“I thought you were going to find a woman,” she mumbled, her words almost so indiscernible that he could hardly hear them.
“Say that again?”
“I’d rather not.”
He grinned now, inordinately pleased. She was jealous — not that she wanted to admit it.
“I really didn’t hear you,” he lied.
She glared up at him, her eyes shooting daggers.
“I said that I thought you were going to town to find a woman.”
“And you thought to follow me… to do what?” He couldn’t help it. His body began to shake.
“Do not laugh at me!”
“I’m sorry,” he said, the mirth bubbling up through him and out his cracked lip. “I can’t help it.”
“It’s not funny!” she protested, her brow furrowed as she stared at him.
“Actually, it is.”
“How could that be possible?”
“Rebecca,” he said, reaching out and cupping her chin in his hand, careful not to allow any of his cuts to bloody her face. “Why would I go seek out another woman when I have one as beautiful as you currently residing in my house?”
She eyed him.
“Perhaps you were going to look for a woman with loose morals.”
He shook his head.
“I couldn’t — for another woman would never do, as I would only be picturing you.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t say such beautiful things to me.”
He tilted his head to study her. “You think my words are beautiful? That’s the first time anyone has said such a thing about me, I think. I usually bungle it all up.”
“I find,” she said, sitting up on her knees now and resting her elbows on his chest as he tried not to wince, “that if you say the simple truth of the matter, it works best.”
“I’ll remember that,” he said, smiling at her.
“Your face truly looks terrible,” she said with the smallest of smiles.
“Now those words are not particularly lovely,” he retorted.
“Who said I was trying to charm you?” she lifted an eyebrow, and her impish grin seemed to heal all of the pain that had emanated from his cuts and bruises moments ago.
He laughed. “You have charmed me without even trying.”
“So you think.”
At that moment, he wanted — no, needed — to kiss her. It didn’t matter that it might hurt. No pain could be worse than the restraint of keeping himself from her.
He lifted his hand around the back of her head, drawing it down toward him. She looked hesitant for a moment, focusing on what he knew must be his wreck of a face, but she relented, allowing him to pull her head down to his. Her kiss was tender, light, and just what he needed.
Until it wasn’t enough. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, then reached down to lift her onto the couch on top of him, so that she was straddling his lap. With enough pressure on her lips, he no longer felt any pain, for the pleasure and desire that coursed through him at her proximity chased it all away.
She, however, hadn’t forgotten.
“Am I not hurting you?”
“Far from it,” he said, pulling her closer toward him, needing her warmth, her healing presence. “You, Rebecca, could never hurt me.”
“I hardly think that’s true,” she said, her hands coming to his face, running over the cuts and bruises that he knew would only look worse tomorrow. “Does your head not hurt you? You must have taken quite the hit, though I wouldn’t know, for I didn’t stay to see it.”
“Oh, yes, you were running away by that point.”
“I could hardly watch you be beaten so.”
“Excuse me, but I believe I was the one doing just as much of the beating.”
“Which was equally hard to watch.”
He twined his fingers through her hair, pulling out the pins that he found holding it up on the back of her head, loving the silky tresses spiraling out over his hands. So soft, so sweet in comparison to his own brutishness.
“You care for me,” he stated, to which she set her lips in a firm line.
“I never said that.”
“But you do.”
“Perhaps I simply do not enjoy violence.”
He shrugged. “Be that as it may, you don’t seem overly concerned for Brown.”
“I shouldn’t be concerned for either of you.” She sighed. “For it was your own foolish decision to take part.”
He smirked at her as he drew her face closer toward him, her hair now floating freely about her shoulders.
“Admit you care,” he whispered in her ear.
“No,” she said, though her words came out near to a moan.
He began kissing his way down her neck, over the soft skin behind her perfectly formed ear.
“Say it,” he commanded softly.
“I’d rather not,” she said, but she arched her head to the side so that he could better access her neck.
He continued kissing a trail downward until finally, he reached the skin just above her bodice.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to?” he asked, teasing a finger over the material, inching it down ever so slowly. He circled her nipple with a finger but refused to give her what she wanted, despite the fact that she was arching her chest toward him, likely without even realizing she was doing so.
“Fine,” she finally bit out, her eyes nearly closed now, her head tilted slightly backward. “I care. A bit.”
He chuckled lowly at her stubbornness and refusal to tell him the full truth of it, but he relented, freeing her breast and tweaking the nipple between his fingers before lowering his mouth and tasting her.
She moaned, her sigh long and soft, stirring his loins in a way that no woman had in quite some time.
She shifted on his lap, and he nearly went wild in anticipation. He wanted her with a ferocity he could hardly put into words. Both the best and the worst part of it all? He could tell she felt the same.
For he knew he could have her right here and now.
But he was also very aware that he shouldn’t.
