“Yes. Mary found the date of my birth recorded in the Bible in the library. They surprised me with the handkerchief.”
“When was it?”
“A fortnight ago.”
She fingered an edge of the silk, the tip of her forefinger brushing his thumb. “And you are still wearing it?”
The tips of his ears tinged with heat. He shrugged. “Yes. I told them I would wear it unfailingly. So I do.”
“It was thoughtful of them.” Her fingers slipped from the edge of the fabric.
“Yes.” He folded the handkerchief neatly and slipped it back into the inside pocket of his tailcoat, which Adalia still held over her arm. “It was the first present I ever received.”
“What?” Her mouth widened in a disbelieving smile. “No. Surely you have had presents before.”
His shoulders lifted again, the heat in his ears spreading down his neck. “No.” He took the coat from Adalia’s arm and turned, then moved to the simple wooden chair by the desk to drape it over the back rails.
A footstep behind him, her hand landed on his shoulder. “I am sorry I was not there. I am sorry I missed it.”
“It is no matter, Adalia.”
Her hand stayed on his shoulder, and she stepped around him, planting herself in front of him, her sparkling green eyes intent on his face. “It does matter, Toren. It may not matter to you, but it does to me. It matters to me that you have lived your whole life without the joy of receiving something well crafted from someone who loves you. Proof, however small, that you matter, that you are the world to someone else. Mary and Josalyn—they adore you.”
“I am fortunate.”
“You say that with bewilderment, as though you are surprised they could do so.”
He shrugged.
Her head shook, a frown settling on her face. “I should have told you. Before I left I didn’t tell you that you . . . matter . . . that you are worth loving. That was my failing. When I left Dellon Castle it was about me, about my love for you and how I needed to reconcile that. But I should have told you—about you—about who you are as a person and how I see you for the man you are. That you are a man who can be loved. How would you know that unless I spoke the words?”
She slipped both her hands upward and wrapped them around his neck, even as traces of the frown lined her lips. “And as much as I wish it were not so for the pain I fear is ahead for me, I have reconciled nothing about my love for you. I thought . . . I thought I had. But then you appeared tonight and everything—everything I had been lying to myself about collapsed.”
Toren stilled. This was what he had dreaded. This was the moment she decided that what he could offer was not enough.
For a long breath she stared up at him until her frown slowly stretched, turning into a grin. “I adore you still, and I think I need to give you a delayed birthday present.”
He exhaled slightly. “There is no need, Adalia.”
Her fingers went to his lips. “Shhh. You will accept this gift. You will close your mouth and not deny it. No matter how you may want to scream out against it.”
“Scream out against it?”
The smile widened on her face, the return of wantonness. She nodded, her fingers leaving his neck to remove his waistcoat and work his shirt upward on his torso, stripping him free of the cloth.
She started on the dip at the base of his neck, her tongue flickering, tasting his skin. Trailing down the center of him, her lips teased, tongue swirling along the swells of his muscles. Muscles that grew taut under her touch, fire building. With every caress he flinched, his body needing to grab her, needing to strip her free of every last piece of cloth on her body.
Lower and lower her mouth traveled.
Dropping to her knees, her fingers ahead of her mouth, she worked the buttons on his trousers free.
Just as she freed him to the air, her mouth pulled away from his abdomen and looked up at him. “Lift your foot.”
Toren did as commanded, and she pulled off his right boot, followed by his left. Within seconds she had stripped him naked to the air. He drew a deep breath, his control frayed almost to the edge. He knew he was not long for just standing naked before Adalia on her knees, his cock hard and straining for her.
His fingers twitched.
She slapped his left hand, looking up at him, wicked. “No screaming. No ordering me about. You will suffer this.”
Her hands went flat onto his stomach, splaying wide, rolling along the ridges of muscles. Watching her stare at his body, planning, he almost lost his balance as he fought not to yank her up and drive himself into her.
