Chapter 12
This was hardly Bull’s first visit to Endymion.
Staring up at the underside of the canopy, he stacked his hands behind his head and tried to remember the first time; it had been December, the year he’d gone to live with his brother Rourke, and they’d come for the afternoon, hadn’t they?
That visit, when snow had trapped their party here, Bull and the twins had slept on sofas in the library.
In the times he’d stayed here since then, he’d been given various guest rooms.
Tonight?
Tonight, Bull was sleeping on the top floor in what would likely have been a servant’s chamber, had Demon employed enough people. But since he and Georgia got by with a bare bones staff, this room was used as a spare room for the least-desirable guests.
Like Bull.
His lips twisted ruefully as he sighed and scrubbed his hand down his face.
Why the fook couldn’t he sleep? He’d been lying here in darkness for hours, tossing and turning, mind whirling.
He should be focusing on the case, or at least using this time to go over the facts of what they knew and what they didn’t.
Instead, all he could think about was that confrontation in the parlor.
The one where Demon told him he wasnae good enough.
After being raised by a father who killed off the sons who displeased him, and growing up in a world where bastards were judged poorly—and light-fingered bastards who’d taken a few years to figure out how to judge right from wrong from criminal were judged even more harshly—Bull had spent a lifetime trying to prove that he was good enough.
He’d been lucky to have his brother Rourke and his brother-in-law Crowe to show him how to be a good man.
When his mother had married Griffin—now the Duke of Peasgoode—that gruff and somber man had shown him how to love and honor his family.
How that could be braver, and stronger, than any amount of fighting.
Bull might not have gone to the same schools as the true sons of the aristocracy, but he’d studied abroad, he was known far and wide as a good friend, and he’d built a successful detective agency with his own hands.
Aye, perhaps he hadn’t saved the world or anything, but he’d saved the worlds of his clients, and that mattered.
He mattered.
So why, lying here in the darkness, staring up at nothing, did he struggle to remember that? Why were there tears in his eyes?
Because deep down, ye’re afraid. Ye’re afraid Demon is right, damn him.
Ye’re no’ good enough for her.
Angrily, Bull swiped at his eyes then pinched the bridge of his nose.
Aye, this was about his Rose. It had always been about his Rose.
He just hadn’t realized it until he’d seen that ring on her finger. Until she’d described herself as his, his betrothed. Until she’d saved him, until she’d trusted him enough to come apart against his body.
With a sigh, he flopped back furiously against the pillows.
Even now his cock throbbed painfully, reminding him of the constant torture of these last few days.
It wasn’t just her scent, or the way she looked in the morning with that sleepy smile, or the obvious beauty that aroused him.
It was the way she grinned in challenge as she learned to cheat, or the way she told a story with her hands as she made him laugh, or that silent look she gave him that was more comfort than he had ever known.
He wasn’t good enough for her, but he still wanted her.
He wanted—desperately wanted—to be good enough for her.
Wanted to be the man who stood beside her, who bragged about her successes to every new introduction. He wanted to be the man she reached for in the night, the man who made her scream in pleasure—
Groaning in surrender, Bull kicked his way out of the blankets and reached for his cock.
It wasn’t the first time he’d stroked himself while thinking about a woman, but this time it was different; he’d been in close quarters with that woman for days, and this was his first time alone.
All he had to do now was remember the way her breath had blossomed against his skin, remember the way she’d gripped him as she’d rocked against him, as if to keep herself anchored. Remembered the way she’d gasped and cried out as her cunny had flooded with molten desire…
Bull came with a quiet grunt, some of his tension easing with his release.
Had that been all he’d needed?
With a sigh, he rolled from the bed to clean up. Nay, that hadn’t been enough to satiate him, but perhaps…
Perhaps he’d be able to focus on the case now. Perhaps, after they’d explained what they were looking for to Georgia, and Demon had kicked him out…perhaps Bull could be satisfied, knowing his Rose had solved the case: had proven herself—not to him, but to herself.
Because he was going to be fooking proud of her, no matter what.
Bull flopped back down onto the mattress, feeling the days of stress and exhaustion finally—finally!—catching up with him. He closed his eyes on another sigh.
