Dark Side of the Sun

by Addison Cain

  She refused to answer, so he began to torment—teasing, tempting—entering just enough to drive her mad. He would barely breech her, then deny her gratification, flick her pearl with his thumb just enough for her legs to shudder, but too slow to do more than make her drip for him. When Arabella was certain that she was going to scream, he took her hand and led it to his stiffened cock. Thick and pulsing with need, it twitched in her grip as he surrounded her fist with his own and moved her up and down the length of him.

  The weight of his member in her hand, the feeling of something so large and so pleasing made her ache for it. Her thumb circled the bulbous head, played with the foreskin, gripping almost too tightly as she stroked down. “Does this please you, man who is not my husband?”

  Her intention had been to insult him, not make him smile beautifully down at her. “It is pleasing, Imp.” He pumped his cock in her fist once, reminding her of his size and expertise as he purred to her and promised, “Though not as pleasing as your cunny will be, my love.”

  Such words had the strangest effect on her. Her legs already spread inexorably wide, she tilted her pelvis in offering. When he, ever so slowly, popped his thick crown past the tight mouth of her slit, her eyes rolled back in her head and she moaned so loudly he had to capture her lips to swallow the noise.

  The stretch of him was always almost too much for her. He could be rough, she knew he wanted to be, but Gregory tempered his ferocity to roll his hips with an almost calculating sensuality that peeled her flesh from her bones. He coaxed from her all the gentle words he wanted, relished her hands dancing over his body, Arabella caressing the muscles corded in their work to please her.

  When she was just at the cusp of perfection, he demanded words, his voice breathy as he thrust. “Tell me you are mine.”

  Not even aware she was speaking, Arabella admitted her ruin, sliding her arms tighter around the source of her encroaching oblivion. “Yours.”

  Her actions made him frantic and what would have been a gentle climax was stirred up by his sudden passion. Snapping his hips, trying to climb inside her, he plunged recklessly into her body, his tongue mimicking the movement of his cock in her mouth. He pounded so ferociously that the air grew vulgar with the sounds of wet slapping flesh. Caught up in him, the world went white, and Arabella felt a storm centralize in her belly, tightening until it blasted from her spine to burn each limb. Even lost in that perfection she gripped the flesh of his rear, pulling him deeper, greedy to hear him moan at her ear in time with the hot spurts of his cock.

  When at last he could manage speech, Gregory kissed her deeply, panting, “Do not doubt me...”

  “Will you stay the night? I do not sleep when you are away.”

  He hushed her, nuzzled her cheek, and held her closer. “Did you think I would leave?”

  “When it comes to you, Gregory,” Arabella found herself on the verge of tears again, “I never know what to think.”

  Chapter 16

  B efore the sun had fully risen outside Stonewall Grove, Mr. Harrow was gone for London, Arabella having tied his cravat herself. Her mouth still swollen from the way Gregory liked to nip, she’d frowned, pretending she felt no loss in his absence. An hour later, Magdala tended the baroness as if the woman had not seen the state of the bed, dressing her modestly to cover marks left by rough teeth and eager lips.

  “Am I a fool, Magdala?”

  Thin fingers stopped in their work. “You are a widow... it is not uncommon for ladies in your situation to take a lover.”

  There was no point in avoiding the obvious. “One who openly courts my friends’ sister before slipping into my room?”

  Eyes edged by paper-thin wrinkles met hers, Magdala honest. “It was foolish to allow it here. Should you have been caught...”

  “How long have you known?”

  The housekeeper went back to tugging Arabella’s gown into place. “Mr. Harrow’s regard for you was obvious from the start. And he makes no secret of what he leaves behind on your sheets.”

  Cheeks blooming red, Arabella looked to the bed, not having considered the servants might wonder at the dried remnants of a man’s pleasure. He had plundered her repeatedly in the dark, and again before the sun broke, having left plenty of traces for Stonewall Grove’s staff to snicker over. “They will think it was Edmund...”

  Magdala eased her lady immediately. “They will think nothing, because I will remove the sheet and say you bled upon it. It will go straight to the laundry and I will watch it soak.”

