by Burke, Darcy
“Oh, Thomas,” Aunt Charity breathed. She put her arms around him and gave him a hard, swift hug. Then she turned, eyes blazing, toward the constable. “This poor man has been through enough. Can’t you see that?”
“It certainly seems an ordeal,” Dearborn said, frowning. He looked at Thomas. “You mentioned a penknife. We didn’t find that in our search. Would you mind if I look again?”
“You won’t find it. I’ve searched everywhere.”
Dearborn grimaced. He opened his mouth but hesitated before asking, tentatively, “Does this penknife actually exist?”
Aunt Charity drew a sharp breath, and Thomas wiped his hand over his face. “Yes. It was a gift from her father years ago. The handle was ivory with her initials—DC—carved into a design. Her mother knows of its existence, but I can’t produce it for you. I’ve searched everywhere, including her chamber.”
The lines crossing Dearborn’s brow deepened. “Why would you search her chamber if she attacked you with it?”
“Because I wanted to be sure I wasn’t going mad, if you must know. When you live with someone like her for years, you sometimes begin to doubt your own sanity.”
Dearborn blanched and tipped his head down as he scribbled a series of notes in his book. Aunt Charity gave Thomas’s arm a squeeze before letting him go.
At length, Dearborn closed his little book. His features tight, he replaced the book and the pencil in his coat. “After I conduct my search, I’ll be on my way. It may be that we return to search the entire house. I’ll send word if that’s the case.”
“Why are you continuing to pester him?” Aunt Charity demanded. “Can’t you see he’s been through hell?”
Dearborn turned a frosty stare toward her. “Lord Rockbourne hasn’t been truthful, and we’ve found ample motive for him to have pushed his wife. Her death seems to have been a convenient and welcome happenstance. It is my duty to investigate how it occurred. That it causes unpleasantness is unfortunate, but I’m sure you’ll agree that a woman’s death is even more so.”
Aunt Charity glowered at him but didn’t respond.
The constable inclined his head toward Thomas. “Forgive me, my lord. I will be as quick as possible in my search.”
“Baines will supervise and provide any assistance you require.” Thomas moved to the door and saw the butler lingering just outside. He gave Thomas a look of sympathy. “You heard?” he asked quietly.
“Yes. You continue to have my unfailing support, my lord.”
“Thank you, Baines. Please accompany Mr. Dearborn to our private sitting room as well as to Lady Rockbourne’s chamber and the balcony. The garden too, I imagine.”
Dearborn joined them outside the drawing room. “I’d also like to search your chamber.”
“Fine.” Thomas waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve nothing to hide from you.”
“Except what you already hid—and the name of the woman who visits you. I wonder, should I reinterview the household to see if any of them recall her name?”
Bloody fucking hell! He tried to remember if Regan knew Beatrix’s name. She had to. Had she shared it with her nurse? He wasn’t going to ask. It didn’t matter. He never should have expected her not to say anything. She was a child. No, the truth was that he shouldn’t have exposed her to Beatrix at all. It was unseemly. Even if Beatrix was the kindest, most charming woman he could hope for his daughter to meet, particularly after the horror that was her mother.
“Do what you must,” Thomas said through clenched teeth.
Dearborn turned and departed with Baines.
Stalking back into the drawing room, Thomas went straight to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy. He wished for something more potent—gin would be perfect. His hand shook as he tossed half the contents down his throat.
“I’ll take one,” Aunt Charity said from behind him.
He set his glass down and poured another for her. Turning, he handed her the brandy, then picked his up to finish it. Now he wanted to go hit another tree.
Aunt Charity sipped her drink. “I’m worried. Who is this woman? You said you didn’t have a mistress.”
“I don’t. It’s as I said—she’s a friend.”
“Who visits you late at night? Why on earth does the nurse know about her?”
Thomas clapped his empty glass down on the sideboard. “Because Regan has met her. Only Regan.”
