‘I may have already ruined my chance with you, Amanda. I know that.’
His solemn admittance added to her distress. He swallowed and she watched the glide of his Adam’s apple, wanting to touch his neck, feel his pulse, the brush of his whiskers, to bury her face in his cravat and breathe in his scent for fear what he might say next, knowing every time she’d dared hope, he’d walked away.
‘But there’s something you must know above all else, no matter what tomorrow brings or thereafter.’
‘What is it?’ She looked at him deeply, taking in the gravity of his tone.
‘I love you.’ He drew back slightly as if he experienced the impact of those three words with the same fierceness she did.
Her breath caught. Her entire body tightened until she forced herself to exhale, as if she twisted inside out.
‘You don’t.’ She stared at him directly.
‘I do, damn it.’ He shook his head as he spoke and his voice dropped lower. ‘I tried not to, but my heart and head had different plans.’
‘You can’t.’ Tears stung the back of her eyes and she commanded them to stay hidden. ‘You can’t tell me you love me when my father has forbidden your company, when you’ve made it a priority to anger him so he won’t speak your name.’
She pulled free from his grasp and strode to the hearth, her skirts whipping along the end table where he lunged to catch a wobbling vase.
‘It’s important for you to know, Amanda.’
‘Why?’ Her voice rose an octave and she dragged in a deep breath, anger ruling her emotions now. ‘So I can regret that we never had more than a few stolen moments? That we can never experience a life together?’ Her words paled in expressing the depth of her emotion, but why should she admit to loving him in return? Why should she make the situation worse than it was already? She clenched and unclenched her fists before she turned away, fighting hard against tears.
‘Amanda…’ He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. With a gentle nudge, he had her turned within his arms. His blue eyes studied her a long minute.
‘I can’t bear it.’ She hemmed her lower lip. ‘You say pretty words and—’
‘I mean what I say, Amanda. I’m sincere.’
‘Hear me out.’ She inhaled and restarted. Arguing was better than thinking right now. ‘You can’t confess to feelings of that magnitude, words I long to hear but hesitate to trust because you always walk away.’ She sighed. Spoken aloud her admission sounded pathetic.
‘You should believe me.’ He touched his knuckle to her chin and tilted her face upward.
But she wouldn’t fall into his arms and into his kiss. The pull between them was palpable. The worst mistake to commit would be to allow this kiss. She would resist. ‘It doesn’t matter. Everything would have unfolded favourably if you’d played your hand differently. Those three words don’t signify.’
‘They do.’
‘You’re not making sense.’
‘At last, everything makes sense.’
She pulled away.
She needed distance.
She needed to leave.
Anything more he confessed would torture her later when she lay abed and replayed the scene over and over. Her father forbade she spend time with Crispin and here she stood, inviting disaster in her aunt’s drawing room. This, this, was a mistake she would not make.
‘I can’t stay.’ She took a step backwards and broke his hold. Then another step to bring her further, but he followed apace.
Pivoting, she sought the door but his reach over her shoulder barred her exit, his palm flat while she fumbled with the lock. His chest pressed to her back with his effort, his mouth at her ear.
‘Stay.’
She closed her eyes against the seductive onslaught to her senses. He smelled as rich and wonderful as always, the heat of his body a wicked temptation. Before she could catch her breath he pressed a kiss to her cheekbone and the slight burn of his whiskered chin tremored through her.
‘What…’ She drew another inhale. ‘What are you doing?’
He chuckled, a low, devilish vibration against her neck. ‘I’m taking advantage of the situation. I’m risking it all.’
‘My aunt could walk in any moment.’ With her nose almost touching the door, his palm flat, she may have spoken to the wall for all the strength in her argument. Still, he trailed featherlight touches to the rim of her ear, down to the lobe, before dipping to the neck with a sinful murmur.
‘She wouldn’t.’
Amanda twisted to face him, caged by his arm on one side and a wooden bookcase on the other. The intensity in his gaze caused her breathing to hitch.