  Relieved Magdala was far cleverer than she, Arabella took her hand. “And now I must wonder if he did such a thing on purpose. I am never sure of him when he says one thing and does another.”

  The older woman disengaged from Arabella’s touch, shamefaced. “When you were ill, twice I caught him in your room while you slept. I could hardly keep him from your chamber, or spirit him away from the doctor’s sight. The only currency I had to bribe him with was conversation. He asked a great many questions.”

  Livid, looking at the woman as if she’d never known her, Arabella hissed, “And what did you tell him?”

  “Why I came to serve you...”

  The baroness looked at her as if Magdala had ripped out her heart. “What does that mean?”

  Magdala was not an affectionate woman, even so, she tried to pat her lady’s shoulder as if to offer comfort. “I was lady’s maid to Iliffe’s mistress, Miss Bethany Sawyer. One morning, I came to wake her and found a sight I wish I could unsee. I ran from the house, from the blood. Months later, Solicitor Griggs found me working as a kitchen maid in a public house. He told me what his brother, the doctor who attended Benjamin Iliffe after Mamioro trampled him, had found in the walls of the Baron’s estate. He told me he’d discovered you. I had never much cared for Miss Sawyer, she could be cruel and deceitful, as much as you are stubborn and skittish, but the guilt I bore for leaving her corpse and saying nothing...” Magdala swallowed, shaken by memory. “Mr. Griggs claimed you would need a woman’s support.”

  Tears marked Arabella’s cheeks, the baroness equally horrified to see the same on her stoic attendant’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were a wild thing when I arrived. You ran from anyone but Payne. You needed care, I needed absolution. I have been dedicated to you since the first day I saw you huddled in the corner, nothing but bones.”

  * * *

  Perfunctory, that well described Solicitor Griggs’ arrival to Crescent Barrows on the heels of sensational news. The Marquise of Glauster had indeed been murdered.

  Standing tall and rail thin, the man urged, “We cannot pretend this is not a boon. You must go back to London, and you must do it now, my lady.”

  The Marquise of Glauster’s corpse was not yet cold. “Dalton is there. Shall I allow him to set me aflame in my sleep?”

  Sunken cheeks drew wan, Griggs sucked in a confused breath. “Dalton resides in Bath, wooing the Countess Strand’s daughter. Had it not been for the funeral, he was not set to arrive until Parliament took their seats after Christmas.”

  Looking to where Payne stood silent, Arabella frowned deeply. “That cannot be the case. Your informant is incorrect.”

  “William Dalton has not come to London in over three months, my lady,” Griggs affirmed. “Why would you think otherwise?”

  Because the gypsy, Ion, had told her Dalton was on her heels. He had whispered terrible things in her ear. “And you have proof of this?”

  “The journey is not so far,” Mr. Griggs admitted, thin fingers steepled before him. “But a man of his rank, his movement would be noticed.”

  Had she fled from a phantom? “I paid a gypsy to stalk Dalton’s movements. He was set to arrive in London when I was last there. This man warned me the Baron was coming. That is why I fled.”

  “You were misinformed, my lady. The very night I got your letter, he attended a grand soiree in Bath. William Dalton was seen by many.”

  It could not be. Pacing, her
skirts catching on her ankles, Arabella fretted. “Why would Ion lie? How could he have known the things he said?”

  Payne stepped in, stilling Arabella’s agitation and addressing the old man. “If what you say is true, does Dalton avoid London because of his creditors?”

  The Solicitor seemed reluctant, if not baffled, to explain, “That is another topic we needed to discuss. A great deal of his debt has recently been settled.”

  “What?”

  “Almost twenty thousand pounds.”

  That was a vast fortune...

  It all seemed too clever. What little joy she’d known from the Marquise’s death was slipping from her fingers. “Settled or transferred?”

  “Considering how brazen he’s grown at the gaming tables, how flagrant with his tailor, it must be assumed it was settled.”

  No, that was Gregory. She knew it in her bones.

