Chapter 12
Charles
Sitting across from Cynthia is near torture. My cock pulses with every slip of the fork between her perfect lips. Soon, it will be me easing into her mouth, feeding her my cock as if it were a most precious dessert.
Unfortunately, every time I breathe in, I take her scent deep into my lungs—damnable peony and parchment. How I long to drag her over to my town house and put her over my desk. I would write upon her flesh, drawing my name with my quill as her scent blooms in the room.
“Charles?”
Blinking, I look over at my mother, forcing the lurid thoughts from my brain. “Forgive me, Mother. I was distracted. What were you saying?”
She gives me a soft, knowing smile as her gaze turns toward Cynthia for the briefest of moments before bringing it back to me. “I was merely inquiring into the nature of your cook. Is she unable to feed you?”
My brow furrows as I tilt my head, my brain refusing to make sense of her words. “She is well adapted to the task. Why do you ask?”
“Well, you seem to be eating here far more often as of late. Though I do keep my doors open to all my children, I confess I am curious as to this sudden turn. You have appeared on my doorstep far more often these last few days than you have all Season.”
“Have you missed me, Mother?” I tease, doing my best to keep the tone congenial.
“Well, of course. You are my son. Are you saying this change of heart is because you miss me as well?”
Leaning back, I place my fork on the napkin and give her a large grin. “I figured now that Lewis is far more occupied with his bride, it would do your heart some good to have this bachelor here where you can be entertained.”
Penelope shuffles about in her chair as her lips turn up into a mischievous smile. “If your aim is to entertain, then you must take a turn on the pianoforte. I dare say Miss Campbell must be bored staying here with us. You must give her some joy in these dark times.”
“Dark times indeed,” I snort. “And that is to say you three haven’t been entertaining her at all?”
“Well, of course. One does what one must. But to see you play the pianoforte… Why I feel that would be most entertaining indeed.”
“Right,” I grumble. “And it has nothing to do with the laughing that will happen behind your fans when I fumble the notes. If you want a performance, go to the opera.”
“Cynthia is already slated to go,” Georgiana pipes up. “The invitation came this afternoon.”
I glance over at Cynthia and note the light flush to her cheeks. Was she going to tell me, I wonder. Or would I find out about it in the same way I did her traipsing about Hyde Park with her ill intended?
“Did it?” I ask, doing my best to keep my tone neutral. “And are you attending with her?”
At this, Penelope slumps into her seat. “No. It’s only for Cynthia and a chaperon. We are not eligible or invited.”
Sophia gives her sister a small smile and pats her arm. “Fret not, Penelope. He is her betrothed. I’m sure after they’re wed, there will be plenty of opportunities.”
“But I have a dress I would so love to show off to the Ton,” she continues, babbling away at this missed opportunity, not even realizing the pain it’s causing her dear friend.
Cynthia sits there, nibbling at her food, barely touching it, her eyes wet with unshed tears. Just like with this morning, hardly anything goes into her stomach. Nerves, no doubt. But this certainly won’t do.
Glancing back at my sisters, I give a decisive nod. “Miss Campbell is not at liberty to give you a spot in Henhaven’s box. That is his decision and his alone. However, if you are most desperate to show off your new frock, I suppose I can take you three.”
“Really?” Penelope cries out as she claps her hands.
“Do you even know what is playing that evening?” Georgiana asks as she brings a forkful of dinner to her lips.
“Does it matter?” Penelope preens. “I get to see and be seen.”
Sophia ducks her head a touch. “Seems like it might be awfully crowded.”
Penelope, of course, waves her concerns aside. “We’ll be in Charles’s box, silly. No one else will press upon you. Even if it’s a crush, we will be safely ensconced away where no one can touch you.”
“I suppose…”
“You never said what opera,” Georgiana insists.
“La Clemenza di Tito,” Cynthia murmurs over her plate. “At least, that is what the invitation said. Mozart, I believe.”
Georgiana looks back at me, her face beaming. “I am much enamored with Mozart. Thank you so much for letting us go with you! I shall endeavor to let this influence my own playing.”
Penelope scoffs as she nudges her with her shoulder. “Careful. Men don’t like women who are smarter than them. A musician will certainly fall into that category.”
“Not that you care about anything more than if you’re dressed better than them or not,” Georgiana counters. “Some of us like intelligence and men who are not scared away by it. Just look at Alessandra.”
“Yes,” she counters, “but Portswell is a musician himself. That’s the point.”
“Girls,” Mother cuts in, her voice sharp but kind. “Enough prattling on about men. There will be more than enough time for that come the next Season. Right now, you should be focused on Miss Campbell and giving her companionship until she walks down the aisle.”
“Yes, Mother,” they say in unison.
“Forgive me, Cynthia,” Penelope murmurs. “I got caught up in the excitement.”
“No need to apologize. I am happy there is excitement enough for the both of us.”
