by Darcy Burke
Again, the man hesitated, and his neck remained a faint pink above the crisp white collar of his shirt. “He did.”
When had he planned to tell her? Or had he decided to leave it to his secretary?
She released her hands and gently flexed her fingers to restore feeling. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Not at present. Do you have any questions for me?”
“No.” She rose, and he jumped up from his chair. “Thank you, Mr. Dyer. I hope you don’t feel as if this put you in an awkward position. You are only doing your job. Lord Overton—this Lord Overton—will not be upset with you.” If he was, Fiona would kick him. Repeatedly.
“I hope not.”
“He is not like his father.” At least, he tried not to be. She started toward the door, then stopped abruptly. Turning back to face him, she said, “I do have one question. What happens to my dowry if I don’t wed?”
“If you aren’t wed by the age of twenty-five, the funds will go to you.”
“Remind me, please, how much is it?”
“Six thousand pounds.”
Such an enormous sum! And just three years until it could be hers. Her birthday was in less than a week, and she would be twenty-two. Three years, and she could be a financially independent woman with an estate.
“I beg your pardon, but I suppose that was two questions and now I have a third. It is the last, I assure you.”
“Ask as many as you like.”
“Is there any way his lordship can retain Horethorne if he doesn’t wed?”
Dyer’s eye twitched. “I’m afraid not.”
The property was all but gone to him then. Unless he decided to actually kidnap someone to Gretna Green.
“Thank you, Mr. Dyer.” She inclined her head and left the study, her mind swimming with ideas and plans she hadn’t possessed a mere half hour ago. Her life was going to completely change, and she had Tobias’s tragedy to thank for it.
What a terrible, horrible mess.
Tobias stepped into the sitting room outside his bedchamber and froze. A figure lay upon the chaise angled near the fireplace. Quietly moving closer, his gaze moved from the pale green blanket covering the person’s lower half up to the thick dark red braid that seemed to glow in the light of the low fire.
Fiona’s back was to him, but there was no mistaking the hair. Or the gentle slope of her shoulder and the dip of her waist. He let his eyes feast on the curve of her backside. It was impudent of him, but she’d come into his domain. She had to expect he would at least look.
What the devil was she even doing here? Had she come to rekindle last night’s madness? He could not let that happen. His best course of action would be to ignore her and go straight to his bedchamber. Except if someone found her asleep in here…
Hell. It was fortunate no one had discovered her yet.
He had to wake her. Stepping closer, he inhaled the unmistakable scent of lavender. Of Fiona. Of temptation and promise.
“Fiona,” he whispered. When she didn’t stir, he repeated her name but louder. Still no movement.
He reached for her shoulder, his fingertips grazing along her upper arm. “Fiona,” he said more firmly.
She rolled toward him, her eyes closed. A soft sigh escaped her parted lips, and Tobias was nearly overwhelmed with longing. She blinked, her lashes fluttering, before her dark gaze settled on him, narrowed at first and then widening slightly.
“My lord,” she said, pushing up to a sitting position. “I must have dozed off.”
“In my private sitting room. What are you doing in here?”
“I needed to speak with you, and it grew quite late.” She brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “I couldn’t think of another way to ensure I saw you tonight.”
“Surely whatever you need to discuss can wait until tomorrow.” He tried not to look at her dressing gown, which exposed a V of flesh from her elegant throat to the alluring valley of her breasts. “And surely it didn’t require you come here to wait for me.”
“It absolutely did.” She rose in a graceful movement that caused the blanket to cascade down her leg and drape over the side of the chaise. “I met with Mr. Dyer today, and he gave me some rather startling information.”
The pleasure of watching her clashed with her words, jarring him into a state of dissonance. “Dyer?” Shit. There was only one reason Dyer would speak with her, and yes, it would have surprised the hell out of her.
“He told you about my father’s will.”
One of her auburn brows arched, and the edge of her lip curled. “He thought you had. Imagine his mortification when he realized I was ignorant of the entire matter. That wasn’t very kind of you.”
“I didn’t see a need to tell you unless it came to pass. I never expected that would happen—that I wouldn’t wed in time. Rather, I didn’t allow myself to think of that.” Losing Horethorne was unimaginable.
There was a bare hiss as she exhaled quickly. “Apparently, you didn’t allow yourself to think of me either. But then I am no one of import, just your ward for whom you are responsible and for whom you have been charged with settling into an advantageous marriage.”
“Which you have indicated you aren’t interested in at the moment.”
“You also failed to mention the sum of my dowry. Six thousand pounds! Or the fact that it would be mine should I fail to wed by my twenty-fifth birthday.”
He shifted his weight, uncomfortable beneath the weight of her stare. She was right—he hadn’t thought of her. He’d seen it as his duty to manage the situation because she was his ward, and it had never occurred to him to inform or consult her. Why would he when he hadn’t expected any of these things to come to pass? “Just as I failed to consider that I wouldn’t marry as outlined by my father, I also didn’t imagine you wouldn’t wed by then. I thought your reluctance was in the short term, as you acclimated to London, and that in three years’ time, you would undoubtedly be married. Unless you plan to reject every proposal you receive.”
