia said brightly. “I’m certain Lord Rayne wishes to get on with his bath. While he bathes, I’d be delighted to see more of the house.” She caught Anna’s hand in hers and headed for the door. “You wouldn’t mind showing me, would you?”
“This conversation will continue,” Rayne said through the closing door.
“Why wouldn’t it?” Julia called back. “Just as soon as you’ve time to settle.”
…
Rayne rested his head against the edge of the bath. Still-steaming water curled the hair at the base of his neck, but the calming heat did little to expel his anger.
More persistent than dirt, that sentiment. More pervasive. More permanent.
His garbled fury served as a harsh reminder—he hadn’t truly changed. He wasn’t even certain what, exactly, had fanned his rage’s ever-burning flame.
He wouldn’t have been surprised if the staff had known he was coming—not even if they expected him to arrive with a woman. Word often traveled faster than visitors themselves—not unusual in the least. And the residents of Periwinkle Gate were particularly protective of one another…for good reason.
But they hadn’t simply expected him. They’d expected Julia, too. They’d expected them both on the way to their wedding.
And to add insult to what could have been a jest on Farring’s part, Julia had started behaving as she did—guilty—proving no innocent explanation existed.
The explanation, he was sure, involved a plot devised by one reckless minx and a former friend who possessed tortoiseshell glasses, often smelled of pipe smoke, and was prone to flashing a deceptively wholesome grin…a grin that could make the most harebrained of schemes seem perfectly reasonable.
Farring.
Rayne was only left to wonder which party had acted first. Had Julia gone to Farring for help, or had Farring convinced her to embark on this crazed scheme? Either way, they had worked together to force him into embracing a life that, when he’d set out from Southford, he’d had every intention of discarding for good.
Over the last few days, he’d held to Julia—often literally—as if she were the only thing he could trust.
But he couldn’t trust her at all, could he?
She hadn’t come on this journey because she wanted to elope. She’d been lying all along. Worse still, he’d been about to take the greatest risk of his life and ask her to marry him, to crack open his heart, to tell her his fears and hopes, to confess that every sliver of his monstrous, shattered heart was etched with her name.
An experience he’d call love—if he’d any idea how to define something he’d never known.
He rubbed a bar of soap across his chest, spreading suds across his matted hair. The soap smelled of lavender, just like Julia.
He closed his fingers around the soap so tightly the bar flew from his hand. The small square dinged against copper, splashed between his knees, and then disappeared beneath the water. The water rippled to stillness just before the soap reemerged.
Thud. Thud. Thud. He tapped the back of his head against the tub. The bath wasn’t helping. He held his hands up. Wrinkled. Just like he expected. He’d lingered too long, waiting…hoping his anger would subside.
Lord only knew what trouble Julia had gotten into by now.
She’d do anything—say anything—to get what she wanted. Take her nonexistent betrothed, for instance. He’d repeatedly maligned poor Edmund Alistair Clarke, and the man didn’t even exist.
Scenes from the past few days flashed through his mind as if he were flipping the pages of an artist’s sketchbook. Julia, after the wedding in the billiards room, her face sweetly upturned. Julia, wide-eyed and panting against that dammed stairwell—asking him if he meant her harm. Julia, curled against his body on a pile of earth-scented hay. Julia, answering I’d like to think so when he’d asked her if he had a reason to stay.
He plunged beneath the water’s surface, holding his breath. He shook his head back and forth, spreading his locks as he swished. Underwater, everything muted, as if the whole world had suddenly slowed. Here, he was weightless.
Submerged in warmth.
Then, a low reverberation clanged in his ears—some object knocking hard against the tub. He emerged from the water with a gasp, hair clinging to his cheeks. Instinctively, he stood, feeling for a towel as water rained down over his eyes, his chest, his arms, and his thighs. He wiped away the wet.
Julia. Of course.
She backed up against the wall, her mooned gaze definitely not fixed to his face.
Her curls were as damp as his own. And she was wrapped in the bedgown from earlier, only this time, absent a shift. The wrap barely covered her torso…wh
ich he didn’t immediately notice because she held his clothes—all of them, not just the ones he’d taken off, but everything he’d packed in his valise—tightly against her chest.
