“Come for me,” he demanded against her temple.
Except, even as she wanted it, she wanted to prolong this moment, to stretch it out until she was consumed and swallowed whole by desire. Clayton hefted her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, deepening that penetration.
The walls shook. She shook.
And then, she could take no more. She let herself hurtle freely into her climax, and she screamed his name, his mouth and his kiss swallowing the last syllable. The moment her body sagged, drained of all her pleasure, he pulled out, and spent along the side of her. His surrender coming in creamy rivulets as he groaned, low and deep.
They remained there, braced against the wall, breathing hard and heavy.
Clayton pressed a kiss against her temple in a caress that was so tender and somehow more intimate than when he’d been moving inside her. That intimacy continued a moment later as Clayton gently cleaned her, and then after he tended to himself and disposed of the dirty kerchief, he proceeded to tuck the curls that had escaped her hair arrangement back into the pearl-encrusted combs she wore.
He did so silently, and all the while she watched on, moving her gaze over his face, a study of concentration as he worked.
She trusted him.
She’d trusted him as a friend. As a lover. And she knew he would never betray her. And she wanted to share all with him.
As if he felt her eyes on his, he paused with a ringlet caught between his thumb and forefinger. “What is it?”
“What I am going to tell you, I’ve told no one.” The truth would eventually come out. She knew that. She’d just been—and still was—stealing time for her son, whatever chance at freedom from the scandal she could. “Norman’s death was not an accident.”
“It was. Landon and Scarsdale were there. The club had brought in a famous fighter for them to test their techniques against. He—”
“He was sent there by Norman’s mother,” she quietly interrupted.
The curl slipped from his fingers. “What?” he whispered.
“The marchioness was involved in an underground operation. It was a fight society comprised of young children. Children from the streets, who were made to fight. One of those children grew up to be a woman my husband was in love with.” She took a breath. “Valerie.”
Any other person under the sun would have reacted with shock or horror to learn a woman Sylvia was housemates with had also been her late husband’s lover. Clayton, when he spoke, didn’t dwell on that sordid detail.
“How . . . ?”
“How do I know?” Sylvia hugged herself around the middle. “The day of his funeral services, I came upon Lord Prendergast going through Norman’s desk. Afterward, when he’d gone, I went on to search for whatever he’d been attempting to find. I discovered the information there.” Her words rolled together as she spoke, the freedom in finally uttering them making them come quickly. “I just assumed, incorrectly, that it was the marquess who was to blame. My sister and I launched an effort to uncover the truth, and from that we learned of Lady Prendergast’s role over all of it.”
She grabbed Clayton’s hands. “He is not a good man. And she is even more evil than he. That is why I want my son nowhere near that family.”
Clayton’s cheeks were ashen. “Jesus.” His whisper emerged as a prayer.
He didn’t challenge her. He didn’t question her. He trusted her. And in that confirmed what she had suspected when she’d decided to tell him. He was a man deserving of her confidence.
“She needs to be brought to justice. They both do. Everyone who had been involved in Norfolk’s death and the cover-up.”
Sylvia drew in a shaky breath. “My son—”
Clayton gripped her lightly by the shoulders. “Vallen is no more responsible for the crimes of his grandparents than you are, Sylvia.”
A sound of impatience escaped her. “It isn’t that simple. Vallen’s life, his whole future, would forever be linked to that dark scandal, one that has been wholly beyond his control and had come before he’d even taken his first breath.”
“But what a lesson would he have learned from his mother’s demands for justice . . .”
How dare he? He knew nothing of it. He didn’t know what it was to want to protect one’s child at any cost. To keep that babe from all pain and suffering. “You are speaking of ideals and not real life. He’ll be known as the grandson of a murderer.”
“And the mother who saw them brought to justice when people of power would have rather made a crime go away.”
“This from a man who’d protect his sisters at every cost?” she shot back. “You, who are so concerned for their happiness? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have pushed your sisters into marriage if you thought it would have seen them secured.”