“How long as this been going on?”
“It doesn’t matter. It isn’t ‘going on’ anymore.” He didn’t realize how much that devastated him until that moment. Beatrix had been a beacon, a tether holding him to earth, from the very moment Thea had fallen.
“I’m sorry to hear it. We can use all the friends we can get.” She lifted her glass in a silent toast.
Thomas could drink to that. So he poured another glass of brandy and did just that.
Chapter 13
Beatrix turned the page, the rustling of the parchment hanging in the air longer than normal because the house felt so very silent. Because Selina and Harry had chosen to spend their wedding night at his house on Rupert Street so they could have privacy.
Not for the first time that night, Beatrix wondered if she should have sent Tom a note. He could have come to visit…
Sighing, she refocused her attention on the page.
“Miss Whitford?” Culpepper, the butler who so capably oversaw the Spitfire house, as Beatrix thought of it, stepped into the garden room.
She looked up from her book, smiling. “Yes?”
“There is a…message for you.” His brow furrowed, and he glanced back over his shoulder.
Beatrix set the book on the table beside her chair. “Is this a written message or a verbal one?”
“I’m not certain. There is a…gentleman here to deliver it.”
That sounded strange, particularly at this hour. Beatrix glanced at the clock. It was half ten. “Are you concerned about this gentleman?”
“Not really. He does, in fact, seem like a gentleman. But when I asked for his card, he said he didn’t have one.”
Beatrix rose quickly, almost certain as to this mystery gentleman’s identity. Who else would visit her at this hour and decline to identify himself? “Please show him in.” Anticipation heated her blood and quickened the pace of her heart.
Tom strode into the garden room, his hat pulled low over his eyes, his form cloaked in unrelenting black, including a great coat that covered his suit of clothing. He wasn’t unrecognizable by any measure, but that was because she knew him. To anyone else, he looked like a man who was trying to escape notice.
Beatrix stood and went to the door, walking close by Tom as she passed. Culpepper lingered outside. She gave him a bright smile. “This gentleman is quite known to me—an old friend of the family. Thank you for showing him in.” She closed the door without waiting for the butler to respond.
Turning, she waited for Tom to face her. When he did not, she began to feel alarmed.
“Tom?” she asked tentatively, moving toward him. Upon reaching his side, she touched his arm gently.
He pivoted, sweeping his hat off. His face was drawn and a bit pale, adding to her concern. “Where is your sister?”
“Not here. She and Harry are spending their wedding night at his house. They wanted privacy. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Everything is terrible,” he whispered. “I wanted you to come tonight, needed you to. But I knew you wouldn’t.”
She touched his cheek. “What’s happened?”
“Bow Street returned today. They know I lied.”
“I don’t understand. How did you lie?”
“About the night Thea died.”
Beatrix momentarily forgot to breathe. “They know I was there?”
He shook his head. “Not that. I didn’t tell them exactly what happened. Nor did I tell you.” He looked at her with such darkness, such despair that her heart nearly split in two.
She pushed her hand against his face
. “You’re cold. And shaking. You need tea.”
“No. Just you.” He gently cupped the sides of her head. “I only need you.”
He could mean a variety of things—that he wanted to just be in her presence, that he wanted to tell her what had happened that night, that he wanted the easy camaraderie they shared. But he’d said need. And he’d said it in such a way that led her to believe he meant one thing in particular.
She clasped his gloved hand and turned with him, leading him from the garden room. Instead of taking him to the staircase, she made her way to the back stairs. Up two flights, she didn’t let him go. Neither of them said a word.
On the second floor, she opened the door to the corridor and pulled him to her chamber. Unlike Selina, she didn’t have a lady’s maid. No one would bother them. And Selina wasn’t home.
Once he was inside, she untangled her fingers from his and closed the door firmly. Continuing the silence, she took his hat and tossed it onto a chair. Next, she removed his gloves and threw them atop the hat.