“Not yet. I can see you flinching.” She didn’t look up, just said the words to his stomach, softly, as though she needed to seduce his skin into remaining under her control.
Her hands slipped lower. Her right hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, holding him.
Warm. Strong. Commanding.
Her lips clamped around him, her tongue swirling along his cock as she took him deep into her mouth.
The devil take him. He almost dropped to his knees.
She sucked, hard, then withdrew, softly teasing. Diving forth, pulling his shaft deep into her throat.
Her lips had been on him before. But this—this was far different, for he had always directed her. She was in full control, and given the way his body shuddered with every movement she made, the growls erupting from his throat, she must have been enjoying every second of her mastery.
His hands dove into her hair, clutching at her, pins falling as strands fell freely down her back. She drew him deep into her mouth, again and again. A height he had never known. And hell. He could not stand it any longer.
He yanked himself from the torture of her mouth.
She would not get through this unscathed.
Looking up at him, eyes wide, she yelped as he dropped to his knees in front of her, then grabbed her about the waist and flipped her onto her back. He hovered above her for a long second, taking in the swollen redness of her lips, the lust flushing her cheeks. Reveling in the pure, wanton joy on her face.
He needed to be in her. But not yet.
His hand went down, yanking her skirts upward. “And I imagine I have missed your birthday. Or I am early for it.”
Her hands lifted, attempting to stop him, take back control, but he would have none of it. Dipping down before she could alter his course, he pushed her skirts fully up, his thumbs running up her thighs.
“Dammit, Toren.”
Not giving her a moment to fight it, he dove without preamble, his tongue finding her nubbin, already swollen and ready for his touch. Flicking, teasing. She jerked under him, throaty moans escaping her as her back arched, holding herself to his mouth. Resistance evaporated as she yielded every bit of control to him, letting him build, pull, take her to the edge before yanking her away.
He lifted himself up, ignoring her gasps, her grasping at completion.
“Toren.” The word was breathless, begging, demanding. She reached for his arms, fingernails clawing into his biceps.
“No, Adalia. I have waited weeks for this, and I am inside you, nowhere else.”
“Yes.”
The demand of a devil angel.
He slammed into her. Her body instantly started to ripple, gaining strength as he filled her.
“Toren.”
She shook, her body arching, screaming, and he lifted her, steadying her body against his strokes pushing her through to completion.
“I have you, Adalia. Heaven to hell I have you.”
He drove into her again. Fast. Withdrawing slowly. Her body contracted in brutal waves demanding he return. Again and again until he could take no more. Into her depths, his body lost control, the earth and skies and heaven and hell blending into one explosion.
The roar in his own ears deafened him, his eyes blinded to all but the green of Adalia’s eyes. Wave after wave pulsated from him, emptying into her body, and he collapsed, gripping her body tigh
t to his.
Even though the sensation infiltrating every shattered fragment of his body was foreign, he understood it instinctively on a raw, innate level.
He hadn’t been wrong. His body needed hers—a vice that refused to release him.
But even more so—he needed her.
{ Chapter 18 }
Sitting in the drawing room at the Revelry’s Tempest, Adalia scanned the ballroom beyond the open double French doors that connected the rooms. Not a thing was out of place, the entire level cleaned top to bottom. One would never know a night filled with voracious gaming had ended only a few short hours ago on these floorboards.
Violet truly was remarkable at managing these events. Adalia’s friend had always offered invaluable help, but now that it meant her own livelihood, Violet had poured every modicum of her energy into making these evenings successful.
Adalia sipped her tea, eyeing her friend over the rim of the cup. They had just finished going over the books from the previous night. All was perfectly in order. And after the excitement of Lady Whilynn and Captain Trebont, the betting of the evening had reached a new high. Violet was now in a position to pay off the rest of her debts within a month, if all went well.
Violet would be fine. She wasn’t going to like what Adalia had to tell her next, but Adalia knew her friend would be fine.
