“You clearly do not know me at all,” she said, her voice tight.
“I know you are a bored little miss with little to do but make up stories about missing uncles merely to gain some excitement in life.”
“How...how dare you!” Tears burned in her eyes, blurring her vision, and she swiped them away angrily. Out of everyone, Russell had been the one person to believe her. Had been the one person not to think her foolish.
“I dare, my lady, with ease.” His lips curled. “I should never have indulged your fantasies.”
“You said you believed me.”
“Because you were paying me, or have you forgotten that part?”
“Uncle Albert is missing,” she insisted. “You even said yourself you thought something was amiss or else you would never have accepted the job.”
“Or perhaps I said that so I could get paid.”
“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “You would not have taken it. Besides, everyone says you are wealthy. You don’t even need the money.”
His expression darkened. “So not only was I the bastard son of an earl, but I was wealthy too. No wonder your family took a liking to me.”
“We did not even know that at first!” she protested. “And I can think of a few more suitors they would rather court me over you.”
His lips twisted into a bitter line. “Yes, I don’t suppose I would ever be good enough for you.”
“I thought you might be,” she whispered.
He stilled, his jaw working. For a moment, she thought it might be over, that he would take her into his arms and apologize for his hurtful words and accept hers for not speaking up sooner. For a moment, that possibility existed, and she held her breath. The moment fled. He turned away, allowing her a brief glance into a cold expression.
“I think it is high time we put an end to this farce. I have other business so see to.”
“But what about the Isle of Wight?”
He paused by the door. “Go home, Rosie. You don’t belong on some foolish adventure. Go home where you belong.”
“I still need to pay you,” she said hastily, searching her mind for reasons to prevent him from going.
“Consider last night payment.”
She took a few steps back until the backs of her knees met a chair. He glanced briefly at her, his gaze meeting hers, and for a short second, she could have sworn she saw regret. But he left anyway. Left her with a searing pain in her chest. Left her with words that singed her to her soul.
Sinking on the chair, she buried her face in her hands. Tears wouldn’t come and she almost wished they would because surely that would be better? Surely it would help to get the pain out? How could he say such things? Infer that she was some sort of...sort of whore! How dare he.
She lifted her head as the door creaked open, the hope in her chest quickly disappearing when Mabel slipped into the room.
“Has he gone?” Rosamunde asked, her voice tight.
Mabel nodded. “He seemed angry.”
“He was.”
Mabel sank onto the chair next to her. “What shall you do now?”
She straightened her shoulders. Damn him. If he wanted to be an ass about all of this, then let him be. It didn’t mean Uncle Albert had to suffer. She’d wanted to find him, and she could do that without Russell’s help. “I’m going to the Isle of Wight,” she said firmly, “and I’m going to find Uncle Albert.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
He wished it hadn’t taken him so long to track Guy down. The days of travelling to Suffolk estate then back to London had given Russell too much time to ruminate. Especially on how he’d dealt with Rosamunde. He fisted his hands and pushed past a group of people meandering along the pavement by Regent’s Park.
He couldn’t forget the hurt on her face.
He couldn’t forget that she’d still tried to appeal to his better nature.
As if he had a better nature. Their argument had only served to highlight their differences—to highlight how little he belonged in her world. No matter how much money or fine clothes he accrued—and even if he had the blood of an earl running through his veins—he couldn’t remove the touch of filth from his past. He’d been born in the gutters and the stench still clung to him. After speaking so crudely to Rosamunde, that much was extremely apparent.
He stopped outside Guy’s London house and peered up at the building that spanned much of the street. Calling it a townhouse seemed ridiculous when the building would sit quite easily on a generous estate in the middle of the countryside and still dominate the landscape. He’d known where Guy spent time in London ever since they’d met but he never visited thanks to trying to keep their association with The Kidnap Club secret. Now he could not help but wonder if it was because Guy had been trying to keep him a secret.
A butler answered the door, took his name, and vanished, leaving him in the middle of a lavish hallway, scattered with paintings and looked over by a giant chandelier.
He allowed himself a small smile. If his father had claimed him, he might have something close to this for himself. In truth, he could probably afford a nice home anyway but the thought of coming home to the same house all the time...well, until recently the thought had made his gut clench.
Until Rosamunde, that was. Until that damned night in the kitchen.
Tapping a foot, he folded his arms. He should never have given in to his needs. It had clouded everything, it had twisted him up inside so that he hardly knew who he was anymore. Bastard? Lover? Orphan? Who the hell knew?
Guy stepped into the hallway, his brows raised. “I didn’t really expect it to be you.” He gestured for Russell to follow him.
“You know many men called Marcus Russell?” he asked dryly as he followed him into a wood-paneled study.
Letters were scattered across a large mahogany desk and books lined shelves behind it. Guy’s fingers were ink-stained, and his cravat was askew. Whatever business Guy had been attending to, it was stressful.
Whatever business his brother was attending to, he corrected himself.
