by Lee, Jade
He held her, of course. He held her while her body shook, and her belly heaved. And when she was done, he realized she was a great deal weaker than he thought. Her knees kept buckling, and she would have been on the ground if he didn’t hold her up.
“Diana?”
“I just need—” She heaved again. “I can’t—” Nothing was coming up, but her body kept rejecting the very air she breathed. “Lucas—” she gasped again. It was a plea for help.
Only one thing to do, one place to take her. “This way,” he said. And when she couldn’t walk, he swept her up into his arms. A few moments later, they were both inside the Lyon’s Den.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
There was nothing more wonderful than being carried in a strong man’s arms. And nothing more embarrassing than to be weaker than a kitten in front of the man you most wanted to impress with your strength. But try as she might, Diana’s body was not under her control. So when Lucas swept her up in his arms, she buried her face in his neck.
She had ceased casting up her accounts, thank God, but her body still twisted and churned. So she set her head into the space between his shoulder and neck and immersed herself in his scent. She allowed her body to absorb his power and listened with rapt attention to the steady beat of his heart as he carried her someplace unknown.
She could have made a guess. He went inside a building that had a guard. Someone called him Titan and opened the doors for him. She heard an orchestra and the sound of men’s laughter, then she smelled cigar smoke. He carried her down a set of stairs and then another before he maneuvered her through a small door.
She spent the whole time curled against him, relishing every second, even as embarrassment dampened the pleasure. And then the door shut behind him, and all was quiet.
“Feeling better?” he asked as he gently set her down on a bed.
She didn’t want to let go, but she couldn’t hang on to him forever, much as she might want to. She let her arms relax, though she trailed her fingers reluctantly down his arms.
Thankfully, he didn’t go far, and she was able to still touch his forearms as he knelt down before her. They were eye to eye as he studied her face.
“Do you want wine? Water? Tea? What would settle you more?”
Him. Just him beside her.
“Anything,” she said—anything to clean the taste of bile from her mouth.
He pulled a flask from the drawer of a nearby desk, removed the stopper, then set it in her hand. Brandy, she realized, as he helped guide it to her mouth. She drank lightly, afraid that her stomach would reject it. She focused on the burn of fire down her throat and the steady support of his hands on her. Between the two, her stomach settled.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I promised I would not interfere.”
He smiled. “You didn’t interfere. We were done.”
“I cannot understand what overcame me. I have never been so missish in my life.”
His fingers trailed over her arm in a soothing caress. “What you saw was disturbing. What you learned would bother anyone.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t learn anything new. Geoffrey duped an idiot footman. And Mr. Fisher did not confess to anything. He claimed over and over that I poisoned Oscar.” She grimaced at the futility of it all. “He will confuse the issue in a court of law. It is not proof.” Then she shrugged. “Either way, it is no cause for me to fall apart.”
He smiled. “Murder so close and personal is not something to be absorbed in one go. The mind rebels and rejects, taking it in as it can.”
Her eyes widened as she nodded. “It seems to come in waves. I think I understand things, and then it hits me anew. Geoffrey killed his father. And he wants me d—” Her voice caught, but she forced the word out. “Dead.” Her stepson wanted her dead.
“I will keep you safe. No one will hurt you.”
“I know,” she said. And she did. She felt safe in a way that she never had with anyone. Not even the boy he’d been twelve years ago. Back then, she had been the one to think matters through. Now she had no thoughts at all except that she must put everything in his hands, and he would do whatever was necessary. “I trust you.”
His expression softened into a look of joy. A quiet, beautiful happiness that she saw in his eyes and pulled into her body. It eased the terror inside her and settled her as nothing else could.
“Do you need more brandy?” he asked.
She looked down at the flask and passed it back to him. “No. I’m much better now. Thank you.” The words did not convey the depth of her gratitude.
He nodded and took the flask to his mouth, draining it with a few quick swallows. How handsome a man’s neck could be, she thought with a curious kind of surprise. His rugged skin and the steady bob of his Adam’s apple. She admired the cut of his jaw and the broadness of his shoulders. And she flushed again in embarrassment as he caught her looking.
To cover, she glanced around the room. It was a small place filled with the pallet on which she sat, a desk to the side, and a washing table. There were papers stacked neatly everywhere, on the desk, beside the bed, and three small piles by the door. Then she saw the clothing—specifically his clothing—folded neatly on top of a trunk next to the bed.
“This is your room at the Lyon’s Den,” she finally deduced.
“Yes.”
“There is nothing personal here. Nothing at all. If I didn’t recognize the clothes, I wouldn’t see anything of you.” She looked at him. “How long have you lived here?”
“Two years.”
Two years and this was all he had. “Oscar collected books on birds. He recorded birdsong as musical notes in pages and pages of his journals. It was his passion. My brother, Elliott, remembers the smallest facts about everyone he meets. It allows him to find the perfect people for whatever work he sets his mind to. I hum music to myself whenever I can. When Oscar was better, we would go to musical evenings. It didn’t matter who played or sang. I could sit and listen to it all.” She looked about the room. “What is it that delights you? Is it truly all those papers? Is that the work you did here?”