Violet set the teapot down on the delicate inlaid rosewood table between them. “So you have obviously reconciled with him in some fashion—I can tell by the flush in your cheeks.” Violet picked up her teacup and took a sip from it. “Where is your duke now? And why have your guards below multiplied? Were there not only four of them before? You are not in dire danger, are you?”
Adalia said silent thanks that Violet held her tongue where Toren was concerned—her friend had listened to all of Adalia’s tirades about her husband, and she knew Violet possessed, at best, an unkind view of him.
“Toren insisted with the guards.” Adalia set her cup down. “My presence here in London makes him nervous, especially when we cannot completely control the crowd that comes to the gaming nights. So he wanted to add two more guards, and I have not fought him on it. He believes the issues with Mr. Trether have been resolved, but he is still uncomfortable with how exposed I am.”
“And good riddance to that charlatan.”
“Yes. And I will be able to breathe in my own space again once we are back in the countryside.”
Violet’s cup clattered to the table. “You are leaving?” Instant worry sent Violet’s blue eyes wide in panic.
“Yes. At least for the time being. Toren has insisted.” Adalia’s fingers tapped on the table. “But it is odd that he is still worried as to Mr. Trether’s motives. I did not miss something, did I? Mr. Trether has not shown up at either of the two nights, has he?”
“No. And Logan knows to alert me if he sees Mr. Trether.”
Adalia nodded. “Good. You need to be wary of the man as well. But beyond that blackguard, and more important, I miss the twins desperately and want to be with them.” Adalia reached across the table, grasping Violet’s hand. “And you need not worry. You are splendid at this, Violet. You manage this place better than I ever have. Plus, Cass is here to help with the gaming nights.”
Violet opened her mouth to speak, but Adalia squeezed her hand, interrupting what she knew would be protest. “And I have other news about this place you will be happy to hear.”
Violet’s head tilted, wary. “What?”
“That is where Toren is. He is buying this house as we speak.”
“He is what?”
“He told me this morning. He wants me—us—to own it with no connection to the Pipworth estate. So he is arranging it right now.”
Violet’s look narrowed, her voice pitching desperate. “No—you cannot let him—he’s doing this only so he can close down the Revelry’s Tempest.”
Adalia’s head snapped back slightly. Violet had been deeply wounded by her late husband’s betrayals—and there had been multiple—but Adalia hadn’t realized how deep her mistrust of men had cut. “Violet, no. Toren would not do that. He has never once been dishonest with me—even when it would benefit him.”
“Such as?”
“Well, he could have lied long ago, told me he loved me, and kept me in his bed, a willing and dutiful wife. But he couldn’t. His honesty is irreproachable. He is even putting the house into a trust owned solely by me. Mine to do with as I see fit.”
Violet looked down at her fine bone china, fingering the delicate handle of the cup. “You are positive of his intentions? You know I trust you, Adalia. You and Cass, and that is it.”
“And I trust Toren. So yes, yes, I am positive.”
Violet gave a slight shake of her chestnut hair. “Well, then, I can only applaud you, Adalia. What did you do to make this happen—to make him want to buy this house?”
“Nothing.” Lifting her cup to her lips, Adalia smirked. “Well . . . it is quite possible there was some tongue exploration involved.”
Her friend laughed. “No, seriously.” Her eyebrows arched, the elegant lines of her face turning grave. “Tell me you are not accepting less than you are worth, Adalia. Does he love you? Is that what he came to London to tell you?”
Adalia took a slow sip of her tea. “Not exactly. But before you admonish me for surrendering, I believe there is hope. I left Dellon Castle because I believed Toren could not love me—but last night—last night I saw a flicker of it in him. More than a flicker. Even if he didn’t understand himself what it was he was feeling. I truly have hope that he can love me—that he can figure out what love is and embrace it. Even if he never admits to it.”
“You are going to give him that chance?” Violet leaned in. “I know you, Adalia. I have since we were thirteen years old, giggling at old Mrs. Swanson and her swatting ruler. I had to watch your marriage to Lord Pipworth, how it crushed your heart. So I ask this with caution. Will ambiguity—especially where love is concerned—be enough for you?”