She unfastened his greatcoat and moved behind him to take it from his shoulders as he pulled his arms from the sleeves. The garment joined his accessories on the chair. She put her hands on his shoulders again, wordlessly telling him to remove the coat as well. He understood, and it went the same way as the rest of his discarded things.
Beatrix stepped around him and rested her hands on his chest, her fingers burrowing into the snowy folds of his cravat. He looked rather splendid, as if he were going out to his club. Had he meant to come here?
Coals and embers burned in the fireplace, providing a modicum of heat and light. Lanterns on either side of the bed were lit, and they provided enough illumination for her to see the anguish in his eyes.
She tugged at his cravat, unknotting it bit by bit until it was loose. “You’ll tell me to stop if you want me to?”
He didn’t respond. He just stared at her, his lips pressed together, his nostrils slightly flared. Pulling the silk from his neck, she sent it to the chair with the rest. She then plucked at the buttons of his waistcoat.
“What if it really was my fault?”
He spoke so softly that Beatrix had to strain to hear what he’d said, and it took her a moment to fully comprehend his words. “It wasn’t. I was there, Tom.”
“Not for all of it.” He sounded so broken.
She abandoned the waistcoat, though it was now unbuttoned, and put her hands on his jaw. She tilted his face down. “I was there. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident, and Bow Street will come to the right conclusion.” How could they not?
“There are things…” He swallowed, his gaze straying from hers. “Motive, evidence, the relief we all feel that she’s gone.” He put his hand over his mouth. When he looked at her again, he radiated a stark distress that made her shiver with cold. “I wanted her out of our lives. I wanted to be free.”
“Of course you did. Anyone would have.”
“There are things you don’t know, Beatrix. There is violence in me.”
What was he trying to say? She thought of how he’d beaten the footpad, how merciless he’d been, and wondered if he would have stopped if she hadn’t been there. The coldness inside her intensified. A shiver racked her shoulders.
“There is goodness in you,” she said, gripping his face between her hands. “I see it. Regan sees it. Thea didn’t see it, and it was her loss. Her loss.”
A look of wonder mixed into his anguish. “How did you come into my life? That night of all nights?”
“I don’t know, but I’m glad I did.”
He clasped her hips and pulled her against him as he lowered his head and claimed her lips in a searing kiss. The ice in her veins melted under the onslaught of his desperate passion as his fingers bit into her, his hands moving to her backside and holding her tight to him.
She felt the hard length of his cock against her lower belly, but that wasn’t where she wanted him. It was as if he read her mind, for he lifted her slightly, fitting them together with a better precision. Sensation jolted through her core. She clutched his nape and angled her head as she slid her tongue into his mouth.
Groaning, he met her invasion with heat and hunger. Lips and fingers moved and explored. He tugged her flesh with his teeth. She licked the underside of his jaw.
He picked her up fully, holding her against him, as he moved to the bed. She thrust her fingers into his thick hair, cupping his head and kissing him deeply, claiming every part of him he was willing to give.
Despair may have driven him to her, but now she tasted desire and demand. It was a delicious bliss. He set her down, the bed at her backside, but their kisses continued. Fast and hot, gasping delirium as she pushed his waistcoat from his shoulders.
He found the buttons holding the front of her gown up and quickly flicked them open. The front of the garment fell to her waist. She wasn’t wearing a corset—she’d dressed for comfort earlier in the evening, not expecting to see anyone. She was exceptionally glad she had, for he cupped her breasts, and nothing but her chemise stood between his flesh and hers.
He wasn’t rough, but he wasn’t gentle either. She cast her head back, moaning, as he pulled at her nipples.
Then his hands were gone. She opened her eyes and straightened to find him staring at her, his eyes round and dark with something akin to horror.
“What’s wrong? Why did you stop?”
