Chapter 13
Clio was not possessed of a nervous disposition.
By the third—and thank the good Lord above, final—day of the house party, she felt as frazzled as the most missish lady the ton had ever seen.
She had spent the whole day prior trying to avoid Hector. And she had spent the entire day seeing him in every shadow.
Only half of them had proven real.
That had been the part that had driven her truly out of her head, the realization that even when he wasn’t actually closing in around her, she could feel his presence.
And then, when he’d looked at her from behind the doorway…
There had been something in that gaze that had made her feel hot all over. She’d gotten so flushed that Phoebe had asked if she felt quite all right.
Clio had responded in the very mature and sensible way of fleeing.
She’d hated it. And, in other ways, she hadn’t hated it at all.
She hadn’t hated it in a way that made her agonizingly aware of her body in a way she’d never felt before. Yes, she’d been complimented for her looks—even Hector had complimented them—but that had never felt like it was about her.
Maybe Lord Gwanton had been right, she’d thought in her lower moments. Maybe I am the problem. Maybe I’m too spoiled. Maybe that’s why none of the men who have ever shown interest have made me want them in return.
Except …
Except, as soon as the thought had manifested in her mind, she’d recalled Hector’s assessing eyes, had thought of the way his shoulders had bunched under his shirt as he’d lifted her from the carriage, had thought of that kiss—
It left her with questions.
And so, after spending the last day of the party in her room, feigning a headache and avoiding everyone—except Phoebe, who had come to laugh at her over the obvious lie—Clio had slipped from her room to find the man that had instilled those questions in her and, for goodness’ sake, get some bloody answers.
She refused to listen to her better angels as she bribed a housemaid for the direction to Hector’s bedchamber, refused to pause long enough to consider that this was, without a doubt, the stupidest thing she’d ever done.
She didn’t even pause long enough to knock.
Hector startled when the door cracked open, revealing himself as a man who hadn’t grown up with a staff around him, constantly slipping in and out of rooms. He was alone and expected to stay alone, which was never guaranteed in one of the grand aristocratic houses.
His shoulders—Clio swallowed hard as she looked at his shoulders through only the thin linen of his shirt—tensed, then relaxed when he saw it was her … but only halfway.
“Clio,” he said, sounding resigned more than surprised.
“Hector.” If he used her name like a familiar caress, she used his out of sheer defiance. His eyes flared wide at the sound.
“What are you doing here, princess?” he asked. He reached for a tumbler of whisky on the side table, but the motion looked forced, as if he was tugging on this coat of casualness with a great deal of effort.
Clio felt as though something inside her was shaking. Maybe it was her heart racing—which it was—but it felt deeper than that. Like her very essence was trembling, searching for—
For what?
For him.
She raised her chin, hoping she looked more certain than she felt.
“If people are going to be talking about me,” she said, “I may as well deserve it.”
Slowly, Hector put down his glass.
“Talk is rarely deserved,” he said carefully. “Do you think I deserve them hating me because my leg is not right? Because I was a blacksmith—an honest occupation? Do you think I don’t care when they offer me sycophantic smiles only to sneer behind my back?”
“At least you hear some flattery!” she protested, throwing up her hands. “I only get cruelty. Even my brother … he offers only pity. It’s kindly meant, but—” She cut herself off with an angry scoff. “You’re the only one who doesn’t make me feel like … like I’m ruined.”
She hadn’t realized quite how true that felt until she said it. It wasn’t just her reputation; she didn’t really care that much about her reputation. She cared that she was letting these people make her feel like she was less than she’d once been, just because of some idle talk.
But Hector hadn’t done that. He’d made her feel like a nuisance. Strange how reassuring that had become.
“They’re idiots,” he told her, rising to his feet. He made it seem so simple. “But you knew that I would say that. So, princess. Why are you really here?”
He was so powerful. It was written in every line of his body as he approached, his uneven gait notwithstanding. It was absurd to think that anyone had ever thought him lesser because of the injury to his leg or the scarring on his ear.
She swallowed hard.
“I told you,” she said. “If I’m going to be ruined … I want to be ruined.”
