by Dayna Quince
“What I mean is, we haven’t gone for walks, played chess, or ridden.”
“The snow is an impediment, and if you wish to play chess, I am happy to oblige you after dinner.”
“Really, Thea. I only arrived this afternoon. Play all the chess you want with him.” Jonathan resumed eating.
Thea took a deep breath. She was failing miserably at unleashing her fury. They didn’t look the least bit chastised. If anything, she felt worse for it. Her anger was now fused with humiliation. Felton was still watching her.
“On second thought, I don’t feel up to a game of chess. I’m going to retire.” She began to slide her chair back, but Felton was suddenly there doing it for her. This time, she could see something in his expression, but not enough to identify it.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
Thea could feel Jonathan watching them. She nodded. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. Goodnight.”
Jonathan and Felton resumed eating in silence. Felton felt like the worst sort of arse. The look on her face, her anger, and her embarrassment, had cut him to the core. She was hurting, and he was partly to blame. He thought about what she had said. He was trying to understand what she meant. Did she think he didn’t care? Was she feeling rejected? He didn’t mean to hurt her, but damn it to hell, they couldn’t exactly go on as they had before with Rigsby here. He wanted what she wanted. He wanted to be holding her right now. What was he supposed to do?”
“Do you think she’s crying upstairs right now?”
Felton looked up at Rigsby. “What?”
“When my sister used to storm off, she rarely cried, but Thea is softer. I’d hate to think she was crying.”
Damnation. Now all Felton could picture was Thea crying. The mental image was gut-wrenching. And he would have to sit here, unable to go to her.
“There wouldn’t be anything we could do about it.”
They locked gazes. Felton felt his hackles rise. If Rigsby thought he should be the one to go comfort her, or that Felton would allow it, Rigsby was in for a painful surprise.
“You came here to play chaperone, but those same rules extend to you, don’t they?”
“I wasn’t implying that I was going to go to her in her room. Only that I hoped she wasn’t crying,” he said tersely. “I’d feel terribly guilty if she were.”
“And if she isn’t, you are absolved of guilt?”
Rigsby set his fork down with a clatter. “I’ve nothing to be guilty of.”
“She is upset, regardless of tears. You share part of the blame for that.”
“And why is she upset with you? Because she can’t be alone with you? I suppose I’m to blame for that, as well.
“I don’t treat her like a wounded bird, now do I? Make her feel like her entire life should belong to someone else—treat her like a child?”
“Ah, but she isn’t a child, which is precisely why she shouldn’t be alone with the likes of you.”
“Or you,” Felton returned.
“I am like her brother.”
“Don’t kid yourself. She’s told me about the breeches.”
Rigsby narrowed his eyes. “Did she?”
“Dangerous things, these breeches.” Felton swirled the wine in his glass and watched it.
“I’m the closest thing she has to any family at present. It is my duty to protect her.”
“A duty you assigned yourself. Why? What are your motives?”
“What are yours?”
“I asked you first.”
“And I don’t have to answer.” Rigsby stood and tossed his napkin on the plate. “Sweet dreams, Major.”
Felton watched him leave, following slowly. Rigsby didn’t go to his room. He went into Winchester’s study, most likely for something stronger than wine to sooth his temper. Felton climbed the stairs quietly. He went to his room and stripped out of his coat. He was disappointed not to find Thea there like before. He put his hand to the wall he shared with her. It was quiet. He couldn’t hear any weeping, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t been. Before he thought better of it, he found himself before her door. He resisted the urge to barge in, and instead, scratched at the door. He peered down the stairs, but no one appeared to be coming.
Her door opened a crack. Her eyes widened, and then she pulled him inside.
He did not take her into his arms immediately, but instead, searched her face for signs of crying. Her eyes were bright, but he could not say she’d been crying. Something in him eased.
“Are you cross with me?”
She bit her lip and shook her head. “Not anymore.”
“But you were. That’s what you meant at dinner. You think I won’t risk being with you now that your errant knight is here.”
“Isn’t that what you meant earlier in your room?”
He stepped closer. “And now I’m in your room. He is down stairs, or perhaps on his way to his own room, just on the other side of that wall, and here I stand before you.”
“Why are you here?” She folded her arms.
“Because I can’t stay away, even though I should.”
She didn’t back away. Her breathing grew shallow and quick. Her bottom lip dropped open. He’d shocked her. So be it. She’d bared herself tonight at dinner. She’d felt humiliated and angry because of him. He would make it up to her any way he could. He lifted one hand to trace the curve of her lip. Her lips closed against his finger in a small kiss. It spread like fire through his hand and up his arm. Her eyes closed, and Felton knew they would both soon be lost.
He closed the distance between them, their arms coming around each other, lips meeting in mutual need.
Jonathan leaned back in Winchester’s chair and looked around the small study. Winchester had settled into married life quite contentedly once he accepted his fate.
Fate.
