Chapter 4
Derek
Two weeks later…
London, England.
As Roderick Blackwood, Marquess of Dunmore, stared at the voluptuous nude woman frozen in front of him, it occurred to him he was getting too old for climbing out windows. Perhaps he should cease his dalliances. He coughed, choking back his laugh.
That’s a bloody corker.
At eight-and-twenty, he had many windows and many women ahead of him.
Footsteps thundered from out in the hallway, an almighty roar reverberating through the house.
Derek glanced over at the bed to see the rosy-cheeked brunette still frozen in place. Shadows danced off the sheet clutched to her chest in the dim candlelight of her bedchamber, eyes wide as saucers fixed on the large oak door.
“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Derek muttered.
Clearly, this woman was a novice at assignations.
He closed his eyes and sent a prayer to the gods of debauchery.
He had just wanted to drown himself in her overabundance of curves, forget for a brief moment, and be on his way.
Down the stairs. Exiting through a bloody door.
But no, he was going to be inconvenienced by leaving through a window.
“Cora!” the voice bellowed, closer now.
Derek snapped his fingers. “Well, don’t just sit there.” He shook his head and started looking for his boots. She was going to feign shock after cuckolding her husband? “Don your robe and get ready to answer the damn door.”
Ah! There’s one. He scrambled over and grabbed his Hessian boot.
Hopping on one foot, he pulled it on and scanned the room for its twin.
He spotted it and stealthily ran to the other side of the room.
He moved to put it on and froze. He frowned down at his bare toes, wiggling them.
Where was his stocking? He shrugged and pulled on his boot. No time to find it.
He hurried over to the window, sweeping his shirt and cravat off the ground and grabbing his coat off the armchair next to the window.
The brunette…what was her name again? Cora was what the enraged husband in the hall had said? Cora yanked her arms through her dark rose silk robe, forgoing a night rail, generous breasts bouncing with her movements.
Derek paused to enjoy the view. Perhaps they were worth an exit through a window.
He grinned and threw up the sash. He glanced back, attention falling on her ivory night rail on the floor, the delicate fabric ripped in half down the front.
His grin widened as dark delight rushed through him. Best of luck explaining that one, dear.
Bang! A door crashed against something hard in the adjoining room. Another roar. “Cora!”
“I’m coming, my lord,” Cora squeaked, her hands fumbling in her haste.
Derek chuckled. Not the first time she’d said that tonight. Nor the second. “A word of advice,” he drawled. “The next time you consort with a gentleman, ensure your husband won’t be returning home.” He swung his leg over the window frame and straddled it.
A sniffle sounded from inside the room, and his gaze flew to her face. Slightly furrowed eyebrows. Puckered, plush lips. He homed in on her mouth—her surprisingly talented mouth. Fine, he’d admit it—the window exit was worth it.
“Next time I consort with a man…” She inhaled a shaky breath. “Are you implying you won’t be seeing me again?”
His gaze shot back to her eyes. They were glossy.
Another sniff. Shite. Tears. He let out a large breath and pinched his nose.
God save him from emotional women. This was why he never bedded a woman more than once.
Emotions. His lip curled in disgust. Emotions were what destroyed families, either wielded for self-interest or as instruments of manipulation.
A pounding shook the door to the adjoining chamber. “Cora! Open the bloody door!”
Derek shot her a pitying look. “I’m a marquess, woman,” he bit out.
“And I am about to scale down the side of your home. All because you couldn’t plan accordingly.
I can get what you gave me anywhere, served up on a gilt platter while I lounge in bed if I so wished.
I do not scurry through windows like a thief. ”
He swung his other leg over and explored the molding beneath the window until he found purchase with the toe of his boot.
“It’s true what they say,” she said with a shuddering breath. “The only things to commend you are your wealth and title.”
An ugly heat streaked through his muscles, tightening, coiling, but Derek forced it away with a curve of his lips, more snarl than smile. Society thought he was a cynical, heartless bastard. And he loved proving them right. “Don’t forget my cock, darling.”
With that, he dropped down, leaving her blushing and sputtering.
Now to find his carriage. He had instructed his driver to continuously circle the block until he was done with his errand. He balled his fists and then released them, shook them out. Tried to shake away the fury.
The only things to commend you are your wealth and title.
She’d been singing a different tune a moment ago.
One that involved moans and gasps and pleas.
He’d wager his entire fortune that woman had never had an orgasm before.
And this was the gratitude he received? For giving her three.
But that’s how they worked. All they cared about was what they could use you for.
Which was why he’d never let them have it. Have him. Fuck them.
He used them.
He had a few rules in life: Don’t let the game control you, you control the game. Don’t let drink consume you, you consume the drink. Don’t let any woman own you, you own all women. Those rules never allowed for a bad night.
His breath materialized in front of him with each huff, drifting into the cool night.
Ballocks. He hated how drastically the temperature dropped at night in April.
His skin prickled with gooseflesh as he whipped his shirt over his head.
He kept his eyes peeled for his carriage and approached the main street from the mews of the London townhouse he had just exited.
A dark blur shifted in the shadows of an alley off the street.
Derek’s gaze homed in on the movement. A pair of small eyes glinted in the lamplight of the street, whatever it was—animal or human—huddled against the murky wall of the alley.
He approached slowly, the form of a small child becoming more distinct.
The child froze, and he knew from experience what would happen next. Derek lunged just as the scamp darted to flee. His hand caught the back of the grimy rags the boy or girl was wearing.
“Get urff me!” The child thrashed violently, and Derek hastily clamped his other hand around the child’s wrist. “I ain’t goin’t be buggered!”
“Nobody’s getting buggered,” Derek gritted out because the little urchin managed to land a hard kick to his shin. “If I put you down and keep my hands in the air where you can see them, do you promise not to run?”
The dirt-covered face peered up at him, eyebrows pinched. But the little ragamuffin stilled, so Derek carefully lowered the child to the ground.
“I’m not going to harm you. Will you hear me out if I let you go?”
The child eyed him wearily but nodded, overgrown hair that looked hacked by a butcher instead of a barber, flopping wildly.
Derek let the child go and stepped back. “Have you heard of Second Chance House for Foundlings?”
The dirty mop of hair nodded.
Derek slowly reached into the folds of the jacket over his arm and withdrew a calling card and a coin. “Proceed to this address if you’d like a hot meal and a safe place to stay. Just present this card. And if you decide not to, you have a crown for a week’s worth of meals.”
The child snatched up the card as Derek listed the address. The clop of hooves sounded to his left, and his gaze landed on his carriage coming down the road, pulled by two massive Belgian Blacks, clouds of white air puffing ominously from their noses.
He looked back at the child, but it was gone.
Would the child take him up on his offer?
Not even half the ones he approached ended up showing up at the foundling home.
Even then, the home was already packed tighter than a stagecoach.
The expansion better get on its way soon or they’d, no doubt, overflow.
He turned to his impressive horseflesh. They were a fabulous purchase, complementing his black carriage to perfection. Complementing the blackness residing within himself.
The junior footman scurried to open the door, and Derek climbed inside.
A cold hollowness stole over him, immediately followed by an oppressive weight.
It forced him back against the deep-red velvet-covered seats.
It dragged his shoulders down, like if the claws sank in deep enough, pulled hard enough, they could bring him down into Hell.
It’s where he ended up when he couldn’t fight it.
Sleep was no longer an option tonight, that was for certain.
His eyes sank shut, and it took everything in him to pound his fist against the roof.
“To my club!”