by Meara Platt
It made sense, now that Hannah thought of it. Her sister ordinarily was possessed of a hale constitution. Her appetite had never suffered, though one would hardly know given her willowy frame. Quite the opposite of Hannah’s full curves.
“Of course I am not ill.”
But despite her sister’s denial, Adele compressed her lips and released her grip on Hannah’s hands, spinning away to pace the chamber much as Hannah had been doing before her sister’s untimely interruption.
Something was amiss. Adele was ordinarily quiet and composed. Where Evie was the more garrulous of the twins and the one everyone invariably noticed, Adele was the wallflower, the practical sister, the silent one. She was the one who watched. The one who was knowledgeable beyond her tender age. She was not the sister Hannah would have expected to knock on her door this late in the evening.
Or, to be dreadfully honest, ever. Adele always seemed so very self-assured. So utterly composed. But her sister was not composed now. No, indeed, she was quite flustered.
“Are you certain, my dear?” Hannah asked, following her sister to where she paused by one of the two large windows on the far wall.
In the morning light, they overlooked the gardens where Hannah had so recently come close to ruin. Desperate ruin. Stupid ruin.
Her self-loathing had not been this potent in years. Not since her rushed nuptials to Fawkesbury. Not since the first time he had raised his hand to her.
Their wedding night.
But she would not think of that now. She was free. He could never hurt her again. If only he had met his demise before it had been too late…
“Han?”
Her sister’s worried voice broke through Hannah’s troubled musings once more. She realized she had paused in the middle of the chamber, overcome by the weight of the past, mingling with the unexpected weight of the present.
She shook herself free from those old chains, forced a bright smile she little felt. “What is it, Addy? Why are you seeking me out at this late hour instead of seeking your rest? Was Lord Foy rude? Did he upset you in some fashion?”
If he had, Hannah would box his ears. She vowed it. Addy had the sweetest heart. She rather reminded her of herself at the same age. But it was difficult indeed to recall what she had been like then, when her heart had been whole. Before Graham’s betrayal. Before she had been saddled with a husband who not only did not care for her, but who had taken pleasure in her pain.
None of that, she reminded herself.
Forgetting could not vanquish the pain. However, it certainly made rising each morning far more bearable than it would be otherwise.
“Lord Foy is lovely,” Adele said. “He has only been polite. I do think he is a kind and true gentleman, and I believe he wishes to marry me…”
“Oh, Addy, that is wonderful news!” She caught her sister’s hands in hers once more, and this time she was the one to give them a reassuring squeeze. “Lord Foy is an excellent catch, and I do believe he is an honorable man. His esteem for you is undeniable.”
Lord Foy was not the sort of man who would hit his wife, Hannah knew. From the moment she had first made the acquaintance of her former husband, there had been an indefinable quality he possessed—a general coldness and hostility—which had put her on edge. But she had been too naïve then to know the damage a man could do.
She was wiser now.
Hardened as well.
But Adele was not smiling. Not sharing her relief. Instead, she looked sad.
“I wish it were wonderful news,” her sister said on a heavy sigh. “That is why I wanted to speak with you. I am terribly confused, Han. I wish I cared about Lord Foy in the same manner he claims he cares for me. But I do not.”
Oh, dear.
Perhaps her inner conflict was reason for her sister’s ailments. And the trouble was, Hannah understood. Lord, how she understood, albeit in a different sense.
“Lord Foy seems as if he is kind and gentle,” she pointed out softly. “He does not seem the sort of man who would ever hurt you. I saw the way he looked at you tonight, Addy. I do hope you are not holding out hope for some romantic nonsense. No one can reassure you better than I that such a fantasy will not be forthcoming. If a lady must wed, and it is certain most of us have no other choice, it is far preferable to marry a kind man.”
Adele searched her gaze, her expression hardening. “Did Fawkesbury beat you?”
The question, so unexpected, so unfettered, robbed the breath from her. Shocked her. Hannah could not form a response. Instead, she released her hold on her sister and spun away, stalking toward the flickering fire in the grate.
No one had ever asked her such a direct question in five years. Not her father. Not her mother. Not anyone.
That Addy, sweet, innocent, quiet Addy would suspect such violence had occurred to Hannah shocked her. And worried her, too. Instantly, she was on guard, protective of her sister.
She spun back around. “Has someone hit you, Addy?”
“Of course not,” Adele said. “But I…I saw a bruise on your arm, Han, two summers ago at Fillmore Hall.”
Shame seeped through her. “Fawkesbury had a temper. Particularly when he was losing at the tables or when he was in his cups. He was not a gentle man.”
“That rotter!” Her sister’s outraged voice snapped through the chamber. “Someone ought to have pummeled him. I told Maximilian, but he did not believe me.”
Their brother, Maximilian, had enough problems of his own, and it came as no surprise to Hannah that he would not have heeded Adele’s suspicions. Even if he had listened, there would have been nothing he could have done to aid Hannah. Fawkesbury had never beaten her with his fists.
“It is over now, Addy,” she said quietly. A year had come and gone since her husband’s death. “He can no longer hurt me.”