“What in heavens—?”
“I’m taking your clothes to be washed.” Her words rushed out.
“Leaving me nothing to wear?”
Her gaze met his. “Do you object?”
“Bring them here.”
“Very well.” She advanced quickly, deliberately sunk his clothes into the water, and retreated back against the wall. “Whoops,” she added, feeling along the tiles as she edged toward the door. “I suppose we’ll have to stay the night, now.”
“Why?” He stared down at the clothing slowly disappearing into the water around his legs. “Why must you plague me?”
“You had your chance to leave,” she quipped.
“Right now, I wish I had handed you over to the rector.”
She leaned forward, giving him a gaping view of her breasts. “You don’t mean that.”
“Right now, I said. Right now, I’m thinking a lot of things, and none of them pleasant.” He took a deep breath. “In fact, you’d be wise to take yourself back to your room. You’d be wiser still to book a passage by mail back to Southford.”
She stopped moving. “You don’t want me to leave.”
“I do.”
“Well”—her gaze dropped again—“that part of you doesn’t want me to go.”
He swished through his water-logged clothes and stepped out of the tub. “That part has a mind all its own.”
“A mind all its own? Really?”
His manhood jerked. Devil take the thing. He wished she’d avert her gaze. “Go, Julia. I don’t—I can’t—trust myself when I’m angry.”
“I trust you.” She lifted her eyes to his. “You won’t hurt me.”
“I’m not sure that’s true anymore.” He combed his fingers through his dripping locks. “I’m not sure anything’s true anymore.”
“Why?” She threw up her arms. “Because Farring tricked us both? He wouldn’t have had to if you could just admit what you feel.”
“Do you want to know what I feel? I am furious. You and Farring. Good God. I crossed an ocean to purge you. Yet you remain.”
She cocked her head. “Meaning…you haven’t purged me yet?”
He folded his arms. “You’re spoiled enough to think you can have anything you want. But you can’t force me to act. I am not yours to manage.”
“I wasn’t trying to—” Her face blotched red. “Damnation!”
He snorted.
“Is my language amusing?”
“Actually, yes. Rather like hearing a mouse curse a cat.”
“Let’s try another word, shall we?” She narrowed her eyes. “Cock. As in yours. At attention.”
His amusement disappeared.
“Mousy enough for you?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Almost musical, as a matter of fact.”
“Cur. Beef-witted, jingle-brained ass.”
His member jerked again.
“And how could I leave off the first gem you taught me—fuck.”
He stepped out of the tub and crossed the slippery floor, placing one deliberate step at a time. “Say that again, and we’ll proceed as you request.” He stopped just before they touched. “I dare you.”
She pressed her back against the tile. “No.”
“I thought not.” He placed one hand on the wall to the right of her face. “Would you like to hear my favorite words?” He placed the other to her left.
She stopped breathing.
He leaned in close and described, in the filthiest French he could imagine, everything he’d been dreaming of doing to her body—including several acts he’d never actually attempted, though he was certainly willing to try.
Her skin dimpled, raising the hair on her arms. “I didn’t understand.”
“Oh, I think you did.”
“Don’t look so smug. You haven’t won. You can’t win. Not against me. This”—she practically touched her nose to his—“is simply a draw. Point non plus—we’ve run out of options.”
“We have options. I assure you.”
“None of which”—she hesitated—“you are brave enough to take.”
“Be careful, minx.” His sigh rippled through his muscles. “It’s not wise to touch a hot handle. One of us is going to do something we will both regret.”
“Coward.”
“Coward?” He gritted his teeth. “The last time, you told me to stop.”
“Not because I didn’t want you!” Her daze darted back and forth between his eyes. “I was scared. You pinned me against a wall, for heaven’s sake.”
“I’d pin you again—and more.” Everything in him screamed for him to do just that. “Do you understand? For once, kitten, you’re up against something you cannot control.”
“I know.”
He squinted. “Forgive my doubt.”
“For the love of Hades, Rayne—don’t you understand anything?” She drew her brows together. “I don’t know what comes next. I’ve only ever kissed, and, even then, only with you.” Her breath came in heavy, deep spurts. “Remember that this time, would you?”
