She turned her own to the scars. They riddled the left side of his body, a network of deep purple, angry red, and palest white. She traced the thickest of them and swallowed the lump that rose in her throat.
His jaw tensed. “They said I wouldn’t walk again. That I’d lose my arm.”
Lord. Lord God. Tentatively, she ran her hand over the arm they wanted to take, his muscles jumping beneath her touch. “Why—” She swallowed. “Why didn’t they?”
“I wouldn’t let them.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
Twelve. He was twelve, and he’d made them listen. “You made them do what you wanted?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “The accident made me the Duke of Sowrith. They had no choice.”
Unable to stop herself, she traced the wicked-looking scar curling along his chest. His flesh jumped and tensed under her touch. Leaning forward, she placed her lips against the heavy twist of scars at his shoulder.
He drew in his breath. She rubbed her cheek against his abused skin and felt his fingers weave through her hair to gently cup her head. Curling her hand around his upper arm, she placed kisses along the scar beneath his collarbone.
Looking up, she found his gaze upon her, his dark eye glistening. A gentle curl of fingers bade her raise her face to his and another brought her lips to his. He kissed her slowly, sweetly, with all the passion and emotion hidden by stilted words and uncertainty.
Breaking the kiss, he exhaled, a soft smile playing about his mouth. Sitting there, half naked with hair mussed by her fingers, he didn’t look a duke. He looked like…like Edward.
Pulling from him, she brought her fingers to the buttons lining the front of her bodice.
His eye widened. “What are you doing?”
She undid the first button, then the second. She couldn’t answer him. If she thought about it, she would stop.
“Gwen?”
Criminy, what was she doing? She only knew she wanted to be as close to him as possible, to show him her vulnerability as he’d shown her his. What matter why she did this? It was for Edward, and he was beloved.
Leaning forward, she brushed his lips with hers as she shrugged out of her bodice, letting the garment fall to the ground where it may. As she was the one who laced herself into it, her corset was an easy affair, and with the busk unhooked and the constriction removed, she sighed against his mouth.
Warm hands curled around her shoulders and she watched as, slowly, his eye drifted down. All that remained between his gaze and her flesh was her chemise, flimsy and threadbare from repeated washings.
He swallowed, his grip tightening on her shoulders.
Gaze locked upon him, she started to unlace the thread holding her chemise closed only to be stilled by his palm spreading against the skin exposed by the gaping vee. She gasped, her heart beating madly, a gasp that turned into a moan when he ran his fingers beneath the fabric’s edge.
Tugging his head to hers, she covered his mouth with hers, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips. With a growl, he jerked her to him, her breasts flattening against his chest, and she gasped at the feel of his skin against hers, her nipples pebbling as they brushed against the light smattering of hair on his chest.
The taste of smoke and brandy flooded her, then the taste that was Edward, that indefinable flavour she was coming to crave. His kiss, his touch, were driving her insane, his warm flesh against hers, his hardness against her softness.
She shifted in his lap, wanting closer, and he obliged, his hands gripping her as he manoeuvred her over him, her legs straddling him. His lips trailed down her neck, down the exposed skin of her chest, and then back to lick the hollow of her throat. Arching her neck, she moaned as his tongue flicked against her again. Oh lord, oh God, she wanted more, she wanted everything—
“Your Grace?”
Gwen froze. Beneath her, Edward tensed. “Dobson.”
“Will there be anything more, Your Grace? Mrs. Horcastille and I would like to shut the house for the evening.”
Edward’s spine was ramrod straight, his muscles still tense. “No. Nothing further.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” The quiet click of the door latch signalled Dobson’s departure.
