by Burke, Darcy
He climbed onto the bed, his eyes molten silver, his lips parted, his jaw set in rigid determination. He knelt before her, his sex jutting out and grazing her belly. She reached between them and clasped the base of his shaft. His eyes slitted as he sucked in a sharp gasp.
Eyes fixed on his, she stroked him, slowly at first and then increasing her pace and the firmness of her grip. His lids fell closed, and he moaned. Moisture leaked from him, and she gathered it with her hand, using it to move faster over his velvet flesh.
On the next stroke, she reached lower and cupped his sac, her fingers massaging his balls. “Beatrix.”
Kissing her, he clasped her waist and lifted her. “Put me inside you,” he said raggedly.
She guided his cock into her sex while he held her steady. Slowly, they joined, her body sheathing his. She curled her legs around his hips as he clasped her backside and began to move.
He pierced her completely, sliding in and out of her with ruthless precision. Each stroke made her want to weep.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She did, locking her gaze with his once more. It made the sensation even more intense.
“This is perfection,” he breathed. “Nothing will ever be this good.”
He kissed her again, his tongue tangling savagely with hers as he swept her back, pushing her to the bed beneath him. She managed to unfold her legs and not lose him. Settling between her thighs, he drove hard into her. She wrapped her legs around him and dug her fingers into his back, crying out as the ecstasy built to an almost impossible height.
He went faster, and she fell apart again, whimpering with each thrust that brought an even greater pleasure. He shouted and let out a soft curse as he pulled himself from her and spilled his seed on her thigh.
“My God, Beatrix. I’m sorry.”
She panted, trying to regain her breath. “Why would you be? That was, as you said, perfect.”
He rolled to the side and swore again. “I almost forgot to pull myself from you. Jesus.” He put his arm over his eyes, his chest heaving.
Beatrix slipped from the bed and found a cloth to clean herself. Dropping it into an empty basin, she took another cloth to him and tidied him too.
He lowered his arm and peered at her, barely lifting his head from the bed. “What are you doing?”
“Tending to you.” She smiled as she finished. “All clean now.” Then she went and threw the soiled linen atop the other one.
Returning to the bed, she curled next to him, laying her hand on his chest. “Now. Will you tell me what happened? The night we met, I mean. I think you must.”
He glanced at her, the anguish they’d banished for a short time having returned.
“Not because I want you to, but because it will help.” She rose upon her elbow and looked down at him, at the torment lining his handsome face. “You have such a burden. Will you share it with me?”
“I don’t know if I can.” His gaze met hers. “I don’t know if I can bear for you to hate me.”
She touched his jaw, gently stroking his warm flesh. “I don’t think I ever could.”
Something in him released—she felt it in the relaxation of his muscles, saw it in the sudden calm illuminating his gaze. “I’ll tell you everything.”
* * *
A soul-stirring serenity seeped into Thomas as he gazed up at Beatrix’s beautiful face. Her pale hair was a tousled mess, a halo of raucous disarray surrounding her angelic features. Tonight had been a revelation.
He twisted his finger in a lock of her hair. “I haven’t taken many women to bed, and it’s been years. For me, that was astonishing. I hope it was the same for you.”
She laughed softly. “You didn’t have to tell me about your experience.”
“Why not? You told me about yours.”
Sobering, she looked away from him. “That’s different.”
He supposed it was, but he didn’t want her to feel bad about a choice she thought she’d had to make. Curling his hand around her nape, he tugged at her to look at him again. “Don’t ever feel embarrassed or ashamed with me. I’m grateful for your openness, your vulnerability.”
Her eyes softened, the green in them a warm, vivid hue. “And I am grateful for yours—and for your support. I haven’t let many people get this close to me. To know me this well, I mean.”
“I understand.” He pulled her head down and lifted his to kiss her. Their lips met and briefly molded together.
Thomas sat up and pulled the coverlet back. She moved with him, and they both slid between the bedclothes. He sat against the headboard and put his arm around her as she nestled into his side.
“I probably shouldn’t have come here tonight, but I needed to see you.” He ran his hand through his hair, scrubbing his scalp. “I didn’t think it through. What if Selina and Harry had been here? It’s their bloody wedding night.”
Beatrix put her hand on his chest. “They weren’t. All is well. Or it will be. You seem like you’re feeling better than when you arrived.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “How can I not?” Truthfully, he felt better than he had in his entire life. He wanted to ignore the anguish pushing at the back of his mind—Bow Street, Thea, all of it.
“I’m glad.” She kissed the base of his throat.
He realized if he didn’t start talking, he might never get to it. His body was already rousing, eager to explore Beatrix once more.
“I lied to you—and to Bow Street—about what happened the night Thea died. You saw that she followed me onto the balcony and that she fell, but I don’t think you saw what really happened. More importantly, you don’t know what happened inside.”
“No, I didn’t. I could tell you were arguing—I could hear raised voices. It wasn’t the first time I heard you. Rather, her. I could always hear her voice, yours less so.”
“She raged about a multitude of things. Regan’s neediness, because she asked her mother to read her a story once in a while.” Thomas heard the unladylike sound clogging Beatrix’s throat and felt her tense.