He bowed his head. “That is . . . fair. Perhaps it is easier for me to say as I don’t explicitly know what it is to be a father, or to navigate what you have been navigating these past years.” Clayton stepped toward her. “But I do know that you, who speak to women of how society should be, are not one who’d tolerate the evil Norfolk’s parents perpetuated.”
She inhaled sharply through her teeth, wanting to send him onward to the Devil with his optimistic view of her and that which was right and wrong. And yet . . . she could not.
Sylvia’s mouth moved. She’d initially sought justice against her in-laws. But then when Lord Prendergast had used his influence to hush the charges and see his wife settled somewhere in the country, Sylvia had also had the opportunity to consider the ramifications the scandal would have upon her son.
It had taken until this moment, until Clayton had pointed it out, for her to realize that no matter how well intentioned her efforts, they’d still been wrong. Wrong for so many . . . not the least being her brother-in-law, who as a child had been a victim of Lady Prendergast’s. Still, Hugh had turned the other cheek for Sylvia’s son . . . but he shouldn’t have had to. She shouldn’t have asked him to.
“I should go,” she said softly . . . because she was still bound by respectability. Yes, she was a widow. But all society cared about, first and foremost, was that she was a mother.
“Forgive me if I—”
“You misunderstand.” Sylvia touched her fingers to his lips. “Do not apologize. Not when you are correct. I see that now.” And yet as she took her leave, knowing what, ultimately, she would have to do, she hated that Lord and Lady Prendergast had interrupted this time she’d shared with Clayton.
Chapter 23
Clayton stood there after Sylvia had gone, his heart pounding, his thoughts all twisted with confusion and shock at everything she had revealed.
And here, since Norfolk’s death, Clayton had stayed away from Sylvia. When all along she’d been in possession of some of the darkest, ugliest secrets. And she’d been living alone with them, she, a woman of honor, battling between what she wished to do and what she felt she had to do for her son.
And Clayton couldn’t love her any more. He always had. Back when she’d been an innocent young lady who joined him for a game of cards. And even more now, when he learned how much she’d suffered and endured and . . . triumphed.
God, how he wanted her.
Only it wasn’t just her body in the splendor they knew making love. He wanted all of her. In every way.
All along he had convinced himself that he couldn’t have a future with her. That protecting her from the possibility of his dying young mattered most.
But what could they be together? What if his sister, and Sylvia, had been correct in their charges against him? What if he let himself live as he’d been afraid to fully do? Yes, it would be acknowledging that in his failure to pursue a future with her all those years ago, there had been lost time.
There would be even more lost moments if he didn’t pursue the possibility of them together.
Yes, she had indicated she didn’t want to love or marry again. She, however, had opened his eyes to the possibility of living. Perhaps he c
ould do the same in terms of her and her thoughts on love.
The door handle clicked, and he whipped his focus to the front of the room. She’d returned. “S—” Oh, hell. “Siiir.” In a bid to mask the name he’d been about to call out, he settled for that weak substitute. “That is . . . my lord.” His muscles tensed as he faced the same man whom only earlier this evening he’d attempted to help. Only to discover a monster now stood before him.
Lord Prendergast took the liberty of shutting the door and entering deeper into the room. The moment he stopped before Clayton, he gave him a brief up-and-down look. “I . . . saw you speaking with Lady Norfolk.”
Perhaps before he’d discovered Norfolk’s father hadn’t thought anything of covering up his son’s death, he might have missed that detail. Or at the very least attributed it to nothing but the old man’s desperation to see his grandson. Now, knowing what he and his family were capable of, there was something very sinister in having been watched by him. “Indeed.” Clayton made himself smile in an attempt to cover up his loathing. “If you would excuse me, my sister—”
Lord Prendergast slid into Clayton’s path. “Is undoubtedly safe with your mother.”
