Someone Wanton His Way Comes

by Caldwell, Christi

  “She should be with other young ladies her age. And this, since she joined the Mismatch Society, has really been the first time that she’s interacted with women of similar years. Those who aren’t her sisters, that is. Friends,” he clarified. “And for that, I thank you. Prior to you, I have been at a loss as to how to help her.”

  Clayton’s level of devotion was uncommon amongst the peerage. It wasn’t driven by power or prestige, but a genuine caring. Whereas every other gentleman of the ton worried only about who and when one’s sister would marry. But their friendships and happiness didn’t generally fit into an equation with any real concern. “You needn’t thank me, Clayton,” she said gently. Sylvia continued to study the sister Clayton was so worried about. “And why must you help her? Why can she not simply find her own way without your guidance?”

  His brow furrowed. “She can. She has. I just . . .” He paused, and it was as though he searched for the words to explain himself. And then he found them. “If I can help her or my sisters in any way, I will. I would not see them suffer in any way if I were capable of helping them.” At Sylvia’s silence, he glanced over. “You disagree.” It wasn’t a question.

  They reached the card room, and he gestured for her to proceed.

  “I didn’t say that, Clayton.”

  “You didn’t need to.”

  Because he knew her. That revelation, and understanding, stirred a little panic. Because no man had. Not even the one she’d given her heart, body, and soul to. And yet this man did. It was a level of intimacy that was still foreign and uncomfortable to her. For what did it mean to share such a bond with a man . . . when she’d vowed to herself to never want anything more from one? And as they took their seats at one of the spare tables, she was grateful for the brief reprieve over her jumbled thoughts. When they sat, Sylvia reached for the cards and proceeded to shuffle them. “I believe it is admirable you love your sisters so,” she finally said.

  “But?” he pressed, as she dealt him his first card for their game of vingt-et-un.

  “And,” she enunciated slightly, giving herself a card. They each made their bets. “I also believe your sisters are entirely capable of finding their own way. It doesn’t mean you don’t have to worry about them as you do,” she was quick to say when he opened his mouth to interrupt. “But also, it is important for you to trust them completely and fully. To trust that they will be more than all right, and then at some point, you, as their big brother, can set them free and set yourself free of responsibility you feel for their happiness.” Sylvia dealt their next cards.

  He made no attempt to pick his up. “You think it is wrong to worry about the state of other people’s happiness?”

  Sylvia studied her hand. Sixteen. She raised her wager.

  She waited to speak until he made his next move.

  This time, he scrutinized his cards for a long while before adding his ante.

  She dealt again. “I think it is wrong to let that worry supersede any person’s right to make their own decisions.” Not picking up that third and final card, she turned her hand around for his inspection.

  Clayton winced. “That is not a wager I would have made.” He turned over his cards, revealing his high hand of twenty.

  Sylvia turned over her third.

  The five of hearts.

  He started.

  “Twenty-one,” she said with a smile. “Sometimes, the risks one takes in life pay off.” Sylvia held his gaze. “Sometimes people lose. But ultimately, I believe what is most important is the power one has over one’s decisions.” Collecting the small pot of her earnings, she allowed him the next deal.

  Clayton dealt their first cards. “That is where I disagree with you.”

  Throughout her marriage to Norman, she’d been so very worried about pleasing him. Because she’d loved him and believed if her opinion had aligned with his, he’d see her as his perfect match. With Clayton, however, she didn’t worry about sharing or having an opinion of her own. Whenever they conversed, it was as equals, and it was so very refreshing and freeing from the constraints she had placed upon herself during her marriage.

  “Life is entirely too short to not do everything one can to work toward bringing happiness where one can,” he said.

  Only, it wasn’t about happiness. It was about the freedom to make one’s own decisions. Just a handful of days ago, she would have said as much to him because she wouldn’t have read the deeper meaning behind the worries he had—the fear he possessed of his impending early demise . . . and one she could not let herself the thought of. Because she couldn’t and wouldn’t allow herself to think of a world in which Clayton Kearsley, Viscount St. John, died young. More to give herself something to do than considering her wager, she pushed several coins into the middle of the table.