  Arabella had seen Mr. Harrow at that game with the farmer he’d ruined. Deceit and misdirection were the man’s specialty. He wielded such a talent against everyone, even her. “If I were to go to London, as you say, what would I do there?”

  “You will attend the Marquise of Glauster’s funeral.”

  A dry, horrid laugh escaped before Arabella could suppress it. “You would have a better chance convincing me to woo Countess Strand’s daughter in Dalton’s place.”

  Griggs gave her a long look, rheumy eyes sharpening. “That is not so terrible an idea. Dalton will attend the funeral in London and would never anticipate you might travel to Bath.”

  It was Payne who answered before Arabella could consider, “Bath is only a day’s ride from London. If Dalton were to hear of it, if he were to march, we would pass on the road, unprotected. Any attack could be attributed to highwaymen.”

  Where she was or was not going was not nearly as important as the question that had yet to be answered. “Why did Ion lie? Why go to all the trouble to make me flee town?”

  Griggs sighed. “I do not know this Ion and I cannot say.”

  It was necessary to find out. As if Payne could read her thoughts, he took her hand, prepared to argue her out of her scheme. “The last trip to London made you unwell. You do not have to go. Stay here, I will go for you.”

  It was fear that had sickened her. It was the doubt and self-loathing. Gregory had warned her against weakness, he had told her she had to fight or lose. London would bring her face to face with her enemy, but she could do more than stand her ground amidst mourners eager for gossip to trade. She was tired of being used.

  Arabella shook her head, hardly believing she was about to agree. “Whether Ion told the truth or a lie, Dalton would never anticipate I would show my face.” Not after he’d seen her cower and beg for mercy three years ago. Not when he’d beaten her with a candlestick like some dog. Not when he’d heard her cry for the mother who had abandoned her. Not when he’d told her he’d cut her throat if he ever saw her again. “And he certainly would not anticipate I would send Magdala to Bath.”

  The men looked confused.

  “It would be best, after all, for a letter of such weight to be delivered by my lady’s maid directly into Countess Strand’s hands. I think she should know what type of man courts her daughter’s fortune. Solicitor Griggs, if you could have the figures prepared on the Iliffe estate for me before you go, along with a list of his recent known debts, I would appreciate it.”

  Griggs took a deep breath, weighing his answer before he began. “Your ladyship, consider. If Dalton were to lose the potential funding Lady Strand can bring to the estate, it will fail—potentially in less than three years.”

  “Watching the Barony of Iliffe fade away into obscurity would give me great pleasure.”

  “If it fails and Dalton is forced to sell, you will have nothing to draw from, my lady.”

  Arabella knew better. “My income was nearing its end anyway.”

  Griggs slowly nodded, uneasy with the grim resolution in the lady’s eyes.

  “But there is more that must be done,” Arabella turned her attention to Payne. “While I attend the funeral I will be safe, surrounded by society. While I am there, you must find Ion. He must answer for his lies.”

  “That would leave you unprotected with only Hugh and Mary nearby.”

  Speaking slowly, Arabella shook her head. “Mary I will send to Stonewall Grove. Mr. Jenkins and Lizzy will see to her shelter. Hugh will go with you, Payne. Ion would not recognize him, and the boy knows how to survive on the streets. He can approach in ways someone of your size and appearance cannot.”

  Payne was not at all happy with Arabella’s plan, and as it was, when Magdala was informed of her part in it, neither was her housekeeper.

  * * *

  There were angels on the coffin’s silver depositum. Even through her black veil, Arabella could see them, and it was all she could do to not burst out laughing.

  Under no circumstances were angels keeping company with the dead Marquise of Glauster.

  Her shoulders shook, those watching most likely taking the display for silent weeping. And she was weeping, even as her ribs ached from holding in sickening guffaws.

  Inside that box was the puffy, embalmed body of a nightmare, his corpse too swollen from the filthy water Gregory downed him in to be displayed. Inside that box, someone who had hurt her more times than she could remember waited to be dumped in the ground.

  The beau monde mourners could not stop whispering about the nature of the Marquise’s death. Hushed gossip, a few from faces steeled to conceal the same burdened exaltation Arabella felt, hissed about cold air.