“I thought you understood that you should never be seen here,” Guy said, pouring a dram of brandy and handing it to Russell. Russell ignored the drink and remained standing while Guy perched on the edge of his desk. He eyed Russell. “It must be something grave indeed.”
He ground his teeth together. He’d pictured this meeting over and over. Imagined demanding an explanation. Even visualized slamming Guy against a wall and telling him their association was over, that he did not appreciate being lied to.
But all the fight had gone out of him. It might well have deserted him the moment he spoke to Rosamunde in such a way. He blew out a breath. “Tell me truthfully, did you know?”
Guy’s brow furrowed. “Know?”
“Damn it, Guy.”
Guy gave a slight smile and pushed away from the desk. “Did I know we are brothers?”
“Half-brothers,” Russell corrected.
“I knew.”
Russell pressed a hot breath out between his teeth. “Why did you not say something?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Did you track me down deliberately? Hell, have you been pulling strings all this time?”
“Pulling strings?”
“Ensuring my business dealings went well,” he muttered. “I never needed charity, you know.”
“I know that, Russ. I know you probably have more spare wealth than me and Nash combined.”
“Hardly.”
Guy lifted his hands. “I had nothing to do with any of that.”
Russell released a breath. The thought that maybe everything he’d achieved had been nothing to do with his smarts or ambition had been etching a hole inside of him ever since he’d found out about Guy.
“I did know, though, before I invited you to join The Kidnap Club.”
“So that was charity?”
Guy shook his head. “I realized you were clever. Exceedingly clever. Plus you had the background that I needed.
Someone willing to get dirty and who could hold his own.”
“It is true then,” Russell murmured, more to himself than anything.
“You are my brother,” Guy confirmed. “I realized it as soon as we met. You have our father’s eyes.” He nodded toward a portrait of a man who looked like an older version of Guy. “Plus you carried his name. It was no stretch of the imagination to think my father might have sired you—he was not exactly faithful to my mother.”
Russell took a step forward and eyed the painting. Though Russell didn’t see much of himself in there, they had the same piercing blue eyes that so many women commented on. He moved back, his chest tight.
“I did a little research and found out about your mother. It looks as though my father had a brief moment of conscience before his death and tried to track you down, but you were lost to us then.”
“I wasn’t lost.”
Guy shrugged. “By the time I got to know you, I knew you’d not take this news well. I’m sorry that I kept it from you, but you might understand why.”
“Rosamunde knew,” he said. “She and her family. They figured it out.”
“I’m sorry for that too. You should have heard it from me.” Guy stepped forward and put a hand to his shoulder. “I won’t give you anything you do not wish for, but I would like to claim you as a brother.”
Russell clenched his jaw. He’d been so set on remaining how he was—an orphan with no family, a self-made man. He hardly knew how to be a brother, let alone the son of an earl. But everything had been changing recently.
Thanks to Rosamunde.
“I—”
The door opened and the butler thrust out a platter with a card on it. “Forgive me, my lord, but there is a loud young woman here demanding to speak with you.”
Guy took the card but barely had time to glance at it before Rosamunde’s cousin barged into the study. She gasped when her gaze met Russell’s. “Oh goodness. I came here looking for Lord Henleigh to see if he could find you but here you are.” She paused and drew in a long breath. “I have been looking all over Bath then London for you.”
Russell’s gut twisted. “What is it, Mabel?”
“It’s Rosie. She’s gone to the Isle of Wight alone. I thought she might be fine—you know how tough she is—but she promised to send me word as soon as she arrived, and I have heard nothing. I’m worried she has become tangled up in whatever has happened to Uncle Albert.”
Damn it. Of course she’d go off on her own. He should have anticipated it. No one could match Rosamunde’s determination.
He looked to Guy. “We’ll have to finish this conversation later. I’m going to the Isle of Wight.”
Guy lifted a brow, his gaze lighting with amusement. “Naturally.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Russell froze when he saw her, his heart following suit.
Her eyes widened when she spotted him at the top of the stairs. Rosamunde stilled in the inn doorway. “Russell!”
He closed the distance in three quick strides. “I’m sorry,” he managed to murmur before curving a hand around her neck and pressing his lips to hers.
He hadn’t planned it this way. Lord knew, nothing ever worked out as planned when it came to Rosamunde. For the first time in his life, he didn’t care. His plans could go to hell so long as he had Rosamunde.
She gasped and flung her arms around him, returning his kiss with the same hunger he felt. They’d been apart for mere days, but it felt like an eternity. Too long without touching, too long without seeing her. He backed her up into the room and kicked the door shut.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated between kisses.
She tugged at his cravat.
“I was a fool.”
“Yes,” she murmured, drawing the cravat from his collar and flinging it aside.
“I thought I might have lost you.”
“No.” She worked loose his waistcoat buttons while he fought to find the ribbon at the back of her gown and untie it. He peppered kisses down her face, her neck, her décolletage, then started work on the tiny buttons at the front of her dress.