Jonathan snorted and took a sip of brandy. What a silly notion fate was? Had Winchester been fated to marry Lucy? Poor man. What of Draven and Lady Anabelle? All the men he’d befriended over the years, his real friends, they were all happily married and sporting the grins to prove it. It was as if they knew something Jonathan didn’t. Was it a secret club, this marital happiness? How did one get an invitation? It was dreadfully boring being the only bachelor left.
He hated the idea of returning to London life—the bloody season, alone, to scour the ballrooms for a woman at least partially interesting. Partially, because he was certain all the women completely interesting were now married to his friends.
Jonathan tossed back the rest of the Brandy. It burned going down. He cleared his throat.
There was one woman left. One woman who had yet to succumb to the state of matrimony and one whom Jonathan was beginning to see had many more charms than he initially thought.
Thea.
He could still picture the decadent curve of her bottom in those tight breeches. Breeches that used to be his. He remembered the moment exactly. The hot knowing heat that had spread through him, the resulting image of her, without the breeches, bent over a bed or a chair. There were thousands of ways he could worship those curves.
But this was Thea. She was not a woman one sported with. She was a woman you married. Could he do that? It was one thing to fantasize about bedding her and quite another to share the marriage bed.
It left him with a strange, uncomfortable feeling. He was capable of doing it, but there was something that left him feeling queer about it, a strange inkling of fear that he would be making a mistake, and by default, making them both terribly unhappy. Thus he would not be part of the marital happiness club, but part of the unhappily wed club. Many aristocrats found themselves in this club. It was crowded and sordid. Jonathan didn’t want to join, and he certainly didn’t want Thea to find herself there, too.
So why did he feel this way, like there was something about her he needed to see? Why was he here? He poured himself another drink and sat. He stared at the ceiling, feeling the first glass of brandy warm his blood. Did all
men face these dreadful questions? There was so much uncertainty. How can one possibly know if the woman they want now will be the woman they want forever?
He gripped his glass tighter and closed his eyes. He was missing something. There was some vital piece of information he didn’t have. Something that would give clarity to his muddied thoughts. What was it?!
He stood again, agitated by the carousel of questions in his head. He needed advice. He needed someone to tell him he was acting like a moron and to point him in the right direction. The three people he wished to see were all far away and enjoying the spoils of marital bliss. He made a face. One of those people was his sister, and he didn’t want to think about her enjoying marital bliss. There were some things brothers should always remain ignorant of.
Jonathan scanned the bookshelves, passing over novels and books about the histories of various nations, battles fought, countries over thrown. Something caught his attention. He pulled a volume off the shelf and reread the title.
The Spoils of Love by Edmund J. Haus.
Jonathan snorted. “Winchester, you surprise me.” He grinned and opened the book. He flipped through the pages, looking for anything of interest. The author quoted Shakespeare a bit too often. The man wrote plays, for heavens sakes, not guides for life.
“‘Love is merely a madness.”‘ Jonathan stood still, transfixed by the quote.
“A madness? That explains a lot.” He snapped the book closed and put it back on the shelf. He threw himself back in Winchester’s chair and stared angrily at the fire. It was dying, and so was Jonathan’s patience. He was frustrated and confused. He hated it.
He needed someone of greater experience to tell him what to do—how to know what to do—or he was likely to ruin everything. If only he could simply kiss her and know. He slammed his glass down on the desk and sat up. He felt almost giddy with relief. A kiss. So simple and yet so perfect.
A kiss was either enjoyable or distasteful. No words, no thinking, just action. Kiss was also an excellent way to convince a woman of one’s finer attributes. A good kiss left even the most irritating of women more agreeable. One kiss from him and Thea would be a puddle of womanly delight.
Jonathan tossed back the glass of Brandy. A mistake. He coughed until he could breathe again, and then he left the Study.
Thea let out a blissful sigh as Felton’s lips glided over her skin. He tugged on the neck of her nightgown, exposing her breast. Her nipple puckered in the cool air, but then his mouth, hot and eager, claimed it for his own and scalded her with his hot tongue. He pulled her into his mouth, shocking another gasp from her. It was pleasure and pain together, the tugging a sharp contrast to the soothing heat of his tongue and lips.
They moved to a chair before the fire and she now straddled his thighs. Her night gown rumpled around her hips. She could feel him under her, hard and unyielding. It terrified her and thrilled her. Every scrape of his breeches against her sensitive naked skin was ravaging her senses. She wanted more, but she was afraid to let go. Her hips bucked against her own restraint, eager to sink down, to press her softness against his rigid hardness. She was going mad with the need, fighting her urges back.
He grabbed her squirming hips and pressed her down. She almost cried out. She ground her hips against him, the feeling so overwhelming and exquisitely piercing, she shivered with a sudden release.
A soft cry escaped her, and he kissed her, taking it inside him. She broke away, burying her face in his neck. She was embarrassed, still afraid of the strength and response of her desire. It had happened so fast this time.