“I might. Particularly now that I know I’ll have six thousand of my own pounds if I do.” She stuck out her chin. “But again, you discounted my right to know, let alone make choices. How am I to make decisions about my life, about my future, when I am not fully informed?”
She stepped toward him, her eyes wide, her features serene. But she wasn’t entirely composed. A tension radiated from her, so thick he thought he could slice it like bread.
He flexed his hands. “I’d planned to tell you after the assembly tomorrow night, when I will know for certain if I will marry or not.”
“That is still a possibility?” She sounded surprised.
“It is.” Miss Goodfellow would be there tomorrow night, and he was going to ask if she would entertain marriage to him. He would be clear about why he was asking and his expectations that they would hopefully form a romantic attachment. At the very least, he expected them to be friends and behave as a married couple should. It was not the union he’d dreamed of, but it was all he could expect given the deadline his father had imposed.
In that moment, he realized he’d planned to afford Miss Goodfellow a courtesy he had not given Fiona—the truth.
Suddenly overheated, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair near the hearth. “Fiona, I’m sorry. I should have told you everything from the start. I didn’t know you then. I expected a young chit from the country who would be eagerly wed and removed from my responsibility.”
“I don’t know what’s worse, that you didn’t tell me after you came to know me, or that you assumed I would be a simple-minded automaton who would bend to your will. You try to not be like your father, but you are not entirely successful.”
Her words cut into him, inflicting a sharp, deep pain. Because there was a veracity to them. He had handled this—her—as his father would have. “Please don’t compare me to him,” he whispered.
“As a woman, I have been and will always be subject to
a man’s whims—my father’s, my cousin’s, your father’s, yours.” Now she looked angry, her eyes blazing. “I am entirely dependent on whatever scraps you have for me. Until now. If you do not marry and I do not marry before I’m twenty-five, I have the chance to be independent, to own my choices, to decide my future. It’s the closest thing to a miracle I will ever see, and you wanted to keep all of it from me. I thought you’d grown to care for me. You can be so kind, so considerate, and you seem to realize when you display despotic tendencies—”
“Despotic?” He flinched.
“And you rein them back. But then I learn that you’ve kept me ignorant of things that would change my life and my perspective, and I feel as though I don’t know you at all.”
He closed the distance between them and took her hands. “My father set all of this in motion to cause the maximum pain. I wonder if he somehow knew I would grow to care for you, that I would fail to marry because of the distraction of you.” He shook his head. “Distraction sounds terrible, but it’s true. You’re my ward. I am not supposed to be attracted to you in the way that I am.” He let go of one hand and clasped the lower half of her braid between his fingers. Dragging his thumb down the silken coil, he couldn’t help but smile softly. “I am so sorry for not telling you. Please understand. Horethorne is my dearest possession. To lose it would be to lose my mother all over again.”
Her eyes glazed as she stared at him, and she stroked his hand with her thumb. “I know. This is an awful situation. As angry as I was to learn you’d kept this from me, I don’t know that I wouldn’t have done the same in your position.” She brought his hand up and kissed his knuckles. “I’m sorry, Tobias.”
He sucked in a breath. “You said my name. Again. Please.”
“Tobias.” She kissed his hand again, keeping his flesh pressed to her lips as she said it a third time. “Tobias.”
“I just realized our names share three letters in common—all vowels. Surely that means something.”
She tipped her head to the side.
“What?”
“I have no idea.” He gripped her braid and moved his other hand to her back, drawing her against him as his mouth covered hers.
She put her hand on his lapel and slid it up to the side of his neck, her thumb moving from the front of his throat up to the underside of his chin. With a soft groan, he opened his mouth and licked inside hers. She met his thrust with a parry and slid her hand to his nape, her fingers tugging at his hair.
Tobias climbed his fingers up her braid and cupped the back of her head, holding her as he plundered her mouth. She responded in kind, clutching him fiercely and kissing him with a wildness he’d never known.
A tiny voice at the back of his mind told him to stop, but a stronger chorus urged him to take what she offered. What if they were caught? There was slim chance of that, for he’d closed the door behind him, and no one would disturb him at this hour unless he asked for assistance.
He slid his hand forward, under her arm, and found the swell of her breast. There was no gown or corset to deter him tonight, just her dressing gown and presumably a night rail beneath. Stroking her through the layers, he felt her nipple harden. He tugged at the tie on the front and slipped his hand inside the garment. Now there was just a thin piece of lawn separating him from her. He cupped her breast and kissed down her throat, encouraged by her soft whimpers and the insistent pressure of her fingers against his scalp.
Pushing the dressing gown off over her shoulders, he let it fall to the floor. His entire focus was on her breast as he tugged at the neckline of her night rail. It was wide enough to allow him to pull it down, exposing her flesh so he could take her bare nipple into his mouth.
She gasped, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Tobias.”
He wanted more. He needed more.
Rotating her, he gently guided her down to the chaise. On the descent, she loosened his cravat and pulled it from his neck, tossing it away. Her hands worked at the buttons of his waistcoat, and when she’d released them all, he shrugged out of the garment and threw it to the side.