Abruptly, she became acutely aware of every part of her exposed skin, her shocking lack of dress. Wrenching herself from Edward, Gwen stumbled to gather her corset and bodice from the floor, struggling to pull her chemise back over herself. Her face felt as if aflame and her body hot, alternating with the sick, cold lump congealing in her stomach. What had she been thinking? That was...It was... She hadn’t been thinking, not at all. She was cavorting—cavorting—with a man not her husband or even her fiancée. A man who was so far above her in consequence that the thought of a union between them was laughable…
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
She stopped in the middle of wrestling with her corset.
Posture correct, Edward seemed oblivious to the fact he remained half-naked. He gestured with his good hand. “The way you’re putting that on. You’ll hurt yourself.”
Abandoning the corset, she crossed her arms over her chest. “He knew I was here.”
Edward didn’t move. “It doesn’t matter if he did. He won’t say anything.”
“But he knew I was here.”
“He won’t say anything.”
She needed to cover herself. Pulling at her bodice, she wrapped herself in fabric. As she did so, Edward looked down at himself and, shoving to his feet, he snatched up his shirt.
Arms tight about herself, she watched as he shrugged into it. She didn’t have it within her to comfort him, to assure him she thought little of his scars beyond the pain they’d caused him. Not now. Not with this shame swirling within her. “He saw me, Edward. He saw me unclothed and…and…” She’d been draped over Edward, her chemise falling from her shoulders, his mouth against her skin, and she’d been caught.
“How do you think I feel?” Rigid, he stood with his shirt hanging open, his hair disordered, pain and tension scoured deep in his face. “Dobson has known me since birth and he— I—”
“But you are a duke. It doesn’t matter what you do because you can cow anyone into thinking it normal.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Do you truly believe that?”
She tightened her arms. “Your word is law. You made the doctors keep your arm, and you were twelve.”
His face bled of expression, and he was again the impassive duke she’d encountered upon her arrival, his thoughts and emotions hidden from her. Turning his back, he regarded the fire.
Miserable, she averted her gaze. How had they gotten here? Only moments ago, it had been excitement and heat, and she’d just wanted to be with him. Now, for the first time since their first days, awkwardness and distance stood between them.
He still stood with his back to her, his hands held tight at his back. “Perhaps I should go.” Back to London. Away from temptation and ruin.
Away from Edward.
His shoulders tensed. “Perhaps you should.”
Pain sliced through her. Telling herself it was for the best, she clutched her bodice tight. “Good night.”
He didn’t even turn. “Good night.”
Gwen only half-remembered the journey to her room. Once inside, she sagged against the wood. She’d thought she could do this. She’d thought she could be bold and brave and unconventional, but all it took was almost getting caught by the butler to bring that delusion crashing down.
She’d asked herself what she was doing, and now she knew. Playing with fire with a duke, no less, and heading straight to ruin.
What was to come of this? No matter which way she looked at it, it could only end badly. She had parents to consider, a sick father and a mother who wouldn’t admit she needed help. She had a precarious position at the chambers to maintain and a whole life that didn’t involve an affair of the heart with a duke.
She needed to be sensible. S
he needed to let go of foolish fancies born of letters and time spent in a Dartmoor idyll.
She needed to let him go.
Chapter Eight
RIGHT ELBOW PROPPED ON his desk, Edward slouched in his chair. He knew he should straighten, that his posture should be as proper as his broken body could muster, but today, of all days, he thought he could be forgiven.
Exhaling forcefully, he rubbed his forehead. How could he have been caught with Gwen, half undressed and hands all over her? It was something a green boy would do, not a man of six and twenty, a duke for over half his life.
What added insult to injury was being caught by Dobson. The butler had known Edward all his life and, after the death of his parents, had become both mother and father. He’d sat with Edward during the fevers brought on by his injuries when he would accept no other’s presence, had stood beside him when he’d taken his first faltering steps on his half-mended leg. It didn’t matter Edward was a duke, that Dobson was his employee, his subordinate. All he could remember was the butler had known him from the time of his birth, and Dobson had caught him...with Gwen...