“Why did you marry him?” her sister asked then. “The two of you never suited, even from the beginning.”
No one knew the truth of why she had wed Fawkesbury. No one save her mother, father, and Fawkesbury himself. She had kept her silence out of embarrassment and fear. But something about seeing the man she had once loved tonight—something about having been in his arms once more—changed her.
“I had no choice,” she admitted. “I was with child.”
Adele gasped. “Fawkesbury?”
“No,” she was quick to deny. “He was not the father.”
Understanding dawned on her sister’s countenance. “Haven,” she guessed, for it was no secret that Hannah had fancied herself wildly in love with him.
She recalled all too well, in her youthful folly, announcing to Addy and Evie that she was going to marry Lord Graham, as he had been then. A second son. Not yet a marquess.
“Yes.” This confession left her with sadness, for she had lost the child a fortnight after her nuptials to Fawkesbury. “I was young and foolish. I allowed myself to be ruined, and unfortunately, Haven had no intention of making an honorable woman of me. Father left me with a choice: go away to the Continent forever, or marry the earl and remain. I chose to remain.”
“Oh, Hannah.” Her sister crossed the room and embraced her. “Why did you never tell me the truth?”
“Because the truth was shameful.” She hugged Adele tightly, trying to ignore the prickle of ensuing tears. “And it no longer mattered. I had made my decision, and I had no choice but to stay the course.”
“Did Haven know?” Adele asked next.
“I wrote him a letter,” she recalled bitterly. “He never responded.”
“I am so very sorry, Han.” Her sister’s arms tightened around her, and she sniffled. “Neither Fawkesbury nor Haven ever deserved you.”
No, they had not.
She smiled against her sister’s hair. “All is well, Addy. I learned my lesson, and I have no intention of ever making such a dreadful mistake again. But do let my follies serve as a warning for you. It is my fondest wish to see you happy.”
“I wish the same for yo
u,” Adele insisted, drawing back to frown at her. “You deserve happiness as well.”
“I am very happy now,” she said, but even as the words left her, she knew they were a lie.
Because her stubborn, stupid heart had not stopped longing for Graham. And those kisses in the garden had only proved to her just how susceptible she still was to him. She must never allow him near her again.
* * *
She was a fever, infecting his blood.
One taste of her lips, and Graham was as lost for Hannah as he had ever been.
Why, damn it all? He could not understand it himself as he prowled the seemingly endless corridors of Abingdon House on his way back to his chamber. He already knew her to be a faithless, heartless conniver, who had chosen a title over the mere second son she had professed to love. The old wounds she had dealt still oozed. Years had gone by, and his heart had yet to recover from her defection.
His weakness for her made no sense, and his attempts at distracting himself had gone nowhere. He had paced. He had taken himself in hand. He had splashed cold water on his face. And sleep had not been forthcoming.
His inner torment had finally led him to the library where he had managed to secure a Latin volume that he very much doubted would prove much distraction or solace. The opportunity to escape the four mocking walls of his chamber had beckoned, however. Despite making himself spill to thoughts of lifting Hannah’s gown and finishing what they had begun in the garden, his cock remained rigid.
He was going to read the treatise until dawn if he had to. His already ravaged pride would not allow him to think of Hannah any more than he already had. He bloody well never should have kissed her. Never should have followed her out to the garden. Never should have touched her.
By God, he never should have touched her all those years ago either. But it had not stopped him then. He hoped to hell he had learned some hard lessons in the last five years. That he could control himself better.
Grimacing, he turned the corner in the hall, and ran into a warm, soft body. Undeniably feminine, even in the darkness. The Latin book he had been holding thumped to the floor as he steadied the woman. She was fortunate he had not been holding a brace of candles to light the way, else she would have walked straight into the flames.
“Do forgive me my clumsiness,” she said, her hands flitting to his chest as the scent of lavender and citrus hit him.
He knew that sweet, dulcet voice. Knew these generous curves, the flare of her waist. He knew those hands.
It was her.
Devil take it, did the universe have a vicious vendetta against him?
Chapter Four
Of all the men with whom she could have unexpectedly collided on her return from escorting Adele back to her chamber for the night, she had managed to find him.
“Graham,” she said his name aloud, breathless.
She told herself the breathlessness was because her collision with his rigid chest had taken her by surprise. Robbed her of her ability to speak. Not because his nearness stole her breath. Not because the sear of warm male strength through his shirt—heavens, he was not even wearing a waistcoat—sent the desperate urge for him to kiss her again rushing over her.
Of course not.
“Lady Fawkesbury,” he acknowledged coldly.
His formality, too, was a shock to her senses. A reminder that she did not know him. That she had never known him. It had been five years since he had been her lover. Since he had disappeared from her life when she needed him most. And it had been only hours since their lips had parted.
She was still his fool.
How she hated the bitter truth.
She attempted to step away from him, but his hands remained upon her waist, anchoring her to him. “Do let me go, my lord,” she demanded.