She was so beautiful in the glow of the fire, her hair radiant and lush, her skin gleaming like a pearl. He kissed her again, and she ran her hands and fingers through his hair, over his neck, and inside the collar of his shirt, her warm flesh teasing his.
Trailing his mouth down her body, he found her breast once more, eagerly devouring her nipple as she arched up into him. “Tobias.”
Every time she said his name, a thrill shot through him. There was a stark intimacy in the way she said it or perhaps in the way she touched him and looked at him. He couldn’t precisely remember when she began to command his thoughts, but it had happened wholly, and he didn’t want to return to before.
He’d planted his knee between hers as he leaned over her and kept his other foot on the floor. She clasped his waist and pulled while he felt her rise from the chaise, her body seeking his. Finding the hem of her night rail, he lifted the garment to her hips. He gently caressed her thighs, then her mons, delighting in the shivers that twitched across her flesh. She moaned as he stroked across her sex, his fingertips sliding over her soft crease.
Moving beneath him, she gripped his waist and his neck. “Tobias, please.”
She seemed to know what she wanted or at least that she wanted something. He did not want to disappoint her.
He lifted his head and kissed the side of her throat beneath her ear. Slipping his finger inside her, he whispered, “Is this what you want?”
“Yes.” She pulled on his hair and guided his mouth to hers. Sealing her lips against his, she kissed him over and over, teasing him with her tongue. “More.”
His body shook with need as he stroked into her, pressing his finger deep until she jerked up, gasping into his mouth. Her muscles clenched around him, urging him to move faster. He alternated between massaging her clitoris and pumping into her, meeting her thrusts with his own.
Her cries grew as her body arched more frantically beneath him. He could feel how close she was, and he wanted to send her blissfully over the edge into oblivion. Tearing his lips from hers, he moved down, pushing her night rail up to her belly. He put his mouth on her sex, his tongue flicking over her clitoris as he plunged his finger into her sheath.
She let out a string of unintelligible words as her body began to shudder. Her thighs quivered around him as he licked over and into her sex, parting her flesh with his fingers. Her muscles clenched, bearing down around him as she let out a high, keening cry. He reached up and touched his finger to her mouth. She sucked him between her lips, and his cock responded, twitching against his clothing, desperate for release.
Gradually, she began to quiet, her movements slowing. She released his finger, and he glanced up to see her casting her head back against the chaise. He kissed her thigh, her hip, the slope between her belly and her sex.
She reached for him, grabbing his shirt over each shoulder. “You can’t be finished.”
He pulled his shirt from his waistband and looked down into the dark, glossy chocolate of her eyes. “Not by half. But if we are to continue, I need an affirmative answer to a critical question.” He stroked his fingertips along her cheek. “Will you marry me?”
Chapter 17
Marry him?
For the second time that day, Fiona was at a complete loss for words. He didn’t want to marry her. He wanted to shag her.
She pushed at his chest, sending him off balance so that he landed on his arse at the end of the chaise. “You don’t really want to marry me.”
He stared at her, a slight frown tugging at his lips. “Why not?”
“Look where we are, what we were doing. I may be from the country, but I am not a fool.”
“I’m very confused. Were you not enjoying that? I thought you were.”
“Of course, I enjoyed it.” She’d finally experienced a real release—orgasm, as the book had called it. The book had contained drawings of what he’d ju
st done, but she’d never imagined the devastating wonder of it. She pulled up the neckline of her night rail, covering herself completely.
“Then marry me, and we can do it over and over again.”
That was exceedingly tempting. She looked at him once more, her gaze dipping to the V of his shirt, which exposed a tantalizing expanse of his chest, some of it dusted with dark hair. Her hands practically itched to explore him the way she devoured a new map, her fingers tracing over every fascinating revelation.
“This is not a good reason to get married.” She reached down for her dressing gown and stood from the chaise.
“It’s sure as hell not a bad one. People have married for far less.”
She had only to think of her mother and father to know that was true. They hadn’t shared some grand passion. No matter how hard she tried, Fiona couldn’t recall even one moment of intimacy between them—no stolen glances, no touching, and certainly no kissing. Still, having that…connection wasn’t enough. Especially not when independence was in sight, something a woman like her could never have expected. An amazing life—and adventure—was within her grasp. Even the queen had advocated she seek that. And if she did marry, she didn’t have to settle for anything less than the man of her dreams, a notion Tobias had put into her head.
Drawing her gown on over her night rail, she fastened the front. “You should marry the woman of your dreams,” she said softly. “Especially after what happened with Lady Bentley. Furthermore, I deserve to find the man of my dreams—if he exists.”
He stood, and with the fire behind him, his face was inscrutable.
“We both deserve to be loved.” She thought of how he’d lost his mother and the ensuing years of a difficult relationship with his father. Yes, love. And for herself, she also wanted freedom. “None of this changes where we are.” Except if she married him before the twelfth, she’d lose Horethorne. “Did you ask me to marry you because of your mother’s house?”
