24
Waking up with someone in his bed should perhaps have been a foreign, uncomfortable feeling.
It was not that he had never slept with others; during the war, he’d slept in close confines with his fellow soldiers out of necessity.
But he’d been damned happy to have had his own solitary bed when he’d returned home and had not planned on giving it up anytime soon.
Waking with Iris in his arms, however?.? .? .
She snuggled in closer to him, her flyaway curls tickling his chin, and he smiled.
Waking with Iris in his arms had to be what heaven felt like.
She was all warm softness pressed against him, and he tightened his arm about her, drawing her in even closer.
She made a small sound, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder, her leg hitching up his thigh.
Which increased his appreciation for waking with her in his arms tenfold.
His cock stirred to life at the remembrance of the night before, how she’d responded to his touch, how her sweet body had welcomed him.
How she’d broken apart in his arms. He gave a low, wholly unintended groan.
She stirred, then tensed, the hand that had been lying on his chest curling into a fist. Then, voice husky from sleep, “Oliver?”
He kissed the top of her head. “Yes,” he replied, and was rewarded as she sighed happily and relaxed against him.
He should have probably felt some guilt that he had woken her.
And he did. But it was overshadowed by how delicious she felt as she shifted against him, hand moving in slow circles on his chest. That hand moved lower, down his stomach, fingers seeming to be memorizing him, and his cock twitched.
“Careful, love,” he warned huskily, hand closing over hers, “or you’ll have a repeat of last night. ”
She paused, fingers curling under his. And then, voice so quiet he nearly didn’t hear it, “Would that be so bad?”
He would have pulled her under him and taken her lips in a kiss—if she hadn’t done it herself.
She reared up over him, taking his face between her hands, mouth finding his.
It was an unpracticed kiss, with that flavor of innocence that had intrigued him from the start.
He dove his fingers into her curls, using his thumb to gently tilt her head, deepening the kiss.
She responded eagerly, sliding more fully over him, her smooth thigh inserting itself between his own.
He gasped into her mouth as her hip pressed against his hardening erection.
In the next moment, however, reality intruded in the worst manner.
Pulling back ever so slightly, her gaze snapped to the window and the sliver of early morning light peeking between the closed drapes before returning to his face, her brows drawing together in worry. “But it is morning,” she said. “You never left for your post last night.”
Which finally made him realize just what today was. He exhaled sharply, sinking back into the pillows. “I did not have to attend to my duties last night,” he managed. “Because of the ball and exhibition tonight, I’m expected at Durand Manor late this afternoon.”
He watched as understanding stole the flush of pleasure from her cheeks, and he wanted to curse.
How had he forgotten where this was all leading?
How had he lost sight of her plans—or his intentions to talk her out of them, intentions he had conveniently put off all week? And now there was no time left.
How he wished he could hold on to her a little longer, to push back the inevitable with just one more kiss, one more embrace.
His gaze scoured her face, and he had the mad desire to cry.
She was so beautiful with the soft early morning light caressing the gentle curve of her cheek, highlighting the bright gold strands of her hair, shining in the moss-green depths of her eyes.
“Iris,” he whispered, fingers curling around the nape of her neck into the achingly soft curls there.
Her eyes glistened, her bottom lip trembling ever so slightly, as if she too realized the fragility of this moment.
She dipped her head and took his mouth with hers, and there was no more time to think.
There was only the here and now and a mutual desperation to hold the near future at bay for just a while longer.
Their lips and tongues clashed, hungry to erase the inevitable by sheer will.
But it was not enough; he needed more of her.
He needed all of her. Hooking his hand under her knee, he hitched it over his hips so she was straddling him.
She did not need any further urging, reaching between them, taking him in her hand.
Then she was guiding herself down atop him, sheathing him to the very hilt in her warmth.
He threw his head back on the pillow with a hiss of pleasure. By God she was tight, and so damned wet he nearly spilled himself inside her then and there. “Ride me, sweetheart,” he begged.
She did so slowly at first, her hesitation apparent, the position seemingly unfamiliar to her.
But soon gasps and cries fell from her lips, surprise and delight in each soft sound as she moved faster over him, tilting her hips just right, finding her rhythm.
Which only served to heighten his own pleasure until he felt he was drowning in it.
His hands grasped tight to her hips, urging her on, even as he surged up into her.
Her movements became jerky, uncontrolled, the pulsing of her sheath evident that her climax was near.
It was enough to snap the last hold Oliver had over his own.
He shattered beneath her as, throwing her head back, she tightened around him.
And then their cries of completion mingled into the still of the room a moment before they collapsed in one another’s arms.
But the exquisite interlude could not hold reality back forever, or for even a minute more once they drifted back to earth.
Though was it his muscles tightening after feeling her lithe body, which had been limply draped over him, begin to tense up?
Or did she tense up because she felt a subtle shift in him?
Whatever the cause, it was like an impenetrable wall had gone up between them in the space of a moment.
Without a word they rose from the bed and began to dress.
Oliver was achingly aware of her behind him, and though there was just the span of a room between them it felt as if it were a fathomless chasm.
Time, in its unending cruelty, had abandoned them now that he and Iris had finally found their way to each other.
No matter that he ached to pull her into his arms and pretend that time had not run out for them, it was now or never. And never was not an option.