She gives Cynthia an odd look. “You are not excited?”
When she raises her head a moment, the misery on her face nearly guts me. I want nothing more than to order everyone from the table so that I may hold her in my arms and reassure her of the lie we both know hangs heavy in the air.
“I will be excited,” she says. “I promise. I’ve just had a tiring day. If you’ll excuse me.” She rises and gives us a curtsy before striding out of the room. Her face looks a little pinched before she turns around.
“But wait!” Georgiana calls after her. “You’ve barely touched your food!”
“Let her go,” Mother says as she pierces me with an all-too-knowing stare. “She will be fine. Just let her go.”
If only I could.
Silence fills the room as we continue eating. Only the clinking of silverware on dishes makes any noise. Each of us seems caught up in our own thoughts, but none of them are transparent. At least not to me. But then, I don’t want the others to know what I’m thinking.
Once I’ve waited long enough for it to be proper, I take my leave and take Erebus back to my town house. Cynthia should be here. She should be on my arm as I take her inside to defile her. It should be me bringing her to the opera. I should be the one parading her around Hyde Park.
Arlo Mathews, Duke of Dunton, wagers Finnley Riley, Viscount of Glendale, the sum of one hundred guineas that the Duke of Norhaven shall make his intentions toward Miss Campbell of Kirden known before her wedding to the Viscount of Henhaven.
The words pound through my brain as if emblazoned thereon. Fucking Arlo Mathews. Only here to cause trouble. What next? Is he going to pretend to compromise Cynthia at a ball or some such nonsense?
Anger and exhaustion war in me as I brush past the footman to head to my study. I’ve already had one letter from the blackmailer today. Hopefully, there’s not a second.
I sink into my chair and wait until the butler hands me the stack. Nothing amiss. Nothing untoward. No word back from my correspondents either. Rage floods my soul as I drag my hands across my desk and cast the contents onto the floor.
There has to be something. No one has power of any sort without even a hint of corruption. Glancing at the window, I grit my teeth as my brain continues to seek any sort of answer. Hell, compared to what I’ve done in the military, this should be nothing.
I storm out of the room and down the hall, slipping into a side door hidden in the wall. The air is cold and crisp as I make my way down to the lower level where I keep things I’d rather polite society not see.
There’s no need to light my way. I know this route as if by memory. Each step comes to me in rote measure as I go down the flight and stop near the end. Only when I slip into the room and close the door behind me do I find the lantern near the opening and strike the my tinderbox to start the spark.
Slowly, the room comes into view as I make my way over to the wall. There, hanging off by itself, is the crop I used on her that night. That fateful evening where I knew I wouldn’t be able to get her out of my mind. That night, when everything changed between us.
Groaning, I slip it off the hook and hide it under my coat. From there, I gather some rope and tuck it into my pockets. With a soft breath of air, I blow out the lantern and make my way back through the house.
Cook should be asleep by now, but she always manages to leave some bits of cake for those who feel the need to fatten their bones in the middle of the night. Cynthia could certainly use a little more food in her body.
I snag a few slices and tuck them into an oiled rag before slipping out the back and into the night. There’s no need for Erebus. Not when Mother’s house is so close. Keeping my steps quiet, I make my way around the houses until I’m back at the servants’ entrance.
This will be the last time. It has to be. I can’t keep torturing us both.
Pretty words, but deep inside, I know they aren’t true. I know deep down I’ll never leave her side until the parson demands it with vows made before God and man. Even then, once she has her heir and spare, I’m sure I can slip in with nary a whiff of scandal.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I near the door. Will she be asleep this time? Will she be waiting for me?
As I open it and step inside, I look over at the bed where Cynthia lies on her side, arms wrapped around her waist as tears dry on her face. Rushing over, I set the cake on her nearby nightstand and run my fingers over her hair.
She looks up at me with such sorrow, such remorse that I nearly break my vow then and there to never compromise her. I come so close to opening her main door so that any passersby can see the things I do to her. Henhaven wouldn’t marry her then. She’d be all mine.
But even as those thoughts go through my head, I force them out.
What I do is selfish enough, but only hurts Cynthia and me.
Even now, not so very many doors away, my sisters lie in their beds dreaming of balls, operas, and husbands.
As much as Cynthia belongs to me, I can’t take that future away from them. It’s a burden only we can share.
Instead of having my way with her, I simply grab the cake and make my way over to the other side of the bed. I gather her into my arms and purr, letting the sound heal us both. Her body feels so small, so unbelievably fragile as I rest her head against my chest.
Bit by bit, I feed the cake to her, forcing her to eat, forcing her to stay strong.
Lifting my head to the ceiling, I pour my anguish out, letting it seep into the room.
Tomorrow, I will put my efforts toward some other means of disqualifying Henhaven as her husband.
Tonight, I’ll simply hold the woman I crave most in my arms as we both simply feel the heartache crashing between us.