Only him? And, this time?
The words spread through his being, slowly leaching his rage. Before he had time to fully grasp their impact, she sucked in her bottom lip and grabbed his face.
Then, in a long, slow, deliberate whisper against his ear, she said, “Fuck.”
Chapter Eleven
Rayne closed his eyes. His lips pinched. His brow tightened. Then, his cheeks went taut, as if he’d sucked them in between his clenched teeth. On the whole, his expression screamed guilt.
A moment more, and he’d convince himself he must go.
A moment more, and he’d be lost to her, possibly forever.
“Show me how,” she urged. “I want to be with you. Please.”
His lids lifted, and she flew through the bright blue skies in his gaze, skies that concealed his thoughts the same way daylight concealed universes, the night-visible points of fire that stretched into infinity.
“Steal your innocence?” His voice nipped with multifaceted, mystifying edges. “Guarantee neither of us will ever be the same again?”
“You can’t steal what I freely give.” She would revel in any world his touch could bring into existence. “As for never being the same…I changed the moment we met. ‘At your service,’ you said.” She wet her lips. “I expect you to deliver, now.”
With a growl, he scooped her into his arms. His chest spanned most of her body, so she wrapped her arm around the back of his neck.
Hold on. Just hold on.
His swift stride made the fabric walls flutter. She bounced as he dropped her unceremoniously onto the mattress. He stared down, his expression enigmatic and slightly malevolent.
If he thought towering over her while naked, damp, and erect would frighten her into negating her demand, he was very much mistaken.
She’d heard his warnings.
She wanted him still.
He was breathtaking. A fiery bundle of contradictions. Large with long-limbed, sinewy, elegant strength. She wanted his weight. She wanted his everything.
She swung her knees over the side of the bed and sat up.
“Kiss me, Rayne.” She felt like she was forever asking.
He placed his fists on either side of her thighs. “Where?”
The answer seemed obvious.
And then it didn’t.
She pointed to a place just beneath her ear.
With a rough, carnal sigh, he bent as if to kiss her cheek, but, instead, his lips grazed the sensitive skin just beyond her jaw’s edge. He lingered, exuding hot, humid air. His breath scattered
pebbles of sensitivity over her cheeks, her throat, and her shoulder.
She closed her eyes and rolled her neck to the side, offering him a wider expanse.
For once, he obliged.
His mouth traveled down, feathering wispy kisses as he explored—each point of contact sweeping sensation all the way to her womb.
Fullness that felt like fear pressured her lungs and weighted her breasts. He traced her collarbone to the hollow of her throat and flicked his tongue into the valley before suckling against the skin.
Too much.
Tears boated above her bottom lids.
Silly to fear.
No matter how much sensation he roused, she wasn’t going to burst. Death by administration of neck kisses wasn’t done. Impossible, in fact. Probably. She would have heard of such a thing. Then again, she’d never heard a man’s member called a cock before the other day, had she?
“Do you really like this dress?” His murmur tremored against her skin.
“The style, yes. The dress, not particularly. Why?”
He ripped the tie straight away and peeled back the linen, trapping her arms within her sleeves. No shift protected her from his gaze. No stays. No petticoats. Nothing at all between her and one large, lustful, furious man.
He asked for no further direction.
His mouth—his hands—meandered where they wished. He could span her waist by stretching out his fingers, and yet his touch made her feel vast—all mountains and valleys, every inch bountiful.
He dropped his lips down into the cleft between her breasts. His black hair brushed against her pale skin, soft and inviting.
Surely, she should be doing something while he explored, shouldn’t she?
Sitting idle couldn’t be correct. She couldn’t move her upper arms, but she had hands, didn’t she? She coiled her fingers and slid them into his dark, tempting waves.
He stopped probing. His eyes closed as she brushed through his hair.
Tension emptied from his face, as if the tips of her fingers delivered infinite pleasure, as if the gentle sweep of her thumbs across his cheekbones was his greatest possible reward.
Then, he angled his head, teasing his lips along her breast’s inner swell until they met—and enclosed—her dark, peaked nipple.
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