He eased her away from him and looked at her face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m just…still shocked by what I feel.”
“I can understand that. You’re still very much an innocent.”
Thea winced. “I don’t feel like one. I feel…different.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His expression was so tender it made her heart ache.
“I don’t want you to regret anything you feel. Everything about you is beautiful, especially the act of seeking pleasure. Don’t ever feel ashamed of that.”
“I’ve been taught otherwise.”
“By fools. Fools who wish to smother your beauty.”
Thea thought about that. She did feel beautiful in Felton’s arms like all the world was gone and only the two of them existed. Like the first man and woman, Adam and Eve. Only without the sin and damnation.
What she felt with him could never feel wrong. It felt like a celebration, a toast to life.
“I hope—”She froze. She listened carefully, waiting as Felton watched her. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.
“Rigsby?” he mouthed.
Thea carefully and quietly moved from his lap. She padded silently to the door and pressed her ear to it.
Another stair creaked. Her heart leapt to her throat. She spun and pressed her back to the door, covering her mouth. Felton buttoned his shirt and stood. They both waited, their breathing far louder than it ought to be.
Then a knock right behind her. Her eyes widened, and her heart stopped for all she knew.
Felton, without hesitation or noise, moved to the bed and hid out of view. If she wasn’t already dead from mortification, she’d think this whole situation was a farce.
He poked his head up and waved at her. She shook her head.
“You have to answer,” he mouthed.
Thea closed her eyes and then opened them. She took a deep breath.
“Who is it?”
Marigold, she wondered frantically.
Only scratching answered. Marigold wouldn’t do that. Marigold had no reason to hide her visitations to Thea’s room.
Thea tensed. “Who is it?” She could feel her brow prickling with sweat. Please not Rigsby, anyone but him, she prayed.
“Thea.” A whisper answered her. “Open the door.”
She turned to face the door, but she did not open it. “Is something wrong?”
“I must speak with you. Will you open the door?”
“Can it wait till morning? I’m very tired. I have a headache.”
“Tis urgent. Open the door.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. She looked back over her shoulder, but she could see no hint of Felton. She steeled herself and opened the door a crack.
She met Jonathan’s eyes. The hall was dark, but the light from her room illuminated his face. He looked very serious.
“What is wrong?”
“Will you let me in?” He spoke very quietly.
“That isn’t a good idea for all the reasons you gave for wanting me to return to your parents. Why is it everyone must follow the rules but you?”
“Yes, all right. I’m a hypocrite. Will you let me in?”
“Is there something wrong?” Thea pressed. She couldn’t figure out why he was behaving so oddly. His hair was disheveled as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. One lock dangled over his brow, and it distracted her.
“There is nothing wrong, but I must speak with you.”
“It can wait until tomorrow.”
“It can’t.” He put his foot against the door, his hands on the jambs and leaned in, bringing their faces closer. Thea couldn’t move back, or she wouldn’t be able to stop the door from opening further.
“Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“I can smell it on your breath.”
“I can have a drink before bed and not be drunk. It helps me fall asleep.”
“Then go to sleep.”
He pursed his lips.
“I won’t be able to unless…Christ.” Abruptly he stepped back. “I’m sorry.”
Thea opened the door wider and stepped out into the hall. “Kindly explain yourself.”
“I don’t think I can.” He put his hands on her elbows but didn’t step closer.
Thea was confused and then…she knew. She knew what he was trying to do. He was testing her, testing himsel
f. She shrugged out of his hold. She wasn’t afraid of him, but she didn’t want to encourage him either.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.” He raked his fingers through his hair.
“Then I suggest you go to bed. We can talk about whatever it is you wish to talk about tomorrow.”
His stared at her for a moment, his eyes intense. “Fine. Goodnight.” He pivoted and went into his room.
“Goodnight,” Thea said.
She went back to hers, a little shaken. Felton popped up as the door closed.
“I have no idea what that was about.”
“I do,” he murmured.
“You do?”
“I should go. We’ve tempted the fates enough for one night.”
Thea nodded. He kissed her quickly and slipped out her door. He moved as silently as a ghost. Alone now, she shivered. She was afraid of what tomorrow would bring. If today was bad, tomorrow was certain to be worse.
Chapter 12
Felton returned to his room for only a moment. Once he was sure Thea had stayed in hers, he went into the hall and knocked on Rigsby’s door.
It was yanked open, surprise and then resignation settling over his features.
“A word, my lord?”
“At this hour? Can it not wait?”
“No. The study shall be sufficient.” Felton turned and strode away. He could feel Rigsby stalking behind him. They entered the study, the fire still clinging to life. Felton didn’t bother to feed it. What he had to say wouldn’t take long. He turned and faced Rigsby, folding his arms over his chest.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think you could come here and simply take without thought, you bloody hypocrite?”
Rigsby rolled his eyes. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re getting at.”
“I heard everything, Rigsby. You went to her room, you spoke with her.”
“Forgive me, but since when is that a crime?”