Chapter 9 #3
“I thought you’d arranged to meet Bertie at the club.”
“Sod Bertie. I’ve a hunger for something more than claret.” He snatched the robe, draping it around her shoulders, gripping it tight and pulling her closer. “I hope this smells of you.” It wasn’t a lie.
“You don’t mind me wearing it?”
He held her gaze, let her feel the heat of a man who’d spent the night thinking of nothing but her. “The thought of you in my clothes is the only thing that’s kept me sane.”
She was just as breathless as he was now.
He couldn’t follow the script, couldn’t listen to talk of little Martha. He wanted to kiss her, but if he’d discovered his child was ill, he would insist they go straight to the nursery.
Her hand came to rest on his chest. “You didn’t need to race home for me. You might have been hurt.”
“I’d ride through fire for you. Fight an army for one kiss.”
Her fingers moved to the opening of his shirt. She drew a sharp breath when her skin touched his skin. “Then kiss me.”
He didn’t wait. He took her mouth with a hunger he felt to the pit of his stomach. A hunger he’d fought since that night beneath the pew.
The game gave him leave to be reckless. He pushed his hand into her hair, careless of the falling pins, and angled her head so he could deepen the kiss. What began slowly turned desperate in seconds. Her lips parted beneath his, and the sound she made nearly undid him.
“Do you think Howden would kiss you like this?” he growled against her skin as he nipped her jaw, her throat, the upper swell of her breasts. God, how he wanted to free them.
“No,” she breathed, her hands in his hair now, each tug pulsing in his groin. “Howden would never kiss me as though he might lose his mind.”
He was in danger of losing more than his mind. “You see the difference between politeness and passion?”
She was more than eager for his mouth, arching against him with every hungry sweep of his tongue.
Her breath caught as his thigh pressed between hers. The little cry that left her was soft, helpless, and dangerously close to encouragement. It did nothing to ease the throbbing ache straining in his trousers.
They should stop.
But his passionate, pretend wife wanted her fill. Her hands were everywhere, his hair, his neck, exploring the hard muscles in his chest. The urge to hike up her skirts and drive home pounded through his blood.
Reality struck like cold water.
This was no longer a game.
He tore his mouth from hers. “I think that proves the point.” He swallowed hard and tried to ignore the call to claim her. “You need a man whose kisses burn through your clothes. You need a man who can’t think straight when he looks at you.”
He released her when he wanted to carry her to bed, and stepped back, though no distance would make this respectable.
“Yes, but it’s as I suspected.” She pressed her palm to her chest as she caught her breath. “With Howden, there’s coldness but no craving. I can see how dangerous passion is. I fear I might grow terribly selfish if I married someone like you.”
“I see no tragedy in that.” Though how would a man work if he needed to constantly bed his wife? “Besides, we were both merely demonstrating the difference.”
She looked wounded. “You were faking?”
“No. I’m a man. I wanted to bed you.”
“Good. I’m not wholly unattractive then.”
“Not in the least.”
They fell silent. He hoped the thrum of longing might dissipate. It was still there, an invisible current between them.
“I’m not sure we should go to Long Ditton tomorrow,” she said. “We should speak to Lady Bellingham before we leave town. If her daughter is missing, it may have some connection to the murder.”
He studied her. Her gown was creased where she’d slept, hair mussed where he’d loosened the pins, lips swollen where he’d kissed her and wanted to again. Yet her thoughts were on the case.
“Spoken like a true journalist, Miss Vane.”
“I sense a but.”
“Your sister will tear London apart by breakfast.” Perhaps Howden would hammer on Hugh’s door too, demanding his bride. “And when your maid breaks, everyone and his dog will look for you here. You need to be gone by morning.”
She stilled, her stare blank. Then she shook herself. “I’ll find a lodging house. Mr Bellingham trusted me to uncover the truth, and that’s what I intend to do. We must speak to his mother.”
Someone else might have called her a fool, but she was right, and he admired her spirit.
An unwelcome thought intruded.
There was somewhere she might go. A dreaded monstrosity of a place he’d sworn never to set foot in again. Remote. An hour’s ride from town. Still his, because the law had a cruel sense of humour.
He dismissed the thought before it took root.
Some doors were better left bolted.
“We’ll discuss lodging houses tomorrow once we’ve questioned Lady Bellingham.” Hopefully, Charlotte would send clothes promptly. “You should sleep.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“I’ll survive the sofa.”
And spend the night staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell Miss Vane had turned his life into a farce in less than a week.