by Anne Mallory
“Nana called me Andreas only in private, our special name in that dark house.” He didn’t know why he needed her to know such things, all of a sudden. “My middle name was Andrew . . .”
She touched the bare skin at his neck, a small caress, but one that didn’t overwhelm him.
“She was my nurse. Henry’s nurse. She took care of me, even with Edward newly born to care for. Whenever Garrett visited my rooms. After. But Garrett found out. He tossed her out like garbage on my tenth birthday. Did something horrible to her. There was so much blood. Garrett crowed that it was a birthday present befitting a thief.”
Blood thief. Birth malefactor.
Her lips pressed together. He could tell she wanted to say something to him, comfort him. But she smoothed a hand down his arm and kept working. It was better. He sighed, letting out the bulge in his chest in one big breath.
“It took me years to find her—and even though I still looked, I thought her dead. It might be more truthful to say she found me in the end. But she . . . something had split her mind, whatever he did to her that day. I cannot tell you how much I longed for his death then, when I realized it.”
Another stroke along his arm.
“Roman kept me busy, pushed me. Said that we could destroy him later. He knew it was a suicide mission otherwise. By the time I got to the point where I could easily destroy Garrett, I was too hard. Wanted everything stripped from him piece by piece. I waited and plotted. Enjoyed small victories, making his life less pleasant with each strike. Death was too easy.”
His mother’s infidelity had made Garrett bitter, the notion that his heir was not of his own blood had turned him crazed. But Andreas had pushed him into the man he had been last night.
“I never fully realized the consequences of such actions until I saw how people who I cared about were affected.”
“Nana said in the carriage that your mother sent her to you before she died.”
He stiffened. “Nana is not right in her thinking sometimes. She wishes it were so.”
“Maybe it is so,” Phoebe said softly, finishing the bandage and sitting back. “I never met Lady Garrett, but it was said she was a sad woman. Henry said she mourned and raved alternately.”
He touched her hand. “I don’t wish to speak of this.” He kept his voice calm.
She examined him for a moment, then nodded, then gave him a quick kiss. Her hand lingered on his cheek a moment before dropping.
“Your brother gave away none of your secrets. I did my own research,” she said softly, her eyes keeping contact with his. “And I trust my instincts.”
“Your instincts have gotten you into trouble,” he said. Trusting him was proof of that.
“And they’ve always gotten me back out, for the better. I do not deny that I have done some less-than-brilliant things, but always with good purpose,” she said.
She tilted her head. “Like with you. Trusting you was a risk, but not so much of one really. Not once I met Roman and your Nana. Not once I met you. You like to make yourself out to be much worse than you are.”
And here it was, what he feared each and every time he thought on it. “Once you realize it is the opposite, you will leave.”
It just slipped out there, his voice harsh and damaged. Words that he could not pull back. That hung and twisted around his neck like a noose.
Her hand slipped over his and she leaned into him, head tucking against his for a moment. “Someday you will be unable to hold to that belief. And then I will have proven myself to you.”
“You have nothing to prove.” His voice seemed permanently stuck in its harsh cadence.
“Perhaps those were the wrong words. Perhaps it is more that you will accept me too.” He opened his mouth to argue, but she continued before he could. “Accept that I will stay by your side, always.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t.”
He couldn’t admit why though, even now. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t destroy this thing he wanted so much. Her.
He didn’t know how to confess. Didn’t understand how such a thing had happened. He never had to speak to anyone on the same level as he had been for years. No one except Roman, and Roman simply accepted him exactly as he was and had always done so. Had forced himself into Andreas’s life when he’d been ten and still vulnerable.
But he wasn’t ten anymore. He wasn’t vulnerable. That wasn’t what this pit in his stomach was.
“Andreas—”
He pulled her toward him, kissing her instead. He wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t confess anything. Wouldn’t ruin this. For she would leave him. Of course she would. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind.
He would bury the evidence so deeply that no one would ever find out.
Bury himself in her so deeply that she could never disentangle from him.
If he could marry her . . . claim her . . . bind her to him . . . then maybe . . .
And amends. Yes. He could make amends. Apologize first without uttering the words. Soften the ground. Then she would forgive him anything. That worked, right?
He couldn’t stop touching her. It was as if the connection of his skin with hers settled something deep within him. Something he hadn’t known had been ticking and twisting within him. Just a small touch from her was like a soft pet on raised cat fur, smoothing it down, calming. And the more she touched him, and he her, the more settled he became.
She made things brighter and warmer. For him, a man who didn’t deserve the sweetness that was Phoebe Pace.
She shuddered against him, and her lips went to his ear. “Every time you touch me, it becomes more clear that my life held so much less light before you were in it.”
He didn’t know what to say. How to even speak around the clench of muscles that had tightened throughout his body? How did one respond to such a thing, especially when he felt the exact opposite was the truth? She was his light. Perhaps if he had Roman’s smooth way with words, he could come up with something worthy of such a statement. But he was little more than a very well educated and powerful thug, regardless of his true parentage.