  He made his wager and dealt their next cards. “I ran into the Marquess of Prendergast.”

  It took a moment to register what he’d said. That what had come between her and the miserable thought of Clayton perishing was that miserable marquess. Sylvia’s . . . father-in-law? And in the end, she could manage just one word. “What?”

  “He mentioned that he misses his grandson.”

  “Good,” she gritted out before she could hold back the petty reply. She pushed a coin into the middle of the table, and gestured for him to continue.

  “Sylvia,” he said chidingly.

  Chiding? He’d chide her. She made herself take a deep breath. Reminding herself that Clayton did not know. That few did. All those who knew the sordid, evil details had been compelled by reasons of their own to silence about the crimes that family was truly guilty of. The majority remained silent because of a deference for rank. Sylvia, however, and her family, had only done so, perpetuating that secret, for the sake of Vallen and his future and for the marchioness’s delicate state. She looked across the table at Clayton, and hooded her gaze. Mindful of the nearby players, she spoke in hushed tones. “Let it go, Clayton. You know nothing of it.” She tapped the table, indicating the need for her next card and the desire for him to cease this topic immediately.

  “But I would like to,” he said, proving tenacious.

  He would. It fit with who he was as the son and brother and person who hated for there to be any unrest. And perhaps under most any other circumstance, she could understand and maybe even admire the intent behind it.

  “I thought there could be an element of peace.”

  So this was why he’d been so intent to bring into their discussion the idea of another person’s happiness.

  He presumed much. “There can’t be,” she said tightly, with a finality; she intended to end any further discussion on that hated family.

  It proved futile.

  “But every aspect of life, for every person, is better when there is peace.”

  He was wrong on that score. The world was better when there was justice. Sylvia bit her tongue hard to keep from uttering a rebuttal that would only usher in more questions. Justice, which hadn’t been served to Norman’s family. And I am complicit in that. And she hated that reality . . . because it marked her a hypocrite. And yet she’d wear that badge, and proudly, if it meant she could protect her son from hurt. “You are an eternal optimist, Clayton,” she said softly, directing her attention to the cards in her hands.

  “You aren’t the first to say as much.” Clayton edged his seat closer to the table, and leaned across the velvet surface smattered with their cards and coins. “And perhaps I am. But it is just that they are old, and—”

  Sylvia pushed back her chair quickly; the chatter in the card room and the noisy revelry from guests outside drowned out the scrape of those legs along the hardwood floor. She set her teeth hard enough to grate them. Of anything she wished to speak with Clayton about, this was decidedly not it. Ignoring the curious glances cast her way, she made a beeline for the doorway and continued back out into the main ballroom. Sylvia didn’t stop. Outrage and annoyance and hurt fueled her movements, past the gue
sts and onward. It was, of course, wrong to be hurt. Clayton didn’t know anything about the secrets she carried. Nor should she have to share them for him to trust her judgment.

  And yet he was a friend, too. And something told her that if she were to reveal all, they would be confidences that he kept. Because of the man of honor he was. That, however, didn’t lessen the hurt, for the whole reason he’d sought her out this evening had been to speak on behalf of the people she hated most.

  She reached an empty corridor; fast-approaching footfalls echoed behind her. Sylvia whipped around and faced Clayton. “This is why you came to find me tonight?” she cried. “So that you can play peacemaker between me and my in-laws?”

  He shook his head. “No. Yes.” Clayton dragged a hand through his loose gold curls. “Of course that wasn’t the only reason. I told you already, I came to be with my sister. I always intended to speak to you about”—he looked around—“the situation.”

  Sylvia narrowed her eyes. “Always?”