He couldn’t promise her anything beyond this moment in time. She was the daughter of an architect, a man of means, but not the means that Valentine was looking for. It made him feel like a whore himself at the fact that he was marrying for money, but he couldn’t see any other way around it.
Clearly, he wasn’t getting anywhere prizefighting anymore.
“What’s wrong?” she asked softly, her hands cupping his face.
“Nothing,” he said, chasing away the thoughts from his mind.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course,” he said. “What more could I ask for than the most beautiful woman I have ever seen writhing on my lap?”
“I am not writhing!”
“Oh, I would argue otherwise.”
She laughed then as she ran her hands over his face, feeling the broken bridge of his nose, his rough eyebrows, his prominent cheekbones.
He closed his eyes, giving himself over to her cooling touch.
“It’s not exactly a work of art,” he said, but when he opened his eyes he saw her shaking her head.
“I would argue otherwise,” she said. “Your face is one of character. One that tells a story. It’s what I love best about buildings such as Stonehall, which are hundreds of years old. This estate holds so much life within it that it speaks to me in a way others do not.”
“To you?” he asked, confused, but she chose that moment to lean in and kiss him once more. His last coherent thought was that she must have come to appreciate architecture and buildings after living with her father, the architect, for so long. He chose then to simply revel in the sweet passion of her kiss.
Her face grew hazy then, and while he didn’t think he had closed his eyes, his world started to go black, and he began to lose even the sensation of her lips upon his.
“Val?” he heard, but her voice seemed to be far away in the distance.
&nb
sp; Then everything went dark.
15
“Is something the matter?” Jemima whispered to Rebecca at the breakfast table, but she shook her head. She had been awaiting Valentine’s appearance for the past quarter of an hour.
Last night after he had passed out she had summoned Archie, but he hadn’t seemed overly concerned.
“Just a result of a few hits to the head,” he had said nonchalantly. Understanding the situation, however, he had suggested that Rebecca might want to retire, and he would see to his friend and employer.
“Not to worry,” he had told her. “Isn’t the first time Val has been knocked out for the night.”
But worry she did. She had hardly slept through the night, so concerned was she, and this morning she had been eager to see what condition Valentine was in when she entered the breakfast room.
“Not at all,” she answered Jemima’s question now on whether anything was wrong, though her new friend eyed her with some suspicion. Rebecca was unsure what she was supposed to say, however. That her father sat through their sessions droning on and on about previous projects with ever-decreasing input on their current project while she did it all on her own? That she had to determine just how they were going to make back all of the money he had lost, while not ruining their reputation with the row of houses he had built on speculation, of which all were now sitting empty in London? That the man she was falling for, Jemima’s brother, had no room in his life for her besides what would be a brief dalliance, and might now be lying in his room with a head injury?
There was nothing she could exactly share at the moment. So she did what she always did and fixed a smile on her face as she moved the food around her plate to make it look as though she had eaten something, for she couldn’t stomach right now.
“Good morning. Apologies for my tardiness.”
“Valentine!”
They all turned toward the door to see Val walk in, but it was his mother’s exclamation that rose above the rest of them. He did look truly awful this morning. Both eyes were surrounded by a sickly shade of yellow and green, his scratches were pronounced on his pale face, and his gait was slightly pained.
But he picked up his plate and began to load it from the sideboard as though nothing was amiss.
His mother waited until he sat down to address him.
“My God, Valentine, what are you thinking?”
Apparently she was aware of what would cause such injuries.
“Nothing to worry about, Mother,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “Just a friendly little bout, is all.”
“Valentine, if that is friendly, I should hate to see any animosity,” Jemima said. Rebecca could hardly enter the conversation, for she didn’t want to admit to being anywhere near the fight. Valentine looked her way for a moment, however, and sent her a quick wink that, fortunately, everyone else missed, so intent were they on what had happened.
“Why, Valentine?” his mother said, resting her cutlery on the table as she brought her hands to her face dramatically. “You are a duke now. It is one thing to go have fun with other noblemen at that place you all attend, but I cannot imagine there is anywhere near here for you to do such a thing.”
“There is not,” he said, tucking into his food as though nothing was amiss. “To answer your question, I did it for the purse.”
“Did you win?”
At that, he paused with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. “I did not.”
“Then it wasn’t even worth it,” his mother mourned, shaking her head. “That beautiful face, and you would throw it all away for a bag of prize money. I suppose there is nothing a man wouldn’t do for a heavy purse.”
Rebecca’s head shot up at Mrs. St. Vincent’s words — though not for how they currently related to the situation. No, they had triggered something in Rebecca’s mind. An idea, that could potentially make all the difference to her own financial situation.
“What is it?” Jemima asked her now, though after a moment her eyes widened as she stared at Rebecca in surprise. “You knew.”