‘That’s better.’ He smiled.
She opened her mouth to assert her objection but the words were lost as he captured her mouth. Then all protest melted into desire and she gave herself over to the kiss. She couldn’t fight it, didn’t want to. There was freedom in that decision.
He flattened her against the door and she threaded her fingers through his hair to hold him to her. Something fell from the bookcase. Her defences followed. The world shifted.
Unsteady and lightheaded, he held her captive as he peeled away her pelisse, his nimble fingers at work to unbutton and untie every barrier in his way. She skimmed her hands up his chest, over his shoulders to loosen his coat as he walked them backwards into the room, away from the door and further into intimacy. His coat dropped to the floor and her feet tangled in the fabric, causing them to topple. With lightning-fast reflexes, he brought his hand to the back of the chaise and she landed against him, his body braced against the furniture.
Fear and possibility threw alarm into the mix. They were fast becoming disassembled, their kisses hungrier, their bodies heated, and any servant could enter. The knowledge seemed to ramp urgency and blind better sense rather than dissuade their actions.
‘We should stop.’ Her fingers opened the three buttons of his waistcoat as she spoke.
‘Are you sure?’ He turned her swiftly and untied her sash, before he spun her again, his hands full of silk.
His lips landed on hers, hot and anxious, and she matched his pursuit with her own. Her heart joined the chase, the thrum of exhilaration like none other she’d experienced. She knew her deepest emotions and treasured his declaration. No matter what tomorrow brought, she celebrated now.
He strung kisses down the slope of her neck and, trapped beneath layers, she yearned for his touch everywhere. She clutched his shirt, his cravat abandoned with reckless effort, and slipped her palms beneath to smooth over his hard chest. A frisson of desire, brilliant and powerful, racked through her at the touch of his bare skin. His heart pounded too. The sensation emboldened her. He chuckled against her mouth and slipped her gown from her shoulders, pushing the fabric lower, smoothed down her spine, lower still.
She broke his kiss and rallied a breathless protest. ‘We can’t. Not here.’
‘Don’t fool yourself.’ He smiled, the wicked devil, and listed kisses across her collarbone. ‘Your aunt would approve.’ His chuckle vibrated against her shoulder. ‘The match of the season right here on her chaise.’ He pulled her backwards and they tumbled to the furniture in question. His words may have meant to amuse but his tone was sincere. ‘At last, your aunt will have trumped Lady Pembler by matching the two most gossiped-about members of polite society.’
She squeaked a gasp of delight and surprise, though the strong man beneath her had no playfulness in mind. She straddled his lap, her chemise damp from kisses, and when he untied the ribbons and freed her breasts from her corset, she was exposed, her breath shallow and body in tune to every nuance. Her skin heated under his appreciation, her nipples painfully erect and sensitive, while below, hidden beneath too many layers of silk and cotton, she grew wet.
The way she sat across him was sensual, the rigid pressure of his erection against only a thin piece of cotton across her sex. The thought thrilled h
er, hinted at forbidden fantasy and confirmed he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Lost in sensation, she closed her eyes tight, and when he licked over her breasts, she dug her fingers into his hair, the texture a sensual glide between her fingers.
He released her, his breathing ragged and swift, evidence his ruination matched hers.
‘I love you, Amanda. And we will be married.’
He said the words against her heart as if he wished to place them there.
She locked them away as they heated her blood, curled into her bones and became a part of her soul.
And then he was kissing her again, nipping at her skin, tasting her breasts and teasing the nipples, while their bodies began a rhythm of their own. His fingertips stroked down her neck, leaving a wake of shivery flesh, over the slope of her shoulders, with feathery finesse down her ribs. He took and she gave, somehow finding her skin below all that accumulated fabric. They were dishevelled and anxious, more than glorious as passion wound tighter, and she burned with the anticipation he would touch her where she most wished to be touched.