“Clio.” His word was a warning, but his feet came closer to her. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
She narrowed her eyes at him; this time, she took a step forward.
“Don’t do that,” she commanded. “Don’t treat me like I don’t know my mind. The only thing I don’t know …” She swallowed hard. “Is how far this feeling goes.”
His mouth ticked up into a hint of a smile, but his eyes were as serious as the grave.
“It’s a downside to being the perfect aristocratic lady, isn’t it, princess?” he asked. “It takes away the freedom to explore what you want—what you need—because of Society’s expectations.”
She nodded, feeling transfixed.
“Show me,” she asked, the word a plea. “Just, please show—”
She didn’t have enough time to finish the request before his mouth crashed to hers.
It was hungrier than their previous touches, as though each time they came together increased their wanting rather than satisfied it. She melted into the embrace instantly, opening her lips to the fullness of his kiss—
Only to have him pull back long, long before she was satisfied.
“Why?” she protested, not caring that she sounded like a petulant child.
He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath ragged, no matter how brief their embrace.
“You should leave, Clio,” he said, though his hands did not move from her arms. “If you were smart, you would leave and tell your brother to greet me with pistols at dawn.”
Temper flared within her, eclipsing the flash of alarm at the idea of Hector and Aaron shooting at one another. Aaron had been in the Navy for years, after all. He was a deadly shot.
“Don’t,” she commanded, digging her fingers into his upper arms, not that she truly thought she could stop him if he tried to pull away, “tell me what I should do. I’ve had enough.”
“Clio.” Her name was a groan. “If you don’t go now, you will be ruined—and not because of any of the nonsense that Society spews. I will ruin you for any other man, princess. You will be all mine.”
The smile spread across Clio’s face of its own volition. Maybe his words should have made her worry more, but she had never felt so alive in her life.
“I’m not leaving,” she told him.
His fingers clenched briefly where they held her, and she had a strange surge of pleasure at the idea that they might leave marks. She liked the idea of him leaving a trace upon her.
“I need this,” she whispered against his mouth. “Just this once.”
He growled, perhaps at the contrast between his promises of ruination and her reference to a singular event—but she wasn’t quite so far lost to her desire that she planned to wager her entire life on it.
Not quite so far.
She wasn’t certain that her resolve would last against the onslaught of his kiss, however—and it was an onslaught, one that overwhelmed her senses in an instant.
He tasted of danger and safety all at once, of whisky and warmth and of that strange sense of rightness that only he seemed to bring out in her.
He was all competence, from every caress of his tongue against hers to the way he led her across to the room—not to his bed, something that Clio realized with comingled relief and disappointment, but to a low divan.
He stretched her out across the cushions, then lowered his weight atop her just enough that she could feel him everywhere, but not enough to crush her.
She almost wished that he would crush her. She wanted to feel him until she knew that he’d never be away from her, until they were irrevocably bound.
“I’m not going to make love to you,” he told her, as though he could read her thoughts, and she whined a little protest into his mouth. He pulled back enough to look at her, and his expression was all masculine pride. “But don’t worry, sweet girl,” he purred. “I won’t leave you wanting.”
Clio’s hips jerked at those words, propelled by some instinct she didn’t understand.
Hector’s smirk intensified.
“That’s right,” he told her, his accented voice lush with praise. That made the warmth curling in Clio’s belly surge even brighter. “Let me show you what you need, princess. Let me give you everything.”
“Hector. Yes, please.”
She’d never felt less articulate in her life, but she found that she didn’t need any words beyond the ones that passed her lips; not only did they represent the whole of what she was feeling, but Hector seemed to understand them—and her—perfectly.
“Of course, princess,” he said, and it was a mockery of the title, but that made her as warm as the praise had done.
He began moving his way down her body, kissing down her neck, then over her collarbones, and across her decolletage.
She felt certain that he was about to tug down the neckline of her gown, and she arched her back to meet his touch.
Instead of revealing her breasts, however, he pushed back onto the knee of his good leg and placed featherlight kisses atop the fabric of her gown.
“Wait,” she protested. “Why?” She threaded her fingers through his hair and tried to tug him closer, but she was, of course, no match for his strength.