“I do not know how that could be,” he whispered back. “As there is nothing but light for me wherever you are.”
Such an inadequate way to say that she was everything that was bright and right about his world.
But something in his pitiful words must have struck a chord within her, because her eyes softened further, widened, her lips opening. It was such an instinctive thing, the reaction that response provoked. Claim her. It was all but screaming inside of him. That she could be his, irrevocably, if he took the opportunity.
If he made sure that she couldn’t leave him, no matter what she later discovered.
Creamy skin. Lips full and panting. Eyes swallowed by black.
It wasn’t just that she was responsive. Responsive, by God, her body moved beneath his at the lightest touch. No. It was that she responded as if she were connected to him. That their movements were all an exotic, crazed, but still choreographed dance that only the two of them knew. He drew his fingers along her rib cage, then down over her stomach, and her hips arched—his fingers staying on the same plane, his fingers, her skin, not separating, not forcing a centimeter farther in or apart. Perfectly in tune as they moved together.
His. His, his, his.
He curled his fingers into her, and her hands wrapped around his neck, pulling his mouth to hers. Her tongue tracing his lips, his mouth catching her gasp, her body arching against his as he stroked her.
He almost lost control.
He had to stay in control. It was the only way that he would keep her. He had to be on top of everything. Make sure that he anticipated everything he needed to keep her at his side.
He took careful hold of his restraint and withdrew from her at a rate that would maximize the pleasure between them.
“I love you,” she whispered.
He pushed in suddenly,
madly, against his own will. The sensations were so overwhelming that it was almost painful. This want of her. To bury himself so completely inside of her.
To erase himself and let her warmth overtake and claim him.
Every shred of control was gone. He struggled for a moment to grab it back, but she was hot and tight and his. Clenching around him instinctively, trying to keep him with and inside of her. He shuddered as he pulled against the warm resistance, stroking backward. But he was a starving man, and being inside of her was the feast. He fully sheathed himself again, pushing as far as he could and savoring every last morsel.
Her eyes closed, her head tilted back as if he had pushed in so hard that he had physically moved her upward on the bed. Maybe he had. Her lips parted, and she gave a hitched breath, then tightened her legs around him and somehow he was just a hairsbreadth farther inside her and she gave a breathy little laugh, a half gasp.
Her eyes abruptly opened, and it wasn’t control or restraint that stopped him for a moment. His heart had ceased to beat as glazed eyes, certain, with a well of sweeter emotions surrounding the absolute heat in the center stared back.
“I do love you, Andreas.”
And then there was no more control to be had. If he had ever had it. He didn’t know, for everything in him seemed to be connected right here, to this moment, these moments, to her. Sparking outward and reshaping his world.
Chapter 23
He debated whether to crawl through the window or present himself directly. The first option was far easier. He struggled with himself all the way through the second, even as he handed a card, requesting an appointment, to a stuffy butler. To his credit, the servant didn’t blink at his appearance as he took the card, motioned for him to wait in the parlor, and disappeared. Andreas looked at the expensive trappings of the obvious bachelor lodgings without pausing to take in any in particular. He didn’t think he would remember a single thing about this room over his own colliding thoughts.
He wondered what the butler might say to his master—whether he was the type with a warning or if he was tight-lipped to the end. Andreas expected that either way he would be reluctantly added to the schedule—a week or two in the future. Andreas would nod, then use the window approach later that evening. Though the thought of it made his stomach feel strange. The way Phoebe sometimes did. Nervous. Like he might cock up something important.
Andreas firmly pushed the feeling away, clenching his stomach and willing himself back to level.
He needed the man’s help, that was all, and he had a favor to trade. A simple transaction, time of the essence. The stuffy little man returned, and Andreas had already shifted his weight to leave when the actual words penetrated.
“—will see you now, if it is convenient.”
Somehow Andreas managed to nod, and he followed the expensively clad butler into the recesses of the house. He needed to get rid of the sudden pressure in his neck, and he jerked it to the side and back again, uncaring that a maid had stopped in her task to watch him pass, wide-eyed, duster drooping in her hand.
The butler showed him to a room, announcing him in bored, structured tones. The words sounded strange, as if the name he had carried for so long was wrong on the butler’s lips. A click signaled that the butler had exited and pulled the doors shut behind, but Andreas didn’t look away from the man sitting at the desk to confirm such.
This was a meeting that he had long thought could be his death sentence. His attention honed to a single presence. If there was someone waiting in the shadows, Andreas would send up his first prayer in twenty years as he fell to the ground that Phoebe would live a long and happy life without him.
The regal man behind the desk stared piercingly at him. “I’ve long wondered why Roman Merrick never came knocking on my door when he enveloped so many of my contemporaries, and even my own brothers—stuffing them in his pockets.” There was an odd twang as he tapped something against his desk once. “Now I know why.”
Andreas didn’t respond. He had avoided this man for two decades, for exactly this reason, and now with him no more than ten paces away, it felt as if he couldn’t loosen his shoulders enough to utter a single word of response.
The man continued to stare, eyes taking in everything, every aspect, every twitch of muscle that Andreas was ruthlessly trying to squash. “So. What do you want?”