He looked about his room, his gaze picking out the piles of papers. He pointed to one stack. “That is the details of the people here that I supervise. Each man and his history, schedules, and the like, plus payment records. The next pile is your men and your home. It is also everything on the desk there. The last pile holds my thoughts on the Beddoes and the plans I have for a business to protect people who need guarding.”
Her eyes widened. “You plan a business venture for that?”
He grinned. “I do, and Lord Beddoe has already recommended me to a few more customers, should it work out.”
“But that is excellent! You will do a wonderful job, I’m sure.”
He nodded as if he knew it was true, but then his gaze softened. “But if you look for my own pleasure…” He adjusted so he could reach beneath the bed and then brought out a guitar. It was battered and the strings frayed, but he held it with such care, she knew she looked at a true love of his. Next came a few sheets of music that he dropped beside her. There were smudges and crossed-out passages, but it was obvious that he had labored over each one.
“Did you write these?” she asked, amazed.
“I did. They are silly tunes,” he said. “I play because it is good for my hand.”
“And because you like it. Because you want to.”
He ducked his head as if embarrassed by the idea. “It is nothing like a true composer. I play very simply, and when I like the tune, I write it down to help me remember.”
She laughed. “But that is exactly like a true composer.” She touched the sheets. “Will you play one for me? Please?”
“Truly, I am not very good. In fact, Ruben has said I am very, very bad.”
“I don’t care. Please.”
He did as she asked, his cheeks ruddy with embarrassment or pleasure. She didn’t know which. She watched as he settled himself more co
mfortably on the bed, cradling the guitar with a gentleness that she adored. He tuned the instrument with care, muttering something about how he would have to buy new strings soon. She resolved that she would buy him enough to last him all year. And then, finally, he began to play.
He was right. The tune he played was simple, but it was so perfectly beautiful that her heart melted. It had a lightness to it, almost whimsical, but beneath it were bass notes that lingered. He thrummed a steady beat of longing. She pressed her hand to her heart as she listened.
It didn’t go on long. She knew when he returned to the beginning and played the first strains again as a kind of chorus. And if he missed a note, she didn’t notice. He fumbled a bit with his injured hand, but that made it all the more special somehow. And when he was done, she looked at him.
“That was wonderful. What were you thinking about when you wrote it?”
He let his guitar settle into his lap. “You,” he finally said. “I have wanted to play that for you since I wrote down the very first note.”
She didn’t think it was possible for her to love him more. Now she discovered a deeper well of emotion for him. These new feelings weren’t based on the safety he provided, but in simple appreciation for how he had expressed himself. Pure emotions set to music, and she wished she could give him something equally beautiful, equally personal. But she had nothing left of herself to give. It was all his already.
“Will you play more for me?” she whispered. “Anything you’ve written. Everything.”
“If you like.”
“Please.”
So he did. While she lay on the bed beside him, she listened in bliss as his music surrounded her. He played the things he had written, and when he thought she was sleeping, he played more. Random tunes, snatches of melodies, it all came from him, and she drank it in. And when he finally stopped, she stretched where she lay beside him. She put her hand on his arm and pulled him down.
“Please,” she whispered when he bent near. “Please let me love you.”
His eyes crinkled as he smiled at her, and his hand stroked across her brow as gently as he had stroked his guitar. “I can deny you nothing.”
Then he kissed her. She stretched up to him as he pushed down. Their mouths met, their tongues connected, and she played with him as best as she could. She tasted him. And she loved him so much her eyes teared up with wonder.
“Diana?” She saw confusion in his expression and fear. But she touched his cheek.
“You don’t understand what it is like,” she whispered. “I pushed all my feelings so far down that nothing touched me. But you do. You smile at me, and they come bubbling up. You touch me, and my will disappears. And now I am cracked so open that I feel everything.” She shook her head. “That’s not right. I feel you. And I cry because you are so beautiful.”
His mouth opened in surprise. She stroked her fingers across his brow and whispered her words because they were so full of meaning she could not say them with a full voice.
“I love you,” she said.
He stilled, his face poised above her. And then a shudder went through his entire body. A tremble that began in his hands until it flowed through both him and her. And when it was done, he was kissing her. His mouth was on her brow, her nose, her mouth, and down her neck. A frantic press of desire everywhere he could reach.
She met him as best she could. She reached for him with equal hunger. And when she could not kiss his skin, she tugged at his clothing, demanding he remove it.
He obliged, stripping out of his waistcoat and shirt with speed. She did the same, yanking at the ties of her dress until she could push it aside. She’d long since discarded her cloak and shoes, but now she wanted nothing between them. He was bare to the waist long before she was. Thankfully, he helped her strip away her corset and lifted off the rest. Her stockings remained, but she would not take the time for those. Not when she could kiss him again. When she could stroke her hand across his chest and feel his breath catch as she caught her nails on his nipple.