His eye-patch felt too tight. Hooking his finger under the string, he ripped it away and scoured the groove left behind. Gwen had been right to run, to escape his presence and his shocking lapse of judgment. It had been heaven to have her in his arms, to allow her touch, her kiss, to feel her skin against his. She’d seen his eye, had kissed his scars and made him feel somewhat normal for half a second.
And he’d repaid her with dishonour.
Digging his thumb into his brow, he traced the line. Dobson wouldn’t say anything, not to Gwen. The butler would keep his counsel, would not intimate in any way to Gwen of what he had seen, but he would to Edward. With his very silence, he would condemn Edward’s behaviour. With an impassive face, he would display his disappointment. But Dobson didn’t know. He didn’t know how Edward felt about Gwen, how he couldn’t see a future without her.
He didn’t know Edward loved her.
Heart racing, he straightened. He loved her? The thought had not crossed his mind before now. He’d simply enjoyed her presence in his life, in seeing her every day, in hearing her voice and seeing her smile. He’d loved her quick mind, the way she seemed to breathe the law, how she could absorb and interpret complex legal documentation and then discuss it with him in a way that was easy to understand.
Bloody hell. Of course he did. He loved her. He loved every part of her. He loved her passion for the law, her love and care for her family. He loved the way she described her London to him, her exasperation at her friend Etta. He loved the crinkle she got in her brow when she thought, her quick smile when her gaze first lit upon him. Her letters had made him half in love, and all it took was meeting her in person to fall the rest of the way.
Last night was badly done of him, and he would not allow it to happen again. He would court her proper, would make sure everyone knew his intentions honourable. Last night was done. He could not undo it, and so he would apologise and never again put her in a situation where she could be harmed. Then, they would go on their walk, and he would take her to the remains of the stone ring to the south of Sowrithil, the source of many a boyhood imagining. He would tell her of how he came to the ring often, imagined grand adventures of druids and pirates. Of course, adventures occurred only in his mind, his slow healing body preventing turning thought to deed, but Gwen would smile and ask questions and tell him tales of her own childhood. All would be as it was before.
Exhaling, he straightened in his seat, his leg and hip only protesting slightly. Placing his hands flat against the desk, he looked at the pile of work. He could focus. He would focus.
An envelope hidden mostly under other correspondence caught his eye, the script as familiar as his own. A letter. From Gwen.
Brows drawing, he nudged the letter from the others. Why was she writing him when she could easily come in the room and see him?
Perhaps she wrote an invitation. Perhaps whimsy had taken her, and she sought to put words to paper and then follow with action and deed. Perhaps she sought to invite him on an adventure, one that would take the place of all the adventures he could not have when he’d been growing.
Setting his jaw, he opened the letter. He refused to think it bad news. Life was made up of light and dark, and he could bloody well start to believe in the light.
Unfolding the paper, he read the first line.
Dear Edward, she wrote. I have left.
A roaring started in his head.
Maybe he had read it wrong. He read the line again. And again. And a fourth time, but the words and their meaning did not change.
Phrases jumped out at him, phrases like I am a commoner and How can this work and I can’t be bold and brave, no matter how much I want to. Her father’s illness and her mother’s well-meaning lies were mentioned as well as the tenuous nature of her employment.
All of this meant only one thing to him. Gwen had gone.
He read the letter again. Dear Edward, she began—
Balling the paper, he threw it across the room and, for good measure, picked up a paperweight and hurled it at the wall. It crashed into the panelling, splintering in two.
Chest heaving, he stared at the ruined pieces lying on the floor. At least she felt she could use his given name, seeing as they were so far apart in consequence. At least she gave him the courtesy of telling him she was going back to London instead of leaving him to stand at the bottom of the stairs and wait for her appearance. And he would have waited. For her, he would have waited until he couldn’t anymore, and then he would have sent a footman or a maid to search for her. When they couldn’t find her, he would have suffered worry and panic and been convinced she had lost herself on the moor, had fallen and broken her head, and would not wake. So she had spared him that.