And he was aware of Anwen. Clayton struggled to battle back the panic that came in knowing those he loved—Sylvia, his mother, his sisters—had all become a subject of interest to this man before him.
“I take it by the lady’s abrupt departure in the midst of your game that she was less than agreeable to what you proposed.”
What he’d proposed.
“I did not say that,” he hedged. He’d thought it, of course.
The older man narrowed his gaze on him.
Clayton forced a calm that he didn’t feel into his features. How had he failed to see how Norfolk’s father had been manipulating him? And the marquess had done so, all in a bid to see his grandson. Ruthless enough to present himself as the wounded party and enlist Clayton to work on his behalf.
Perhaps if he could put the other gentleman off for even just a bit, he could ensure that Sylvia had some distance, for some time, from Lord Prendergast. Clayton switched to a different tactic. “Lady Sylvia is a woman with a deep heart and intellect, and I believe in time, if she is not pressed, she will think about it.” And ultimately decide to have nothing to do with the man before him.
The marquess removed his gloves, and dusted them together in a movement that felt like orchestrated distractedness. But then, considering everything Sylvia had revealed, Lord Prendergast was as much an actor as his wife.
“That is . . . disappointing. I had thought you might be able to reason with her. You were close . . .” Lord Prendergast elevated a greying eyebrow. “Were you not?”
Clayton froze. He’d never shared with a single soul, not even the friends he trusted, his feelings for Sylvia.
The marquess gave him an odd look. “You and my son.”
He spoke of Norfolk. Not Sylvia. Clayton made himself take a normal breath. Of course that was what Norfolk’s father had meant. “We were.” Until that last day of Norfolk’s life, when Clayton had learned of the betrayal his friend had intended to carry out against Sylvia. That treacherous decision had erased a lifetime of friendship, and it had also allowed him to feel as though there’d been no obligation to the other man . . . not even in death.
“Then I would expect you should see this is something my son would want.”
Given the other man’s late son had intended to abandon his child, Clayton didn’t think Norfolk would have cared one way or the other what Sylvia allowed or disallowed in terms of Vallen’s visitors. And Clayton’s chest tightened sharply, not just for Sylvia, but for the boy who deserved a loving father. And who’d found himself a pawn in some sick, twisted game of chess Lord and Lady Prendergast now played. “I know it isn’t my place to interfere,” he murmured, trying once more to take his leave. “My lord.”
“How interesting,” the marquess called after him, so that if Clayton continued on, he risked presenting himself as adversarial when he knew this man before him had to be handled cautiously.
Clayton turned back. “What is that?”
Lord Prendergast continued to beat those gloves together in a grating fashion. “It is simply that today, just hours ago, you were sympathetic. You agreed to help me secure a visit with my grandson. And now here we are.” He spread his arms wide. “And you are of an altogether different opinion . . . What accounts for that, St. John?”
Oh, hell. God, how Clayton hated this waltz. But for Sylvia and her son, he’d gladly dance it. “I am not unsympathetic to either of you,” he lied. Clayton felt no sympathy for the conniving man before him. “Both of you have suffered, and suffered greatly. And as someone who has suffered loss as well, I understand that it shapes us. We all have to come to terms, in our own time, and in our own way.” That part came easier for Clayton as he now spoke in truths.
The marquess appeared wholly unmoved by Clayton’s attempts at forging a connection through their grief. “She is spiteful,” he spat. “That is all this comes down to. You know my son was unfaithful to her, as did she, and that resentment is what drives her to hurt me as she is. Vallen is my last link to my son, and his widow would deny me.”
Clayton fought to mask his rage. He’d never been a man moved to violence, except for that one day when he’d struck Norfolk outside Gentleman Jackson’s. That same sentiment burnt strong inside, now . . . for that other man’s father.
Logic said it was more dangerous to debate the unhinged man. Loving Sylvia as Clayton did, however, he refused to simply take those smears against her in silence. “I would not say that,” he said in frosty tones. “Lady Norfolk is a woman with an enormous heart, a champion of others, and has shown only kindness for my sisters and those who truly know her.”