Violet’s stare pierced her, and Adalia resisted the urge to squirm. The problem with having such incredibly close friends was that they knew her far too well. But she wanted this—wanted Toren—and after what she had seen the previous night, she had to try.
And that didn’t even take into account how quickly her defenses had fallen around him—she hadn’t been able to resist touching him for more than ten minutes.
“I am not going to send Toren to his knees, begging, if that is what you think I need to do, Violet. I left him because I had no hope. But I believe, to my soul, that I saw it in him last night—enough to give me hope. And he cannot discover that he truly loves me if we are living separately.” Adalia set down her cup. “I think he loves me, Violet. It is why he came to London. He wanted to shut this place down, yes, but he came here for me.”
The skepticism heavy in Violet’s blue eyes, she gave a half smile. “You are so adept at recognizing what others miss in people, Adalia. And you unfailingly want to see the best in everyone. I just pray your unique view is not clouded by misplaced hope in this instance.”
Adalia sighed. It was a real possibility, whether she liked to admit it or not. “As do I.”
“Well, if you are wrong about your duke—and I pray you are not—you must remember you will always have me and Cass and the twins.” Violet’s fingers flipped in a circle above her head. “And this place. This place will always keep you more than busy.”
“It is more than enough.” Adalia offered up the right words, even as she wasn’t sure she meant them.
The door at the far end of the ballroom opened, and Mr. Walt stepped in, looking around. Spying Adalia and Violet, the butler walked across the deep expanse of the ballroom, his heels clicking evenly on the polished oak floors.
Adalia had hired Mr. Walt when she opened the Revelry’s Tempest, as he was a man who adhered to the utmost propriety. If she couldn’t bring full respectability to the place, at least she could hire people with the ve
neer of it.
Mr. Walt stopped before them, one hand bent behind his back as he bowed to her with the silver salver balanced on his fingertips. “This just arrived for you, Your Grace, with an air of urgency.”
One note sealed with red wax sat in the middle of the gleaming silver.
She gave Mr. Walt a smile he did not return. The man was stone—even more so than Toren. She plucked the letter from the salver. “Thank you, Mr. Walt.”
Mr. Walt left them and Adalia pulled off her short gloves, careful not to rub the scabs forming on her left palm, and set them on the table. Her name was on the front of the note, and she flipped it and used her fingernail to crack the red seal she didn’t recognize. She tapped the excess broken wax from the folded paper before opening it to beautifully shaped letters.
The note was short. Not signed.
Question what you believe of your brother. Come to corner of Berwick and Broad Street for truth.
Her brow furrowed.
Brother?
She ran over the cryptic line several times before flipping the envelope over to make sure it was addressed to her. It was.
She read the words again, noting the two odd absences of the word the.
“What is it, Adalia? You are growing pale.” Violet’s eyes dipped to the paper and back to her face. “Your duke? Not good news?”
“I am not . . .” Her voice trailed off. What you believe of your brother. A chill snaked down her spine. Her brothers were dead. Buried. All of them. Who would even dare to besmirch their memory—to care about them in the slightest?
Adalia shook her head slowly, starting to rise. “I am not sure.”
Violet gained her feet, grabbing Adalia’s arm. “Wait, you do not look good at all, Adalia. Do I need to speak to your duke? Set him into the right? It is beyond the pale, but I will do it for you.”
Adalia’s eyes shot to Violet. “No. This is not about him.” Toren. She needed to show this to him. “It—I am fine. But I do need to talk to my husband. You will excuse me?”
Without waiting for Violet to reply, Adalia rushed to the door of the drawing room and ran down the stairs. She skidded to a stop in the foyer at the sight of her guards in the parlor adjacent to the foyer, realizing she had no carriage handy. Toren had dropped her off much earlier, promising to be back with haste.
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