Though couldn’t it be? The question whispered through his mind, damaging for all its calmness.
Why not remain silent? Why not turn a blind eye?
Durand had hurt her, after all, had stolen from her, was going to destroy her mother’s legacy.
Didn’t the man deserve to have the world see him for the thief he was?
And didn’t Iris deserve to see her mother’s genius acknowledged?
To his frustration, it took an incredible amount of willpower to silence those questions and remember why he had to stop her: His livelihood depended on Durand—as much as it galled him.
He had to ignore those morals that had steered him so wrong before, that had nearly cast his family into poverty. He could not do that to them again.
Giving one final tug to his hastily tied cravat, he turned to face her, determined to get it over with and attempt to dissuade her from her course.
Before he could say a word, however, a knock sounded on the front door, echoing up through the house.
No, not just a knock. It was a desperate pounding.
He exchanged a glance with Iris before hurrying from the room and down the stairs, Iris following close behind.
Who the devil could it be? Was it one of Durand’s men?
Or maybe even the man himself? Had he learned that Iris was here instead of back in London, where he had said she was?
An idea that had panic tearing through him.
“Stay back,” he rasped as a fresh pounding started up. Blessedly Iris listened, hiding herself around the corner in the sitting room. Once he was assured she was safely out of sight, he flung the door wide. What he did not expect, however, was the tall, unfamiliar youth standing there.
“Where’s Iris?” the boy demanded.
Iris? Who the hell was this person? Before he could take the young man by the scruff and demand he explain himself, however, Iris was at his side.
“Euphemia,” she said, grabbing the boy’s hand, pulling him into the front hall and closing the door.
Or, rather, her hand. The youth doffed his cap—taking his hair right along with it, revealing closely pinned light brown tresses.
He gaped at her. This was Mrs. Euphemia Blount?
But even looking at her, with the proof of her disguise in her hands, he was having a hard time wrapping his mind about it.
“You have to return to Rose House at once,” the woman was saying. “Everything has gone arse up and we need to restructure everything immediately.”
“What do you mean?” Iris demanded, eyes wide in her suddenly pale face. “What has gone wrong?”
“I can’t explain now,” Mrs. Blount said, casting Oliver a cautious glance.
Realization hit him like a slap in the face. This was about their plans for this evening. As he watched, she took hold of Iris’s hand, pulling her for the door. “But let us go. We haven’t a moment to waste.”
Oliver stepped into their path, almost desperate now that the chance to speak to her was about to be ripped from his grasp. “You cannot leave. Iris, we need to talk.”
Mrs. Blount stepped forward, eyes hard. “Mr. Beckett—”
Iris laid a hand on her arm. “Give me just a moment,” she said. “I need to fetch my lock-picking tools.”
Her friend did not look convinced. Nevertheless, she stepped aside. “Very well. But do hurry,” she continued, with a worried glance for Oliver. “I shall be waiting right here for you.”
As Mrs. Blount reluctantly stepped aside, Iris grabbed his hand. “Come along, then,” she said, pulling him with her.
In silence they made their way to Verity’s room. She closed the door behind them, walked to one of her bags in the corner, and opened it wide.
But she did not move to pack a single thing inside. Instead, she said, her back still to him, “Go ahead and say it.”
He started at the bleak acceptance in her voice. Acceptance, as well as a sad knowledge. “You know what I need to say to you, then?” He was both relieved and wracked with guilt that he did not have to explain himself.
“I admit I had hoped you would not try to talk me out of my plans.”
That guilt expanded, washing over him, thick and cloying. “Iris, you have to know why I cannot remain silent.”
“I know. And I understand your reasons. I love your mother and sister and would not want any of you to suffer.” She closed her eyes.
“But I cannot allow Lord Durand to get away with this. He took so much from me and my mother. If I don’t stop him, if I allow him to destroy this final bit of her memory, I will never forgive myself. ”
He knew he should not say it. Yet the words came out anyway, like bitter acid on his tongue. “You cannot give it up even for me?”
The look she gave him was colored with betrayal. “Don’t ask that of me,” she rasped.
“I wish I didn’t have to,” he said, his heart breaking as her eyes, those beautiful green eyes, filled with tears. “I truly wish I didn’t.”
“But you will not take the words back.” Her breath hitched in her chest, and her face scrunched up as if she was trying to keep tears from spilling over. “I thought you had come to understand me a bit in the time we’ve spent together.”
“I thought you would have come to understand me, too,” he replied quietly, “that I would do anything to keep this position.”
“Even allowing an evil man to get away with such a crime?”
He clenched his hands into tight fists, forcing the one word out, hoping it sounded as if he actually meant it. “Yes.”
But she shook her head, eyes bright. “No, this isn’t you,” she said with a certainty that shook him to his core. “You are upright and good. You would not allow such an injustice.”
Her certainty in his goodness, however, only made him angry, with a deep resentment for himself and himself alone. “That was me before. It isn’t me now.”
“Liar,” she hissed.
Helpless, he could only watch as, fairly blinded with her tears, she hastily moved about the room, throwing things into her bags.
And then she was out of the room, her footsteps swift on the stairs.
Numb, he listened as she mumbled something low to her friend and they closed the front door.
Then a horrible silence descended. And he found that, as much as he had hated himself before for bowing down to Lord Durand, he hated himself a hundredfold more now.