“Pardon?” Rebecca pretended to misunderstand her.
“You knew that Val fought yesterday, or at least of his current condition. You were not indisposed, as we all thought.”
She spoke softly enough so that no one else at the table could hear, but still, Rebecca looked around them to make sure that no one was within hearing range.
“I, ah, I did happen to see him yesterday, yes,” she said, not wanting to lie to Jemima but also not inclined to share the entire situation. “I thought it was, however, his circumstance to share.”
“We are quite the unconventional lot, aren’t we?” Jemima said with a chuckle. “You have likely never seen any such as us before.”
“Every family has their quirks,” Rebecca answered diplomatically.
At which time her father rose from the table and walked out of the room. The rest of them stared after his unexcused exit for a moment before turning to Rebecca.
“I, ah, excuse me, please, I best go ensure he is well,” she said with a forced smile before hastily pushing back her chair and following him out the door.
“Father!” she called, chasing after him as he strode through the ante-room before entering the long gallery.
“Yes?” he said, finally turning at her voice, though his eyes held that faraway look that caused her such despair.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her breath coming in huffs once she finally caught up to him. “We were in the midst of breakfast.”
“A man can choose when to leave in his own home,” he said indignantly, and Rebecca brought a hand to the back of her neck as tension began to form.
“But Father… this is not your house,” she said, though she knew her words were futile. It was usually simply a matter of time before he returned to himself. She took his hand and led him over to the sofa. Perhaps a change of subject, an idea that could potentially solve their problems, might capture his attention.
“Father, do you recall the houses you recently built? The ones on Atticus Street?”
“Yes, of course,” he said indignantly. “Some of my finest work. How could I not remember?”
Rebecca took a deep breath, reminding herself not to be hurt by his accusatory tone. He didn’t understand why she would ask him such a thing.
“I had a thought for how we might be able to make back the money invested into them.”
“They will sell because they are the finest of buildings, some of the most beautiful in London.”
“Yes, of course, they are,” she placated him, knowing he wouldn't listen to reason — that they were too unconventional and, as a result, too expensive, for most to purchase. Besides that, they were too far from London’s fashionable West End. “But I was thinking, perhaps the best way to showcase how truly wonderful they are would be to hold a lottery.”
“A lottery?”
“Yes,” she said, warming to her idea now. “The prize would be the houses themselves. People would enjoy the idea of possibly winning. With the lottery, they could buy tickets and then potentially end up with, as you say, one of the finest homes in London.”
She looked at him expectantly.
“What do you think?”
“It would certainly bring many people to see my work,” he said thoughtfully. “And then we can finish the development."
“Yes,” she agreed. “And the best part of it is that truly anyone could win.”
“That will also be the greatest issue, Rebecca,” he said, frowning. “There will be some who won’t want just anyone living in a fine London neighborhood. In fact, we will likely require approval.”
“From who?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted. “But it required approval to demolish the original structures and rebuild. We shall think on it.”
“Well, we have a couple of weeks or so before we return to London,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “Which reminds me — we must work hard on
these plans if we’d like to have a draft completed before we go.”
“Very well,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Carry on.”
* * *
So carry on Rebecca did. Her father had retired early that evening, and once more she was alone in the long gallery. It was interesting, she reflected, how in the dark of night what was an innocent vase or painting during the day was made sinister. All sorts of wild thoughts entered one’s mind after the clock struck midnight and no one was about.
At that thought, she heard a footstep in the distance. There is no such thing as ghosts, she told herself, rolling her eyes at the fact that the thought had even crossed her mind.
She was a practical woman, not given to the fanciful, she reminded herself as she heard the footsteps approaching.
Which was also a reason why she had to stay far from the duke. For if that was him out in the hall…
“Rebecca.”
It was.
She scrambled to her feet, once more shoving her papers underneath one of the few large books she had been consulting.
“Your grace— that is, Valentine. What are you doing here?”
“I must admit that I was actually hoping I would find you here. You must be one of those people who craves the long night hours.”
She would actually prefer to be in bed. It was simply that she didn’t have much choice. If she was to finish this and to do so without the rest of them guessing who was actually designing their homes, then night it was.
Unless Valentine continued to make a habit of interrupting her.
“Sometimes,” was all she said when she realized he was awaiting her reply. “And you?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes,” he repeated her, causing her to smile at him.
“Listen,” he said, taking more steps toward her. “I sought you out to apologize.”
“For what?” she asked, her heart beating ever faster as he stopped before her and took her hand in his.
“For, well, for fainting on you. Archie was quite chagrined with me when I came to.”
“I didn’t know who else to seek out.”
“You were correct, he was the best choice,” Val said, walking over to the sideboard and pouring himself a drink from the one bottle they currently had in the room — whiskey, her father’s favorite.
Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1 Page 10