“God, I missed you.” He claimed her mouth again, her lips hot against his. She moaned and wound herself closer, pressing her breasts against his chest. He groaned in response.
“I missed you too.”
He tore off his jacket and she shoved his waistcoat from him then started unbuttoning his shirt. The tiny buttons on her gown did not seem to want to cooperate and he broke the kiss briefly so he could concentrate on removing the bloody thing from her. She kissed his neck, trailing little bites down his skin that made him shudder.
“You are not making this any easier,” he murmured.
“Good. You do not deserve easier.”
“I know.” He shoved her dress down her arms to her hips. “I said terrible things.”
“You did.” She wriggled the gown from her hips, leaving her clad in her stays and petticoat. He issued a harsh breath at the sight of her breasts straining at the corset, her curves highlighted by the gentle boning.
Grasping her waist in both hands, he drew her into him, taking her mouth again. She surrendered instantly, giving him everything he craved and more.
“I don’t even deserve your forgiveness,” he said against her mouth while he worked at the lacing of her stays.
She shoved his shirt from his shoulders and spread her palms across his chest. He hissed at the feel of her warm fingers and closed his eyes briefly. To think he’d nearly lost this, lost her. He had to be the biggest damned fool in the world. He opened his eyes when she pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his chest. Briefly, he held her there, his hand cupping the back of her head, allowing himself a brief moment of relishing her being so close.
Rosamunde looked up at him, her hands dropping to his trousers. “Probably not,” she agreed.
“I will do whatever it takes.” He kissed her lips. “Whatever you want of me. I don’t care. I’m yours.”
She stepped back and pushed her petticoat down, then slipped off her shoes and peeled down her stockings. The corset went next and he feared something must have happened to him on the journey here. Because surely he had died and gone to heaven.
The early morning light slipped over her skin, highlighting the generous curve of her breasts, the slight softness of her belly, the length of her thighs, and the shadows between them. Her dark hair was awry, spilling over one shoulder and her glasses slipped down her nose.
“And I’m yours,” she finally said.
“Christ.”
In what had to be the fastest undressing in the history of mankind, he undressed, then scooped her up. She latched her legs around his hips while he gripped her rear. Her body was hot against his. Hot and damned perfect. His arms shook, not from exertion, but from sheer disbelief that he had this amazing, beautiful, utterly mad woman in his arms.
And she wanted him. After all he had done, she wanted him. He’d never met a woman so loving and loyal. For all the awful things in the world he’d experienced, she was the cure. She was the heaven to his own personal hell.
He never wanted to lose her again.
Carrying her over to the bed, he laid her down on the deep red blanket, her milky skin a stark pale contrast against it. He scarcely had time to admire her before she wrapped her arms around him and drew him down to her.
Their kisses grew frantic and he could hardly fathom how he’d survived a day without her, let alone several. When this was over, he never wanted to be apart from her. It would be amusing if the thought of losing her again didn’t make his heart pound painfully. He, the lone orphan, now had a brother and a woman he loved.
Because there was no denying it. She’d chiseled through his every barrier and was deep in his hard heart.
He slipped a hand between them and found her wet and ready. She released a small cry when he touched her, moving his fingers over the core of her.
“Do not make me wait,” she urged.
“T
ell me again.”
“What?” she asked, kissing his jawline.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.” She kissed his chin. “I’m yours,” she repeated, pressing her lips to his.
He pulled off her glasses and tossed them onto the table at the bedside then positioned himself between her legs. He kept his weight braced on his palms and met her gaze.
“I’m yours,” she repeated, her gaze never wavering. “I’m yours.”
He pushed inside her with a groan.
“I’m yours.” Her voice grew in pitch. “Oh God, I’m yours.”
ROSAMUNDE SUSPECTED SHE’D been his long ago. Maybe even when he’d first kidnapped her.
He shifted inside her, stealing her breath. She clung on, moving with the waves, unable to do anything but meet his intense gaze and thank the Lord he was here.
After days of waiting for the winds to die down so she could catch the ferry to the island, she had never anticipated seeing Russell again but the sight of him in the hallway, his expression contrite, had undone any anger she’d held. He’d been hurt and had lashed out like an injured animal. She’d known that at the time but seeing this strong, tall man so vulnerable had made it impossible not to forgive him.
She gripped his arms and he surged forward. The tendons in his neck stood out in stark contrast to the planes of his shoulders. She gasped and took everything he could give her, over and over.
The bed rattled beneath them while the sweet, steely heat of him pressed inside her. He never looked away, his gaze locked on hers. He’d ceased apologizing now, but she saw everything she needed in his eyes. Gone was the doubt. This was nothing to do with her imagination. He needed her as much as she needed him.
As much as she loved him too.
She slipped her hands down his spine, curling one hand around his taut rear, the other splayed over this back. His muscles flexed with tension and he groaned her name, burying his head into her neck. He nipped and nibbled, sending shivers through her.
Stealing the Heiress (The Kidnap Club Book 2) Page 17