“A trade.”
“A trade?” The man studied him with cold dark eyes, reflections of his own. “For what, Andreas Merrick?”
“Fair procedure for Henry Wilcox. In exchange for whatever you want.”
“You are reported to hate Henry Wilcox.”
It did not surprise him that this man might be aware of such personal information even if he hadn’t been aware of his true name. Or that he seemed to know already what had happened with Henry Wilcox and Lord Garrett. He had controlled an army. He dealt in information, just as Andreas did.
“We are not . . . friends.”
“Then why would you seek to help him? You might have hated Duncan Wilcox, Lord Garrett more, but that would be no reason for a man like you to help his son.”
“No.”
“I can put the pieces together.” The man tipped his head. “And add the numbers. I know whose son you are and what that means. She did not name you by the name you carry, though. The cold bitch would have called you something familial.”
“Duncan.”
The man gave a cynical laugh. “I imagine Garrett was not particularly pleased when he discovered the truth.”
“He was not.”
The man continued to examine him. “I always did wonder on the timing of the oldest child’s birth. As I said, it is easy enough to add and subtract. But I never heard a word.” He absently fiddled with a pen for a moment, still taking in all the details he could. Andreas had never felt quite so stripped to the core by anyone other than Roman, Phoebe, Nana, and his mother. He supposed what people said about family seeing straight to the heart was really true. Discomfort bled through him, just as it had when he’d first met Phoebe.
The man across from him continued. “The oldest child died.”
“He did.” A sliver of the old bite remained. “Twenty-some years ago.”
Those eyes saw everything. Andreas held still but his barriers were being stripped away anyway. “I see.” A pause of a beat. “Your mother and I were not friends . . . it was one misspent night. She was the light of a ball when she chose, or the darkness of a crypt. But I do know she fell into a deep depression after her eldest died. She must have truly believed you dead.”
“I’m sure that is true.” He would have been had it not been for Roman.
“When did you discover me?”
Andreas almost didn’t respond. He thought of Phoebe, though, running free, yelling that holding tight to demons only dragged one farther into their pit. His shoulders tightened anyway while he spoke. “I saw you riding in Hyde when I was twelve.” Good money to be had cross-sweeping and favor-taking outside the gates of Hyde. “I didn’t wonder anymore after that.” There hadn’t been any need. He had been repeatedly beaten whenever the viscount had looked upon his unmarked face. Bruises to cover his features had almost been a rite of passage. It hadn’t been too difficult later to realize why.
“You are heir to Garrett’s estate, to the viscountcy. He legitimated you.”
“Yes.” Andreas wondered how different his life would have been if Garrett had known before his birth and not recognized him. Would this man have raised him? The man’s brother had a number of well-bred bastards who moved freely in society and the world.
“You could claim the estate. It wouldn’t take much. Especially with Henry Wilcox disgraced and in prison.” The man’s eyes were piercing. This man could easily move forth the legislation and sway everyone to his side. The circumstances would be obvious to all, and there would be direct consequences for him, but his eyes were serious, studying Andreas, weighing him, the offer real, the reasons behind it shadow
ed. For surely he could see the idea in Andreas’s mind. In the movements he and Roman had undertaken for years.
The man across from him assuredly knew all of this the way he held himself and awaited an answer was evidence of such.
“I do not wish to claim the estate.” It was the easiest and most brutal revenge. But his need for such had dwindled to a mere trickle, a puddle quickly soaked up by the green grass surrounding it. “I don’t want Wilcox to pay for the actions he has taken. He . . . helped me. And my . . . friend calls him a friend.”
The man tapped a finger. “I see.”
Andreas usually couldn’t be bothered to care about the intricacies of the worded, coded statements other people loved. He used his understanding of human nature to identify threats and eliminate them. Making personal contacts wasn’t his area of expertise or desire.
And until Phoebe, he hadn’t needed to bother. But the woman continually confounded him. And the desire to please her bled into the desire to understand her. Which seemed to have flowed over into other aspects of his existence. He wondered what his sire’s statement truly meant in the context of their conversation. It looked as if indeed he did understand the entirety of it, but, as with Andreas himself, he wasn’t easily read.
“I’d like to formally thank you for saving Phoebe Pace’s life as a child.”
The perusal continued, deepened. “A mischievous child, but a vibrant woman. A good person to call a friend.”
Yes, it seemed as if he did understand.
“Any children of hers will surely have an easy time in society.”
Andreas tried to stimulate movement in his limbs, but they seemed to be frozen. Frozen by the favor explicitly given.
Frederick waved a hand. “But for pesky matters of the Crown and legacy.” He looked Andreas over fully again, slowly, and smiled. “Ah, but for the rules of succession. Would give this country a right shock.”
Andreas didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
Frederick began to tidy his papers. “I will look into the other matter. Seems I recall that Duncan Wilcox had a bit of a problem loading his own firearms back before he became viscount. I think I will have a talk with Henry Wilcox, or rather, the new Lord Garrett, about the matter.”