But this feeling in his chest could not be worse.
A sharp pain lanced through his left hand. Glancing down, he saw the two smallest fingers had curled into a ball, pressing into his palm, the ruined muscles protesting the tight grip.
He stared at his hand. Finally, he forced himself to relax. Shoving to his feet, he strode to the bell pull and tugged. Within moments, Dobson arrived. “When did Miss Parkes leave?”
Dobson blanched. “Early this morning, Your Grace.”
“Did no one think to rouse me? Did no one think it odd she left at such an early hour? It’s barely ten of the clock now.”
“We were told Miss Parkes was to be treated as we would treat you, Your Grace.”
“But you weren’t supposed to let her leave!” Damnation, and now he sounded desperate. Gritting his teeth, he brought himself under control. Damn her to Hades, how could she do this? How could she just leave? “Did she take the carriage?”
Dobson nodded. “To Little Harrington.”
Right, so if she left early this morning, it was possible she was still at the train station. If he rode, it was also possible he could reach her before she left.
If he rode.
He slammed his hand against the door. Bloody hell, his bloody scars wouldn’t allow him to bloody ride. He was trapped by this body the accident had given him. The only time he had felt comfortable with his deformity was when she looked at him, when she’d touched him and kissed him and not seen his scars. For the first time, he’d felt almost…whole.
Then she’d left. She’d left, and she’d taken that with her as well as her smile and her laugh and her way of looking at him as if he were ridiculous, but she liked him anyway. She thought it funny that he was heir to this manse and yet read Gothic novels. She thought it grand that he made up stories of the moors in his head, and that the way he described them was poetic. She made him feel that perhaps he were more than the sum of his body that didn’t work, more than the Duke of Sowrith.
“Your Grace?”
Dobson. He’d forgotten the butler’s presence. Dobson hadn’t responded at Edward’s display of emotion, instead remaining impassive d
uring his display.
In the face of such, Edward’s shoulders slumped. Was he seriously going to chase after her like a fool? She had made her decision. “Please alert Mrs. Horcastille that we no longer have a guest.”
Dobson nodded. “Very good, Your Grace,” he said and then left.
Every muscle in his body aching, Edward made his way to his desk. She didn’t want him. Lowering himself into his chair, he looked at the pile of correspondence. Gwen didn’t want him.
Fine. If she wanted to leave, who was he to argue? He would not go where he wasn’t wanted. He would remain as he always had, but with no Gwen to write to, no Gwen to kiss, no Gwen to love.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to pick up the report at the top of his correspondence, but before he’d read the first word, he slammed his fist on the desk. Damnation, he would argue with that. He was a bloody duke. She’d said it herself. He could do as he pleased. He’d kept his arm as a boy, and he’d bloody well keep her, too. He would formulate a plan, an argument to convince her, and he...well, he would convince her. He refused to let her go, no matter what her bloody letter said.
Shoving to his feet, he strode from the room, calling for Dobson. Now all he needed to do was brave London and the whispers and stares of society. But for her, he would brave much.
For her, he would brave anything.
Chapter Nine
GWEN STARED AT THE pristine whiteness of the page before her. Since her arrival at the chambers this morning at eight of the clock, the page had remained blank. Three hours had passed as she’d tried to distract herself with other tasks, had wasted a pot of ink and a ream of paper making mistake after mistake in her scribing, but the reason for her distraction would not leave her any time soon.
She’d left Edward.
Closing her eyes, she swallowed past the lump in her throat. How could she have left him in the way she had? At the time, it had seemed for the best to leave a letter on his desk and depart Sowrithil before any had risen, but it had taken only a day in London without him to admit the truth—she had run. Like a fool, like a coward, she had left without speaking with him, and why? Because it was easier. Because he would not have the chance to sway her. Because she could not bear it if he became upset…and she could not bear it if he didn’t.
Silk & Scars (The Silk Series Book 3) Page 7