  “Not always. That isn’t why I came to see you that . . .” He faltered, and the lit sconce revealed the flicker in his eyes. “This evening,” he said. However, it felt as though it were a correction. One she didn’t understand. “As you are aware, Anwen arrived with a summons at Hyde Park, cutting our meeting short that day.”

  Of their own volition, Sylvia’s eyebrows went flying up. “He summoned you.”

  “No! It was Landon. You know Landon.” She did. All too well. The most roguish and most reckless of the gentlemen her late husband had kept company with. “With him anything might be either tragedy or nothing at all. I went . . . While we were meeting, Lord Prendergast happened to arrive.”

  She stiffened. He just happened to arrive? “Nothing that family does is by chance.”

  “I am bungling this. Might we please speak alone?” he implored, gesturing to the doorway beside them. “Away, in the event someone comes by?”

  Tense, she studied Clayton for a long moment before collecting her hem and letting herself into the nearest room. Not because she wished to continue this conversation, but rather, for the simple fact that at some point, she would need to. Sylvia would rather have it done now, as he pointed out, away from prying eyes.

  The moment he entered the darkened parlor, joining her, he pushed the door shut behind them.

  Sylvia folded her arms at her chest, and waited.

  “I know you have your reasons for not wishing to see Norfolk’s father. I am trying to understand.”

  “Does it matter?” she asked curiously. “Why do you need to?”

  “Because I am your friend.” She refused to let herself feel remorse at his wounded expression. Or she tried to. Tried . . . and failed.

  Yes, he was her friend. Or that’s what they had been briefly, what they’d only recently renewed. Still, she had resolved to share nothing of the details surrounding her husband’s death. Yes, it had been in some small part to protect the dowager marchioness’s struggles. Ultimately, however, what it had come down to was protection. Protecting her son from the vicious fallout and the scandal that would follow him if the world learned all those sordid details. “Is that all it is?” she asked softly, moving toward him. Sylvia kept coming, not stopping until the tips of their shoes brushed.

  “I don’t understand.” An uncharacteristic frown formed on his lips, those hard, perfectly formed lips that she hated herself for noticing amidst this tense debate. “You are suggesting my reasons are somehow nefarious?”

  Nefarious. And she fought to suppress her first real smile since he’d resurrected mention of her in-laws. “I’m not saying that at all, Clayton.” He wasn’t capable of underhandedness. “I know you are a good man.” That was just one of the reasons she had always loved him. Every muscle in her face and body froze, and a pressure formed in her chest, a tightness, as if her heart were attacking her. Love him? Not like that. As a friend, yes. But it couldn’t be more. And yet, what did it say about the passion that flared whenever they were near? Was this hunger she felt for his friendship? Or more . . .

  Sweat beaded at her brow and moisture dampened her palms.

  “Sylvia?” he asked, concern wreathing his deep baritone.

  Sylvia took a deep breath. And in a bid to gain some control, she took a step away, turning, giving him her back. Nor did he press her, beyond just that, her name. Clayton had always been possessed of a patience and calm that had made it so very easy for her to speak to him. Even through the tumult of her confused thoughts, it proved steadying now. When she collected herself enough to just focus on their debate, she faced him again. “You are so very worried about other people’s happiness. You’re so concerned about the decisions they make. You hate conflict and would intervene in any way, just for the chance of erasing it.”

  “I don’t . . .” He shook his head slowly. “Is that a bad thing?”

  Sylvia smiled and took his hands in hers, briefly squeezing and then releasing them. “Your intentions are not bad, but neither is that decision always the right one.”

  “Would you be very offended if”—he wrestled with his immaculate-until-now cravat—“I asked for an example?”

  A soft laugh shook her frame, and she covered her face with her hands. As endearingly unjaded as he was, he made it impossible not to love him. “Why did you reappear in my life all these years later?”

  Clayton blanched as all the color drained quickly from his cheeks.

