The sensation was so deliciously overwhelming that she spilled forward and braced her hands on either side of his shoulders. She rocked into his hand, hungry for more.
“You like this, don’t you?” he asked, throwing her words back at her.
“Oh, yes,” she sighed, then bent down to close her lips over his.
He moved his hand so that he could hold her hips as she kissed him. Her lips melded against his, as eager as she was inexperienced. Her heart leapt in her chest when he opened his mouth to hers, drawing her tongue into his mouth.
In a strange, wonderful instant, the balance between them shifted. He kissed her with a passion that took her breath away, tasting her and teasing her lips and tongue with his. He was suddenly her teacher, showing her how perfectly mouths could fit together and how wonderful mating could be. He slid a hand up her side to hold her breast as their bodies touched and slid against each other. All pretense of play and teasing disappeared under the glorious sensation that they were really and truly making love.
“I need you,” he panted, breaking their kiss.
His hips shifted under hers, and he grabbed her thighs firmly. She caught on a moment later and moved with him, reaching between them to grab hold of him and guide him home. He surged into her with a strength that took the breath right out of her lungs. Her body stretched and ached as it accommodated him, and she moaned with the pleasure of it, but that was just the beginning.
He grasped her hips firmly as he thrust over and over. She felt clumsy at first, but eagerness made her a fast learner, and within a half dozen strokes, she was moving with him. It felt so different from their anxious, frantic wedding night that she caught herself crying out softly in time with his thrusts. It felt so good that she bore down on him harder and faster, drawing him deeper and deeper inside of her until a maelstrom of sensation threatened to break overtop of her.
“Angel,” he called out in a strangled voice.
She couldn’t tell if he was too overcome to finish her name or if he thought he’d reached heaven. She was certain she had, and moments later, her body throbbed into orgasm, clenching around him as he continued to thrust. It was unlike anything she’d been able to provoke herself, and she wanted it to go on and on forever, especially when Mark gasped, then groaned as his body tensed. A warm sensation spilled through her, either from the physical act of his climax or from the oneness she felt with him she didn’t know. All she knew was that her body would never be able to get enough of him and her heart would be his forever.
Her strength gave out in the wake of climax, and she sagged against him, doing her best to keep him inside of her. Her moment of disappointment when he shifted and slipped out was mollified as he closed his arms around her, letting her stay where she was as his blanket.
“We should do this more often,” she panted, resting her head on his shoulder.
He pulled the bedcovers up over them, cocooning them in intense heat. “Perhaps we should,” he said, managing to sound stodgy even when he was breathless from making love.
Angelica pressed her smile into the flesh of his shoulder to stop herself from giggling at his reaction. Her Mark. He would always be fussy, even when he was undone from passion. The fact that he was undone and that they’d experienced passion was a massive victory comparable to Waterloo. She sighed happily and closed her eyes, settling against him. She would conquer this mountain one small, sensual step at a time.
Chapter 10
Mark slipped out of bed carefully the next morning before Angelica was awake. It was a unique form of torture to peel his body away from hers after the night they’d spent together, a night that almost hadn’t happened. He’d been inches away from bolting when she’d slid over and unbuttoned his shirt. The wave of desire and fear and affection that had hit him with her touch was overwhelming. He didn’t think he was ready to feel those kinds of emotions.
He hadn’t thought he was ready to feel the physical sensations she’d sparked in him either, but the moment she’d slipped her hand below his waist to stroke him into hardness, he knew it would be pointless to resist her. It had been like his first time. He’d battled the fear that he’d embarrass himself and disappoint her and the wildness of losing his mind to pleasure. At least until he crossed the tipping point and mad desire drove him to mate with her as if there were no tomorrow. It surprised him that he lasted as long as he had, but he supposed age had its benefits.
The whole thing had left him feeling so pitifully vulnerable that he hadn’t been able to let Angelica out of his embrace as they fell asleep. Thank God she didn’t seem to mind. The problem was that the sense of vulnerability, of being cracked open and oozing emotion in every direction, was the last thing he needed with what he had to do that morning.