He pressed her down to the bed, feasting on her breasts as she pushed her hands into his hair. And while frenzy built in her blood, she tugged at the buttons of his pants.
“All of you, Lucas. Please. I want everything.”
In case it wasn’t clear enough, she stroked her hands across his cock, outlining it through his clothing. She pressed against the tip and rolled the heel of her hand up and down him. He hissed at what she did, and in the end, he pulled back far enough to do as she bid. He shed his clothing while she waited. And when he stood before her, she grasped his cock where it stretched toward her, thick and proud. She worked it as best she knew how, and then he gripped her hand and firmly peeled it away.
Their gazes met and held. If there was a question in his eyes, she didn’t understand it. He simply stood there—a naked man in full arousal. His muscles were taut, his body in its prime, and she felt a surge of lust so strong that it took her breath away. She still had the ability to form words. No breath, but her lips shaped one word.
Please.
He released her hand and abruptly stepped to his desk. With quick movements, he opened a drawer and pulled out a French letter. She watched as he put it on, then returned to her. She straightened, letting her hair fall away from her breasts, as she bared herself to him. She watched as his eyes fixed on her face, then her breasts, then her sex. His nostrils flared, and she slowly spread her knees. The air was thick with the scent of their desire, and she licked her lips, telling him without words that she wanted it as much as he.
Then he abruptly leaned down and grabbed her legs, curling his hands beneath her knees. With a strong tug, he pulled her to the edge of the bed and stepped between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him as he bent down over her. Then finally, wonderfully, she felt the tip of his cock press to her wet opening.
“Yes,” she said as he pushed inside her. A little, the barest of penetration. He was braced on his forearms above her. She had her hands on his shoulders and her body arching toward him, urging him on. But he didn’t move, and she whimpered in frustration. “You are the most difficult man ever!”
He grinned and thrust. One push of his hips and he was fully seated. She gasped at the feeling of fullness, of being taken this way by a man she loved. It made her smile as she opened herself to him. It made her arch into him, wanting to take him deeper, fuller, and more wholly inside her body. As deep here as he was in her heart.
And while he worked above her, she watched the muscles of his throat ripple with every contraction. She held his gaze and whispered everything she felt in an unending litany.
“I love you,” she said. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
The words were a wonder to her, the feelings wholly new. And with every whisper, his movements became faster, harder, and wilder until he was lost in her body, and she was carried away on his passion.
Climax came with a rush. Pleasure burst through her awareness. He tumbled soon afterward, releasing into her with a triumphant growl.
They clung together, riding the waves, thrilled with every pulse.
And when they tumbled back to earth, he collapsed beside her on the bed. She wove lazy fingers through his hair. And he murmured something incoherent into her shoulder. She didn’t know what he said, but she felt his lips press tiny kisses there. And she reveled in the way his arm lay heavy across her belly.
It took a long time before she gathered herself to ask her question. Eventually, she managed it. “Can we stay here tonight?”
He frowned. “Below a gaming hell? Are you mad?”
“Yes, completely mad for you.” She turned to face him more squarely. “Just tonight. We’ll leave the rest for tomorrow. I am completely safe here.”
“Not your reputation. That will be in tatters should anyone talk.”
She arched a brow. “They won’t. Most don’t even know I’m back yet. Besides, I’m a wealthy widow. I can do as I want.” She sobered. “Or I
can if you want it as well.”
He slowly pushed up onto an elbow. She thought he would answer then, but instead, he leaned forward to kiss her. A slow, heady kiss that had her loins stirring again. And when they separated, she smiled coyly at him. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
Yes!
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Morning came with a stretch of sore muscles and lingering happiness that made Lucas smile.
He didn’t fool himself into believing that Diana had agreed to marry him. Last night had been about emotions unfettered from the usual constraints. The morning came with responsibilities and second thoughts.
Still, he couldn’t regret a moment of their time together. Not the way she came apart in his arms, not the fevered way she whispered she loved him, nor the sweet way she nuzzled against him in her sleep. He was alive with joy this morning, for all that he had not furthered his goals of getting his ring on her finger. And because he still worried about her reputation, he woke them both early enough to get her home before most of the house realized she’d been gone.
He would protect her honor even if she cared nothing for it. If the situation with Geoffrey ever went to court, she would need every scrap of respectability she could muster.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon loaned him a carriage to get her quietly home. They came in the back and tiptoed upstairs. She was sleepy as he helped her into bed. Her expression was soft, her hair in disarray, and when she looked at him, his heart overflowed with need. He wanted her as his own—forever. But she was not a woman who could be caught in the usual ways. After he kissed her one last time, he whispered the question that had plagued him the night through.
“How can I get you to say yes to me?”
She sighed. “Realize that you don’t need me as your wife.”
A seemingly profound statement that made no sense to him. “I don’t need you to live,” he lied. “I want you by my side, honorably. I don’t want to sneak in and out of your bed as if we were ashamed.”