“What a horrid woman,” she muttered. “Sorry, continue.”
Thomas brushed a kiss atop her forehead. “Thank you for leaping to my daughter’s defense. That means more to me than you could ever know.” Regan, as she would soon learn, was the crux of everything—at least to Thomas. “She also raged about needing more money to pay her gambling debts, wanting a phaeton, which I refused to buy for her, and generally bemoaning her lot in life as a bloody viscountess. More specifically, as my viscountess.”
Beatrix looked up at him. “Do you think she would have been happier with someone else? Some people just can’t find satisfaction in any situation.”
“Thea was one of those people. I don’t know that she could have ever been happy. I honestly don’t know if she could even understand or recognize what that felt like.” He swallowed, gathering his courage to share what he’d only ever told her and had regretted doing so. “My father was the same way. My mother was wonderful—kind, thoughtful, loving. He never appreciated her. Or me.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“She died shortly after giving birth to my younger brother. He died within a few hours, and she perished a few days later. My father insisted she get out of bed and not wallow in grief. He was punishing her for my brother’s death. He looked for any reason to torment her. And, to a lesser extent, me.”
“Oh my God, Tom. How old were you?”
“Ten. Mama was weak. She’d had another stillborn child and a third one only lived to be about six months old. I learned later that she’d nearly died when I was born and that the physician said she might not survive having another child.” The old familiar rage gathered inside him. “That never mattered to my father. His cruelty and inability to care for anyone but himself knew no bounds.”
“I’m so sorry.” She sat up straighter, and he dropped his arm behind her. “How did you become such a good man? Such a wonderful father? After every
thing you’ve been through…”
“I could ask the same of you. You’ve endured a great deal—losing your mother, the harassment of the girls at school, your father’s abandonment. Twice.” Pain flickered in her eyes, and he regretted bringing all that up. “I shouldn’t have said any of that. Forgive me.”
“Why? It’s all true. We’re a pair.” She kissed his cheek. “Perhaps that’s why we found each other.”
Thomas loved that idea.
He forced himself to go back to the recounting of what had happened before Thea died. He hadn’t gotten to the worst part yet. “Somehow, I managed to marry someone as awful as my father—or nearly as awful.” He shook his head. “No, she was every bit as bad, just in different ways. She was especially angry that night. She brought up divorce again, but I explained that would never happen, and even trying would only reflect poorly on her, just as her infidelity did. But she didn’t care. She never thought about consequences.” A sad smile crossed his lips. “I suppose I should be grateful, because if she had, I wouldn’t have Regan.”
Beatrix’s brow creased. “What do you mean?”
Thomas took a deep breath, his fingers lightly touching the small of Beatrix’s back, a comfort for his beleaguered soul. “She told me that night that I am not Regan’s father, that I couldn’t be. She didn’t want to have children yet and took special care to use a sponge to prevent a child, not that we shared a bed terribly often, even in the early months of our marriage.”
At the moment he’d said he wasn’t Regan’s father, Beatrix’s hand had shot to her mouth. Her eyes rounded, and as he’d continued, tears had formed. “Oh, Thomas.” Her voice broke as she threw her arms around his neck. “But of course you’re her father.”
Thomas folded her in his embrace and held her tightly. “Of course I am, and I always will be. She doesn’t ever need to know the truth.”
Beatrix pulled back and cupped his face, her eyes searching his. “Still, you must have been devastated when Thea told you this.”
“Primarily because she did it to inflict maximum pain. She had this…pride in telling me that Regan wasn’t mine.” It was hard not to feel destroyed by her malice all over again. “And I don’t know who her father is. I didn’t ask, and I don’t care.” He had wondered if Thea even knew. She certainly hadn’t taken care to use her precious sponge with whomever it had been, which told him the act had been spontaneous and rash.
Here is where the telling became difficult, where he felt a burning shame. “I was more than upset. I was seething. That she’d brought our daughter—my daughter—into her selfish, malignant behavior enraged me.” His pulse was racing. As Beatrix dropped her hands to his shoulders, he wondered if she could feel it pounding beneath his skin.
“I have worked very hard not to be violent like my father. He pushed and hit my mother often, causing bruises and cuts, and even broken bones. He did the same to me until I became bigger than him. My injuries were not so serious, but that’s because I tried to evade him and usually succeeded. My mother didn’t do that. She took everything he did to her. I think it was to protect me.”
Silent tears tracked down Beatrix’s face. Thomas forced himself to continue. “I’m afraid I lost my control,” he said quietly, as self-loathing stole through him. “When she told me about Regan, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I just reacted. I grabbed her. She taunted me.” He recalled her sneer, the shrill vitriol of her voice. “She asked if I was going to hit her like my father hit my mother.
“I regret telling her about that. She’s the only person to whom I revealed the truth—until you. And I wasn’t going to tell you. Because I was afraid.”
Beatrix took his hand and held him tight. “I would never use that against you. Never. You are not your father.”
“How can you know that? You don’t know what happened next.”
“I know you didn’t hurt her. I think you let her go and went out to the balcony to escape, to regain your sanity.”