  “It wasn’t a condemnation,” she was quick to reassure. “I know you have a life and a family of your own to care for. I would have never had you see me as an obligation.” Did she imagine that his cheeks grew more pale? “I was referring specifically to the reason you arrived at my townhouse.” Naturally charming Mr. Flyaway, whom she’d never believed could be charmed. But then that was Clayton’s magic. “The sole reason you came, demanding an audience? It was because society had been speaking about Waverton Street, and even though you didn’t know anything about us or our society, your ultimate concern was restoring peace.

  “You are so concerned with tying up loose ends in life.”

  He frowned. “Anything I do is because I care.”

  “And I don’t doubt that,” she said, finding her earlier calm. “Or at least, I don’t doubt you believe that. You have this sense of bringing closure to things . . . and I understand, from what you shared, why. And yet, those loose ends you feel the need to be tied are for you,” she said, willing him to understand. “A sense that you are seeing to something that you feel should be seen to. The marquess. Your sisters. Your marriage.

  “But if maintaining peace is your ultimate concern, you risk shuttering good ventures, like the Mismatch Society, where women are free to discuss the institutions that bind us. Just as you risk throwing your support behind a man who is entirely undeserving of it . . . all so that conflict can be avoided.”

  He stilled. “You are right,” he whispered.

  Sylvia blinked. “I . . . am?” She was, of course. It was not that she doubted it. Rather, she hadn’t expected that he’d come ’round to see her point of view so easily.

  “I . . . never thought about it in that way. My thought is only ever to see that there is peace, and I am sorry for twice now interfering without simply trusting that you know what is—”

  Sylvia leaned up and kissed him. And when she drew back, his eyes were clouded with desire and confusion.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “For trusting in me and my judgment. For not asking me to explain myself . . .”

  “More than I already did?”

  “You didn’t ask. You asked me to speak with him, and I said no. And you listened but didn’t press me for more, and for that, I am grateful.”

  The air crackled like the earth before a lightning strike.

  Their gazes locked . . . and then she was lost. Or perhaps this was what Clara had meant when she had said to look at it as being found.

  Sylvia grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and dragged him dow
n to meet her. And then she kissed him, thrusting her tongue and forcing her way inside his mouth.

  Clayton’s body tensed, and then his hands were on her. All over. As she wanted them. As she wanted him. Desperately and without apology, in this moment, raw and fast, and as wonderful as it always was in his arms.

  With a groan, he filled his hands with her buttocks, cupping and kneading that voluptuous flesh, drawing her up and closer, so that he could press the hard ridge of his shaft against her belly.

  They moved as one, with him backing her up and her retreating along with him, until she collided with the wall. He slid his mouth over hers. Again and again. Plunging his tongue inside to spar with hers.

  Desire seared her veins and robbed her of restraint. She didn’t care about the risk of discovery. She couldn’t. She’d been reduced to nothing beyond her awareness of his like need for her. Shoving up her skirts, he stepped between her legs. With an answering moan, she let them fall wider, accommodating, but more importantly encouraging, him.

  Clayton ran a path of kisses down the curve of her cheek to her neck. And in that place where her pulse beat hard, he sucked and nipped and tasted.

  “Mmm,” she keened, nudging him with her hips, and that movement appeared to enflame him, pulling an animalistic groan from deep within his chest.

  She undulated and arched wildly against him. “Please,” she begged.

  Clayton rubbed himself against her, teasing her with that which she wanted. “Is this what you want?”

  She moaned. “Yes. Desperately so.” She craved it.

  Reaching down between them, he freed himself from his trousers, and she whimpered, thrusting her hips toward it. Toward him.

  “Now,” she demanded, digging her hands into his neck so hard she left marks with her nails upon his skin.

  He thrust home, and she cried out as he filled her. So very deep and throbbing inside her sodden channel. And as he pumped her over and over again, so hard the sconces and frames alongside them rattled, she wept. Begging and moaning, incoherent, as her body climbed toward that heavenly peak she wanted to jump and fly from again.