  Who had done it? How had nobody seen? Who would dare?

  In that parlor, Arabella first heard rumors that London constables had found their man—or so they claimed—and one Harold Reagan was to be hanged for the crime.

  Upon hearing a stranger was going to die for what Gregory had done... Arabella thought she might be sick.

  What was she doing there gloating over a corpse, feeling the cold chill of evil inch its grip around her? What had she done? Or better yet, what had Harold Reagan done to earn Gregory’s vengeance? For there was no chance that it had not all been arranged by the blackguard.

  It was in that moment, where her knees felt weak, and she thought she might fall to pieces, William Dalton approached. Enjoying her horrified expression even the veil could not hide, he grinned. “Lady Iliffe, you seem unwell.”

  He had changed little in the three years since she’d last seen the man. He was still handsome, much more than his wan, depraved cousin had ever been. Dressed as a dandy, he stood with conceit, as if he believed he deserved much more than had already been heaped at his feet.

  “William,” her throat was dry, her mouth full of ashes, “At a time like this, we are all a little shaken. The Marquise of Glauster was a dear friend to my departed husband...”

  The informal use of his name set Dalton’s lips on edge, filled his expression with barely contained disgust. “Is it not tasteless to be seen in the same room as his grieving widow?”

  There was nothing of grief in the round woman staring off in muddled confusion across the room. Arabella knew exactly how the grieving widow felt: she felt frightened it could not be real, clutched at her son as if the thought of the little boy approaching the coffin had to be prevented at all costs.

  She felt eager to see that box buried in the earth, just as Arabella did.

  It would take years for even a sense of normal to return to that woman. She would wake in the night afraid. She would hear the dead man’s voice, smell him, start at shadows.

  Arabella knew how that woman felt, and hardened. “I do believe I will offer condolences to Marchioness Eliza.”

  She’d taken less than a step before an iron grip came to her arm. Dalton, shielding his shackle with the angle of his body, threatened her, “You will do no such thing.”

  There was so much anger, years of festering, deep-seated anger inside Arabella. “You will release me, or by God, Willia
m, I will cause such a scene your public embarrassment would take decades to live down.”

  His grip tightened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Ignoring the pain in her arm, shaking from rage, Arabella swore. “You might be surprised what I am willing to dare these days. Remove your hand, now.”

  Taken aback at such vehemence in a woman, Dalton released his grip, narrowed his eyes, and stepped away.

  He had stepped away from her. Under the wrath Arabella was flabbergasted, watching his retreat with nervous glee.

  He had stepped away from her...

  The immediate thought that Gregory would have been proud had he seen her in that moment made her want to smile. Until she remembered an innocent man was going to hang for a murder he did not commit. The stranger, Harold Reagan, would suffer so she might survive.

  Swallowing the shame down was not as hard as it should have been. Not when thoughts of Mary’s future, of Hugh, showed nothing but desolation should they lose their homes. Not when another of the men Gregory Harrow sought to revenge himself upon in her name stood as pallbearer—Baron Witte was openly satisfied to lay his eyes on the long unseen baroness, watching her constantly with a sly smirk.

  For just a moment Arabella allowed herself to imagine all the ways Gregory might slaughter the villain. Would he drown him too? Strangle him as Payne had strangled Benjamin Iliffe?

  The procession began, Baron Witte hefting the coffin. Saved by circumstance from facing a man who’d done unspeakable things to her, a man who with one look had unnerved her shaky bravery, Arabella followed the mourners.

  At the graveyard she didn’t speak, nor did she leave once the first handfuls of dirt were tossed. No, the baroness waited until worm filled earth had swallowed that box, just as the newly widowed Marchioness did.

  Taking her leave, Arabella took the lost woman’s hand and said what the widow could not. “May he burn in hell.”

  Chapter 17

  T he satisfaction found in crowing over the Marquise of Glauster’s corpse was not sustainable, nor did momentary gratification bring with it peace. Not when the name Harold Reagan knocked at Arabella’s thoughts. Not when she felt something was deeply wrong, but she could not put her finger on it.