She drew a deep breath and viewed him through her lashes, the heat and pressure of his hard body beneath hers almost too much to bear. A lock of hair had fallen across his brow and she brushed it away, his appearance as rakish as when she’d met him on the ship all those weeks ago.
She loved him. Not because of this moment or his words of only moments before, but from that first moment of chivalry. She’d lost her way on that galleon and ultimately lost her heart.
She settled more, securing across his lap, her thighs tight where they gripped him, and when his finger found the slit in her pantalets she moaned her appreciation. How unfair she had all the pleasure when the hard press of his erection seared her inner thigh. How would it feel to have him inside her – not his fingers, but his hard arousal, deep inside her?
The thought brought about her climax and she shuddered against him as he gripped her shoulders, stroking and teasing her sensitive bud until she could barely speak, lost in the glorious moment.
‘You’re incredibly wet for me, love.’
He kissed her jaw and the curve of her neck but she hadn’t opened her eyes yet, enjoying the lingering sensation of the pleasure he’d wrought. Yet she needed to offer him the same. She wanted to give as much as take. If only she knew how.
She opened her eyes and viewed him with a shy smile before she carefully slid from his lap and down to the carpet. She pushed her skirts to the side and repositioned her bodice in some semblance of order and then placed her palm along the rigid length of his erection.
It throbbed in response and she needed no other encouragement. With smooth, insistent strokes she palmed over his arousal, the wool of his trousers heating beneath her hand. Crispin threw his head back against the chaise and widened his legs, offering her all the room necessary to continue her exploration.
Fascinated by his response she grew bolder, stroked harder, until, unable to stop herself, she opened each button along his falls. He growled or grunted, she couldn’t be sure, but whatever sound he made convinced her she’d made a good decision. She parted his trousers and, after a few fabric adjustments, held his heated flesh in her hand.
Her eyes flared, a moment of disbelief and surprise palpitating through her. She had no idea and was fascinated by not just his size, but the vibrant heat and insistent nature of his erection.
As if urging her to get on with it, his cock twitched within her hold and she almost withdrew. But no, this intimacy was something she would treasure always and she locked her fingers in a firm hold around him and mimicked the strokes he’d used to tease her sex.
‘Amanda, love.’ His gravelly voice brought her eyes to his face.
He looked breathtakingly handsome in repose. The endearment seemed natural now. ‘Yes?’ she whispered, dropping her gaze again, unable to stop watching her hand on him.
‘You’re…’
‘Am I touching you right?’ Good lord, in this she would not make a mistake.
‘Perfectly.’
He didn’t say more, nor did she. And when a tiny pearl of moisture met her fingers, he wrapped his hand atop hers and together they worked him to completion. Something about that action caused her heart to skip a beat. She had no way to explain it and it likely made no sense at all.
They cleaned up as best as possible with a few chosen words of gratitude for Crispin’s handkerchief, and exchanged clumsy and endearing glances as they did so. Then they settled on the chaise beside each other, only this time they were completely dressed.
‘This changes little.’ She regretted the words, but they were true. Her father would never accept Crispin as a suitor, never mind consider him a future son-in-law.
‘This changes everything. I’ve confessed my feelings.’ He raised a brow in challenge.
She didn’t respond because she agreed, but saying the words would complicate an already impossible situation. ‘I should leave.’
‘As should I.’
An awkward pause fell over the room until she forced herself from the chaise and moved towards the door. ‘Goodbye, Crispin.’ How many times had she uttered those same words?
‘Goodbye, Amanda. I’ll see you soon.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Much as Stokes predicted, the hell was packed by ten o’clock with eager gamblers at every table. The floor fairly vibrated from the cacophony of loud voices, exclamations and laments, combined with the steady ambiance of dice, glassware and barked commands from the dealers. Those who’d already emptied their pockets crowded the outer perimeter and libations flowed generously. Not one proprietor could be seen, most likely perched above where a better view of the hell could be provided. Candle sconces made of glass, amidst several oil lanterns, hung from the walls to illuminate the hell, but Crispin had no trouble watching for Stokes. After his interlude with Amanda, he’d returned home, sent a second message to Sinclair to ensure the Underworld remained ready, and then had a long think.