“I shouldn’t be doing this. You’re untouched—”
Beatrix held up her hand. “Stop right there. You have no idea what I am. At the risk of sending you running, I am not untouched.” Shame threatened to turn her face the color of a cherry, but she refused to surrender to that useless emotion. “Apparently, I inherited my mother’s brazenness. At least a small amount.” She did blush then. “Years ago, when Selina and I were near starving, I never considered whether I would marry. I did, however, worry about having enough money for food and lodging. And I was desperate to reclaim the life—the family—I remembered.
“There was a gentleman who liked me. I was working as a barmaid, and we, Selina and I, wanted to leave that town and find something better.”
Tom stilled against her. “What did you do?”
She hated the sorrow in his question, worried she’d ruined this glorious thing between them. “I ensured my future—at least for the short term. I spent a fortnight in his bed. Long enough to earn the money we needed to leave and find our footing somewhere else.”
“My God, Beatrix.”
She let him go, but she couldn’t back away, not with the bed behind her. “I’ve disappointed you,” she whispered.
“Never.” He clasped the back of her neck and pulled her mouth to his. He kissed her with a raw tenderness that turned her knees to water. She clutched at his arms before she melted into the floor.
He put his forehead against hers and put his other hand on her waist. “I’m so sorry you had to do that.”
“But that’s the worst part,” she said, feeling more exposed than she ever had in her entire life. “Did I really have to? I wanted to improve our circumstances. I had an opportunity—he was kind and charming—and I seized it. I’ve done many things of which I am not proud.”
He looked into her eyes. “Would you take them back?”
“I…I don’t know.”
His fingertips pressed into her. “All those choices and experiences made you the woman you are today. I wouldn’t change a single thing.”
Beatrix’s breath caught and held. “Tom, I want you. If you want me too, will you stay?”
“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Yes, I’ll stay.” He kissed her again, his tongue stroking gently against hers and then more insistently. Passion built between them once more, and Beatrix felt as if every part of her was on fire for him.
She pulled the hem of his shirt from his waistband, and then it became a frenzy of removing clothing—his shirt, her gown, his boots—until she wore only her chemise and he had onl
y his smallclothes.
Tom pulled the pins from her hair, one by one, until it came down around her shoulders and grazed the middle of her back. He ran his fingers through the curls and gently tugged so that she dropped her head back. He kissed along her throat, his tongue licking the hollow at the base as he pulled at the neckline of her chemise until he revealed her breast.
Eyes closed, she felt his lips on her flesh, soft and searching, as he cupped her. His mouth closed around her nipple. Hot, wet sensation drove a gasp from her lips and sent a spark of need straight to her core.
His mouth and hand worked in concert, teasing her and tormenting her until she whimpered. “Tom, please.” She wanted him so badly. Needed him to ease her ache.
He laid her back on the bed and lifted the hem of her chemise, baring her thighs and then her sex. She opened her legs, but he pushed them farther apart, exposing her to him. At the first touch of his tongue against her, she bucked up. He curled his hand around her hip and held her fast as he licked along her flesh.
Beatrix clasped her head, an anchor to ground her in the coming storm. This was more than the touch of him against her, the sensations he aroused within her—there was a bone-deep desperation not just to feel, but to share, to open herself to him completely. She abandoned rational thought and surrendered.
His tongue penetrated her, and she moaned, her hips moving beneath him. He put her legs over his shoulders and replaced his tongue with his finger, pumping into her as he licked her clitoris, pushing her to limits she’d never even glimpsed before. It was more than a storm. It was an absolute overtaking of her body and mind. She was coiled and tight, utterly at his command. He owned her in that moment, his mouth and fingers driving her ever higher and hotter until she had no option but to combust.
She cried out as her release shattered her into a million pieces—all his. He was relentless, continuing his onslaught until the waves tossing her body began to slow. Then he withdrew.
Opening her eyes, she watched him strip away his smallclothes. She scrambled to her knees, legs shaking, and drew her chemise over her head, then tossed it to the floor.