Tomorrow, he’d do his best to focus on solving his case. For Rose.
And that had to be good enough.
The next morning dawned cold and clear, the blue sky almost completely cloudless. Bull flicked his fingertips against the glass as he stood at the window of the breakfast room, and had to admit the view was incredible. This was the kind of place Rose deserved.
Not a small set of rooms in smokey London.
“Good morning!” Rose’s eyes were bright as she hurried into the room. “Did you sleep well?”
How to respond? Bull shrugged, his gaze entirely captured by her breathless energy, even more beautiful than the snow-covered hills out the window. “I was…out of sorts.”
The grin she sent him might have looked a bit triumphant as she joined him by the window. “I was as well. What a beautiful morning.”
To his surprise, Rose reached up and pulled his never-still fingers away from the windowpane and twined her own fingers with them. They stood there for a long moment; she might have been looking at the view, but his attention was focused on her.
Finally, his woman took a deep breath. “Have you ever thought about what you would do if you did not run the detective agency?”
Bull’s brow puckered. “Ye mean, if I hadnae started it?”
“No.” She hesitated, and he saw her gaze dart around without looking at him.
“I mean, if you started it, found your success…” Finally, she shifted to meet his eyes.
“And then happily closed its doors, because all of your detectives had moved on with their lives and found their happiness. Found their place.”
Bull reared back, his eyes wide. “Ye mean…Marcia, Gabby and Hunter have all fallen in love and married?”
“And now it is just you.” She gave a little nod, then looked out the window once more. “If there was ever anything else you wanted to do with your life, Bull, now would be the time to do it. Branch out.”
Was there?
He’d spent more than a decade building the Lindsay Detective Group, gaining a reputation for honesty and trustworthiness which he had desperately earned; the thought of walking away from it…
Well, a year ago he would have laughed at the thought.
But she was right; all of his friends—all of his detectives—had married and moved on with their lives.
Would soon be popping out bairns. As each found their happiness, happiness Bull himself had helped facilitate, he’d taken fewer and fewer cases.
His investments had long ago reached the point where he didn’t need the detective cases to support himself; he wasn’t a poor man.
Just a man without a real place to belong.
But…
“What about ye?” he asked gruffly, unwilling to drop her hand. “What would ye do if ye didnae have yer art to study?”
“I will always have art to study,” she admitted with a sigh, glancing up at him.
“We are never going to run out of art, are we? But you mean, were I not allowed to study it formally?” A little shrug.
“I suppose, like every other duke’s daughter in history, I would be forced to learn how to run an estate for my future husband and hope that I did not die an old maid. ”
“And…” Bull cleared his throat. “What if yer future husband did not have an estate?”
Rose didn’t hesitate. “Then I should have to find an estate for us to share. I cannot allow all this estate-running education to go to waste!”
Her reply was so unexpected that Bull’s laughter burst from his lips before he could stop it, and he found himself smiling down at her. “Ye could do it, Rose. I believe ye.”
That smile—the smile which told him he’d said the right thing—made him feel like a hero.
“Well?” she whispered, squeezing his fingers. “Think about it, yes?”
His heart skipped a beat. “Think about what? Ye cheating yer way into a card game and winning an estate?”
Her grin grew. “No, you cockwangling dobber! I mean, what would you do if you no longer accepted cases.”
“I suppose I would have to design clothes.” The answer slipped from his mouth before he could really think about it, but judging from how wide her eyes grew, she hadn’t expected it either. He shrugged and continued. “It was what I wanted to do as a lad, ye ken, but I’m good at detective work.”
“No,” Rose breathed, swaying toward him.
“No, Bull, you are good at making friends. You are good at caring. You are good at noticing people. That has made you a good detective. And…” She placed her free hand on his chest. “And that is what will make you successful at anything you choose, whether it be detective work, or clothing design, or managing an estate.”
An estate he would never own.
Still, her surety warmed him. Nay, not her surety, her faith in him. That, and the whole touching thing. That warmed the hell out of him.
Unbidden, his gaze dropped to her chest. There, disappearing beneath the frothy lace of her collar, was a ribbon she hadn’t been wearing yesterday. A green ribbon, the fabric rich and well made.