That’s precisely what he’d done. She did know. “But I thought about it,” he whispered. “I wanted to do it.”
“You didn’t, though. That’s what matters.” She wiped her face with her free hand. “Not telling Bow Street about this doesn’t mean you lied. You didn’t lie to me either.”
“I omitted.”
She shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s not a lie. You told me when you wanted to.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Thank you.” Then she leaned into him and kissed his throat. “Oh, Thomas. You didn’t lie.”
“I did—to Bow Street. I told them I didn’t see her fall, that I remained inside.”
Gasping, Beatrix drew back, her brows pitching into a deep V. “Why would you do that?”
“You did a very good job convincing me that it should look like an accident so there could be no doubt. I thought my being on the balcony might cause problems.” He exhaled. “That’s only a small part of it. She came out to the balcony—you saw that.”
“And I heard what she said. I also saw her raise her hand and come toward you.”
“She had a penknife in her grip aimed straight for my throat, which, if you recall, was exposed.”
“I absolutely remember that. Nearly every time I visited your tree and saw you, your cravat was missing.” She traced her fingertip in a triangle at the base of his throat. “This view was my favorite thing about spying on my father.”
Thomas was surprised when he laughed. That she could lighten his mood in the midst of this harrowing discussion was wonderful beyond words. He let go of her hand and clasped her head, kissing her hard and fast. “You are a marvel.”
“And you have an exceptionally attractive neck.” She frowned, her forehead pleating. “I just remembered that something fell from the balcony before she did—that must have been the penknife. I’d forgotten all about that.”
He dropped his hands to the bed and angled himself to face her. “You saw it? Dearborn—the constable—he searched my house for it today because I can’t find it. He suspects I’m lying about her trying to stab me because I didn’t tell him the truth at the start.
“I was only trying to protect Regan. I didn’t want her to know her mother had tried to harm her father. No matter how horrid Thea was, I didn’t see any point in revealing the truth of her despicable behavior to Regan, not after she was gone.”
Beatrix eyes glazed with tears again, but she was smiling. “You are the best man.”
“I don’t know about that. I’m certainly in a mess until Bow Street finishes their investigation.”
“You don’t think they would arrest you? They can’t possibly have enough evidence. You didn’t push her.”
“They say I have motive, which, as you can see, I do. Can you imagine what they would do if they discovered I had just learned Regan wasn’t my blood?” He shivered at the prospect. He couldn’t go to prison—or worse. Regan needed him. “Furthermore, I lied to them initially, so now they aren’t inclined to believe me.”
“This is ludicrous. You had a perfectly good reason for lying. I’ll talk to Harry.”
“No, I don’t want you to get involved. Even though you aren’t trying to impress Ramsgate any longer, you still have a reputation to uphold. I’m not worth ruining yourself over.”
Her frown deepened. “You are worth a great deal more than you know.”
“I just wish I’d been able to produce the penknife. Perhaps that would have been enough to persuade Dearborn to conclude his inquiry. Doubtful, but it doesn’t matter since I can’t find it.”
She averted her gaze and chewed her lip. “What does the knife look like?”
“It has an ivory handle. Her initials—DC for Dorothea Chamberlain—are carved into the design. It was a gift from her father.”
Beatrix scrunched her face up. When she looked at him again, her eyes were clouded with sorrow. “Now it’s my turn to confess my…omission. I know what happened to the knife.”
He stared at her in sur
prise. “How can you?”
“Because I stole it.”
Chapter 14
Beatrix saw the befuddlement in his gaze and instinctively pulled away. She started toward the edge of the bed, intent on finding her chemise. The feeling of nakedness went more than skin deep—she felt exposed and vulnerable in a way that made her uncomfortable.
Thomas clasped her wrist, keeping her from moving farther away. “Don’t. I won’t let you run away. You were here for me. Let me be here for you.”
This was more difficult than she’d anticipated. She licked her lower lip and forced herself to speak. “I…steal things.”
“I don’t understand. You said you stole the penknife, but you also said you only just remembered that something fell from the balcony and that it must have been the knife. Did you forget that you stole it?”
“I don’t always know when I steal something.” She knew how ridiculous that sounded. “You will think I’m a lunatic.”
“No,” he said calmly, stroking her wrist with his thumb. “Will you explain it to me?”
“I’ll try. It’s difficult because I don’t always understand it myself. When I went to Mrs. Goodwin’s, I began to take things. I had no idea I was doing it. Objects would appear in my dresser or under my bed or in my pocket, and I had no recollection of how they’d gotten there.” She recalled the terror she’d felt when it had first happened. “It continued all during my time at the school, but became less of a problem after we left.”
“It’s become a problem again, I take it?”
Beatrix nodded. “Since we came to London. Selina has a theory that when I’m stressed or agitated, I am prompted to take things. She thinks it soothes me somehow.”
“That’s not a bad theory. Why didn’t you want to tell me?”
“It’s embarrassing. But that’s not the entire reason. I became rather good at stealing, and Selina was already incredibly accomplished from her time on the streets in East London.”
His eyes rounded, and his jaw dropped. “You didn’t tell me that.”