He tip-toed around the bedroom, gathering his clothes for the day, soap, and his razor, and slipped across the hall to one of the guest bedrooms. It wasn’t as well-equipped as his own room, but at least it enabled him to dress without waking Angelica. He had to seek out Templeton for water to bathe and shave with, but his entire morning routine was accomplished without stirring Angelica from much-needed sleep.
But he had another, more important reason for not wanting to wake his wife.
“Under no circumstances should Lady Gatwick be allowed to follow me to Newgate Prison,” he told Templeton in a low voice as he prepared to leave the townhouse. “She should not be allowed to go to Mr. Lloyd’s office either, if she has a mind to.”
“Understood, my lord,” Templeton said with a bow.
Mark hesitated, wincing over what he needed to do. “In fact, it might be best if she were dissuaded from leaving the house altogether.” He paused. “I suppose she could go for a walk in Hyde Park if necessary. Lady Gatwick does not like being cooped inside. But please ensure that a footman accompanies her and that she does not go to Hyde Park alone if she is so inclined.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Mark left the house feeling like the worst sort of husband imaginable. He’d seen far too many men keep their wives as virtual slaves in their own homes, and he’d never dreamed he would be that kind of man himself. But precautions were necessary where Shayles was concerned.
Shayles. The thought of the man made Mark’s stomach turn as he was driven across town to Newgate Prison. His meeting with Shayles wasn’t until ten, and while part of him thought it would be better to wait in a café, where he could at least have coffee and a bun, his stomach rebelled at the idea of food. Instead, he had his driver take him through the city the long way, then park outside of the prison, where Mark sat in contemplation for more than an hour before working up the nerve to go inside.
It was still far too early when Mark stepped down from the carriage and made his way to the prison’s front door.
“Lord Gatwick,” he introduced himself to the clerk behind the desk in the bleak front room. “I have an appointment to see Lord Shayles.”
“Lord Gatwick,” the man behind the desk mumbled, glancing over a ledger.
As he checked, Mark looked around. The room he found himself in was grey and depressing. A woman in ragged clothes sat on a bench with her shoulders hunched. Three scrawny children sat with her, no life in them. At the other side of the room, a man with a hat pulled low to hide half his face leaned against the wall.
“Ah, yes. Lord Gatwick. You are expected,” the clerk said. “Wait right here.”
Mark’s back itched and his nerves bristled at the delay. The clerk slipped into a room behind his desk, and a moment later, he returned with a uniformed guard.
“Lord Gatwick,” the guard said, frowning and dour. “Follow me.”
Mark had never been inside a prison before. His mind immediately conjured images of Dickensian squalor. He’d been raised on tales of debtor’s prison and unfortunate souls waiting to be transported to Australia. The reality of Newgate in eighteen-eighty-one was far different. The solid prison complex was far more clinical. The stone walls were drab and cold, but not
dirty or crawling with decay. The building had a dilapidated feeling to it, and perhaps other sections were as miserable as Dickens had written, but Shayles was an aristocrat and, as such, would be housed in a better place.
The theory was proven both right and wrong as the guard took Mark up a flight of stairs and down a hall to what might have served as a flat for multiple families in the poorest sections of the East End. The guard pounded on the door before unlocking it and preceding Mark into the room.
Shayles was seated at a small table under a thickly-barred window. Mark blinked and stopped just inside the doorway at the sight of him. He’d only ever seen Shayles dressed in the latest fashion—usually in black—perfectly groomed and polished. Now he was clothed in a faded, grey prison uniform that might have once been striped before being laundered a thousand times. His white-blonde hair had grown and now appeared grey instead of lustrous. Shayles hadn’t shaved in days either. But he wore the same sly, commanding look that he’d always worn, and at the sight of Mark he leaned back in his chair, a slow smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Well, well. You’re early, Gatwick,” he said, the same needling in his tone that had always been there. His cold, blue eyes were wolfish.
Mark said nothing. He stepped farther into the room, standing in its center with his hands clasped behind his back. The guard who had showed him in took up a post by the door—which remained open.
“You may leave us,” Shayles said to the guard with all the command of a prince.
“No,” the guard said, utterly implacable. Mark liked the man, though part of him was ashamed to admit that he felt more secure with him looking on.
Shayles’s smug smile faltered, and he stared daggers at the guard for a moment. The smooth façade he wore when Mark entered the room cracked a bit, giving Mark a glimpse of a man who had lost his patience along with everything else.