He changed his priorities once again.
He would chance it all. Not on Hazard or Vingt-et-un.
This time his plan had nothing to do with the Underworld.
Earlier in the day, when he’d confessed his feelings to Amanda, he’d anticipated it would be more difficult having kept those three words locked tight for so long. Instead, nothing ever seemed more right, more natural. He had changed his mind about everything he thought had meaning. Where once he believed his return to London was meant to restore reputation, in truth it was meant to claim his heart.
Now, with nothing more than a subtle glance to the mural overlooking the floor, he played at cards, cautiously in wait of the scene set to unfold this evening. The proprietors planned on barring Stokes before he gained entry, but Crispin viewed that as an underestimation. Despite they’d posted additional lads and communicated how imperative it was to disallow Stokes a chance through the door, Crispin doubted the night would resolve easily. And, too, he wondered if part of Stokes’s plan was to bury a knife in his back before he absconded with the money stolen.
So he waited, strung tight with awareness for when the man would cause an uproar, because Crispin knew he would.
A sudden cheer of congratulations drew his attention to a far wall, but it was nothing more than three bucks who’d overimbibed and celebrated each roll of the dice. A shadowy figure lurked behind them in a corner. Someone waited in a long coat and cap pulled low over his brow. His pulse sprinted to alert but it couldn’t be Stokes, the posture slight and height too diminutive. The figure turned in profile and a few candles lent light. He almost didn’t believe what he saw. It was Lady Matilda Beasley on the periphery of the gaming floor and right smack in the middle of trouble. What was she thinking? How could he have not anticipated this?
He had to get her out. He had to stop Stokes or no one would get out.
With a curse, he threw down his cards and nabbed his money from the table, his s
eat filled before he’d rounded a worker with a tray full of brandy. Keeping an eye towards the door, his nerves on edge, he reached Matilda, though he needed to temper his outrage and not cause alarm.
‘Tonight, of all nights, you shouldn’t be here, Lady Beasley.’ He gently touched her arm, and when she raised her eyes, her first reaction was fright and then annoyance, although her expression softened as soon as she realized it was he.
‘I had no other choice.’ She moved near though she kept her head down as she spoke. ‘Tomorrow evening is the Frankley soiree and I can’t boast of being inside the Underworld if I never actually achieved my goal. I know you graciously offered your assistance, but it turns out several of the lads were called away from the door and I managed to slip inside without notice.’ She patted him on the arm as if to convey she might have disappointed him by proceeding without his help. ‘Now that I’m here, I can’t identify the allure. It’s smoky, crowded, and I daresay some of the patrons need to acquaint themselves with a fresh cake of soap.’
He’d managed to manoeuvre them closer to the door while Lady Matilda expounded on her impression, but her mention that the lads outside weren’t as diligent as needed did nothing to reassure him. Without a doubt, Stokes had slipped into the hell and the thought of Matilda somehow being pulled into danger kicked him into action.
‘Here’s the door. I need you to leave. Consider it a personal favour.’ He turned the knob and gently led her forward. ‘We’ll speak of it tomorrow. You have my word.’
But he’d hardly finished the sentence when Stokes jumped atop the Hazard table not ten feet from where they stood. Without thought, Crispin pushed Matilda behind him, his attention on the madman who wielded a cloth bag and a glint of metal in his free hand.
Crispin believed he was ready for whatever treachery Stokes planned, yet the sight of the man atop the gaming table, a maniacal gleam in his eyes, was unnerving. Several patrons didn’t realize anything was amiss. Engrossed in their gambling or otherwise uncaring if a patron became a spectacle, they continued their play, though Crispin knew better.
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