“What are you doing, wandering about in the darkest depths of the night?” he asked, keeping his voice hushed and low, lest they be overheard.
Even so, with every moment they lingered, anyone could come upon them. Ruin loomed.
She must think of Addy and Evie, she reminded herself.
Her chin went up, a new defiance overtaking her. “What I am doing is none of your concern, Haven. Release me, if you please.”
“Where is your chamber?” he asked instead of heeding her. “I will escort you to it.”
The scent of him made an unwelcome heat flare deep within. Longing slid through her. She told herself to stop touching him. However, her hands refused to obey. He had always been a large, strong man. But he had filled out the promise of his broad form. His muscles flexed beneath her touch now, as if he sensed the wicked direction of her thoughts.
“I do not require escort,” she managed to say past lips that had gone suddenly dry. “I can manage on my own, Lord Haven.”
Still, she did not move. Nor did he. Whatever he had dropped in the commotion—something heavy, from the sound of it—remained unheeded on the floor. He seemed in no hurry to retrieve the fallen object.
His head lowered incrementally. She saw his shadow drifting nearer, felt the hot sweep of his breath over her lips like a phantom kiss. “Damn you, Hannah.”
Anger vibrated in the decadent rumble of his baritone.
She knew the feeling. She was furious with him, too. How could she hate him, rage against him, and yet want him so? How could every instinct within her be screaming to rise on her toes and slam her mouth against his?
The attraction between them had always been thus. Magnetic. Profound. From the first time she had ever been introduced to her brother’s Eton friend, she had felt as if she had found the other half of herself. And although he had proven her desperately wrong, that same, visceral connection remained.
She could not deny it any more than she could deny him.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
But in truth, she did not. How she wished her feelings for him were so simple, so uncomplicated. Love did not dissipate with ease. Her love for him had remained constant and true, despite his betrayal and four years of misery as Fawkesbury’s countess.
“You want me,” he murmured back.
Not a question, but a statement. An accurate one. He was the other half of her. He always had been. A deep, desperate understanding reached her in that moment, standing in his arms in the blackness of the night, here in the inner maze of the grand house’s halls, where no windows aided in lighting the way. Until she breathed her last, she would always long for him.
“No,” she denied, even as she could not seem to muster the desire to tear herself from his grasp.
Because part of her wanted him to hold her forever.
Instead of pushing her away or releasing her, he hauled her nearer, crushing her breasts into his chest, her legs tangling in his much longer ones. Against her rose the proof of his ardor. His cock was a prominent, thick ridge digging into her belly. More heat pooled inside her. She slammed her thighs together, trying to drive away the sensation.
All she did was discover the evidence of her own desire: she was wet for him. Each movement only seemed to stoke the fires of her need even more.
“Yes,” he countered. “Tell me the truth, Hannah.”
Their lips were almost grazing now.
“Tell me you want me as I want you,” he persisted, his voice a sensual promise of what was to come.
And that was the trouble with being beneath the same roof as him. The trouble with listening to his voice, with standing near to him, with kissing him in the garden and touching him in the inky murk of the night. It all brought back memories. A flood of remembrance.
“Yes,” she admitted, much to her shame. “I want you.”
His mouth was on hers, hard and demanding. Almost punishing. The kiss was deep, carnal. This was a bedchamber kiss. A kiss that claimed. A kiss that promised.
She opened, desperate for him, hating herself even as she melted beneath the ferocity of his lips. Her fingers clenched his shirt, and before she knew what she was about, she was graspin
g handfuls of it, hauling him closer still. She wanted to be as near to him as she could be, bare skin on skin. Him atop her.
Her marriage with Fawkesbury had been passionless. Thankfully, her husband had been more concerned with gambling than he had been with bedding her. But on those awful occasions when she had suffered his touch, often after he had hurt her first, she had lain painfully still and endured.
Graham brought her to life in the way only he ever had. And for one mad, selfish moment, she wanted him to banish all thoughts of what had been. She wanted to feel desired again. She longed for passion. She wanted him in her bed.
One more time, whispered a voice of sin within.
What would be the harm?
As if he had heard the question, he withdrew, ending the kiss. But he did not retreat far. The heat of his breath taunted her. She could close the distance between them with such ease. Put her mouth back on his.
“Take me to your chamber,” he said in a soft command.
Once again, there was no question in his words, only statement. But she did not fear Graham, not in the sense of his physical strength. He would not hurt her in that way. She could trust him with her body. Just not her heart.
She hesitated, trying to make the right choice. Trying to put Addy and Evie ahead of herself. But then the creak of another door opening down the hall sliced through the moment. She no longer had time to decide.
The knowledge she did not dare allow herself to be caught kissing him after midnight trumped all other thoughts. She released his shirt, took his hand in hers, and pulled him after her.
In a handful of steps, they were at her door, a slice of light visible beneath from the lamp she had left burning within when she had left to return her sister to her chamber. It seemed a lifetime ago now as she tugged Haven inside with her, closing the door hastily at his back.
Addy had been correct. The distance between their chambers had not been far at all. But enough steps for trouble. Enough steps for everything to change.