Lord Prendergast sharpened his gaze on Clayton. “Hmm.”
There was a cryptic quality to that vague rebuttal that sent disquiet through him once more. “I trust nothing about this has been easy for Lady Norfolk,” Clayton said in an attempt to defuse whatever tension his response had elicited.
“A woman who smiles so freely and hosts scandalous company hardly strikes me as one who is grieving.” The marquess looked squarely at Clayton. “In fact, one might even begin to suspect that she doesn’t grieve because she has replaced Norman . . . that she is having her bed warmed by some man, as all wanton widows do.” He left that dangling there, his meaning clear.
Clayton balled his fists tightly to keep from letting them fly into the other man’s face. “You dishonor the memory of your son when you speak so ill of his wife.”
“Tell me, St. John . . . with your and Lady Norfolk’s relationship, have you been honoring my son’s memory?”
Heat climbed Clayton’s neck. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The marquess smiled, but it was one that never reached his eyes. “Ohh, I think you do.”
Desperate men were dangerous ones. And Clayton had never been more eager to end a meeting. He glanced at his timepiece. “Forgive me, I must leave.”
“Of course,” Lord Prendergast said with a slight inclination of his head. “If you see Lady Norfolk again soon, please send her my regards.” That slight emphasis did not escape Clayton’s notice. “I confess . . . I am disappointed that you wouldn’t help an old man meet his grandson again.”
There was a level of coldness in the marquess’s eyes that chilled him, and Clayton was hurrying to take his leave when the older gentleman called out, stopping him once more. “Oh, and St. John? Your cravat is askew, boy.”
This time when Clayton made to go, Lord Prendergast let him to his departure. All the while, however, Clayton felt that hated stare boring into his back, and the promise of a threat following after him.
Chapter 24
It was not the first time an emergency meeting had been called. In the past when ladies were facing demands from their parents to withdraw their membership, the group had convened to discuss ways in which they
might manage to keep those ladies with them.
This was, however, the first time that Sylvia had found herself the source of the emergency.
Numb, her stomach churning and threatening to revolt, she made herself read the words written in the newspaper. Even though she had already read them. Numerous times.
Over and over. They were unchanging.
A wicked . . .
A wanton widow . . . caught leaving the company of a gentleman whose identity is believed to be that of Lord S. John . . . though most have contested the gentleman’s identity. It is highly unlikely, given the gentleman’s reputation . . . Now, that of the mother? There is no doubting the manner of woman she is . . . A shameful mother . . .
A shameful mother . . . A shameful mother . . . A shameful mother.
It was that last one. That last one struck the blow that threatened all she held dear. And she read it, over and over, to torture and punish herself. It was one thing to be a wanton widow. But being a mother as well? In a world where women were expected to be godly, that was not allowed by society. And her in-laws had known as much. They had rightly timed the situation so that Sylvia’s reputation and good name were called into question, and because of that, they could have Vallen’s court-appointed guardian challenge her.
I am going to be ill . . .
The article went on and on, likening Sylvia to a cancerous poison amongst respectable ladies, pervading the norms of propriety and respectability. Perverting them. Nor could there be any doubt as to who the one behind this public shaming in fact was. Norman’s father and mother had acted first. There was an overall simplicity to the plan that Sylvia had failed to see . . . until it was too late. Destroy Sylvia’s reputation so thoroughly. Why hadn’t she done that which was honorable before? Why had she agreed to the silence? Why? Why? Why? There were so many regrets. Too many of them.
“A gentleman whose identity is believed to be that of Lord S. John . . . though most have contested the gentleman’s identity.” Anwen pushed up her spectacles and continued to read that piece aloud. “It is highly unlikely, given the gentleman’s reputation . . . Now, that of the mother? There is no doubting the manner of woman she is . . . A shameful mother . . .”
Someone Wanton His Way Comes Page 27