A moment later, the wolfishness was back in Shayles’s expression. “Well, Gatwick, you look a fright as usual.”
Mark suspected the comment was intended to make him comment on Shayles’s rough appearance, but he refused to play along. He’d played along with Shayles for far too long.
“Why have you called me here?” he asked, keeping his tone even but stopping himself from drifting into the blankness that had become so customary around the man.
“I wanted to see if you’d still come when I call,” Shayles said, then followed the comment with a slow, rumbling laugh. “But of course you would. Heel, bitch.” He issued the command the same way he would to a dog, then laughed at his joke.
The hair on the back of Mark’s neck stood up. Suddenly, the institutional feeling of the prison was more like that of Bedlam. All he wanted to do was run, but he had his own reasons for making the visit.
He opened his mouth, but before words came out, Shayles started up again.
“I’m set to be released in less than a fortnight,” he said with a happy smile, shifting his chair so that he could cross his legs. He leaned back, studying Mark from head to toe.
Mark refused to be intimidated. “So I’ve heard,” he said.
“That bitch of a wife of mine has run off to Italy with some young fool she met God only knows where,” Shayles went on, his tone far too casual for the bitterness in his eyes.
“I know,” Mark said.
“She took the last of my money when she went,” Shayles continued.
Mark said nothing. Lady Shayles’s flight had splashed across the gossip pages shortly after the trial. The situation was well known to all.
Shayles’s expression tightened into sourness when Mark didn’t react. “That means I’ll be in need of funds once I’m released.”
Still Mark said nothing, though he guessed what was coming. He’d already had demands for cash through Lloyd.
“So,” Shayles said, drawing out the syllable, “that means it’s time for you to pay up.”
Unsurprised, Mark shook his head. “No.”
Shayles leapt out of his chair so fast the guard only barely managed to reach him in time to hold him back. “Don’t you say no to me, you sniveling worm,” Shayles seethed. He pushed away from the guard, taking a step back and pacing in front of the table. “You owe me.”
“I owe you nothing,” Mark said. His heart raced and his mind battled with him, wanting desperately to retreat into its usual corner and ignore what was going on. But the time for ignoring Shayles and his villainy was over. He had to focus. He had to stand firm.
“You’re the reason I’m here, you bastard,” Shayles hissed. “If not for you—”
“Your crimes are your own, Theodore. You know better than anyone that I had no part in them.”
Shayles froze in his pacing, his mouth dropping open. Mark had never interrupted him in the twenty-five years of their acquaintance, and he almost never called him by his given name.
“How dare you?” Shayles seethed. “How dare you address me as though you are my equal?”
“I am not your equal,” Mark said, his appearance far steadier than he felt. “You are a prisoner and I am a free man.” He wanted to believe he was a free man, that he was free from Shayles, so desperately that it squeezed his throat, preventing him from saying anything else. He wasn’t sure if it was true, though. Shayles was right—Mark had come when he called.
“When I am released, I expect you to transfer fifty-thousand pounds into my account.” Shayles resumed his restless pacing, more of the look of a caged lion than a wolf about him.
In the letter, it had been twenty. Shayles was raising the amount as he had always raised the stakes in his villainy.
“No,” Mark said.
“You will hand over the keys to your townhome and procure the services of a detective to search for my wife,” he went on, his expression darkening.
“I will not,” Mark said. A strange sense of relief poured over him with each new denial, as if each one built on top of the other, like stones of a wall that would keep Shayles out.
A flash of being in the meadow with Angelica, rebuilding the crumbling wall, came over him. Angelica. She would have a thing or two to say to Shayles. The idea both terrified him and gave him strength.
“You will return my painting immediately,” he said, standing straighter.
Shayles stopped pacing and laughed. The sound began as a low cackle and increased to a roar, giving Mark even more of a sense that the man had lost his mind.
“Still fixated on Kitty?” he asked, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “What a sad little worm you are.”
“It belongs to me,” Mark said. “I want it back.”
“She’s mine now,” Shayles growled as if he thought he was on top once more. “Just like every other pitiful whore I’ve had my way with.”
Mark fought not to flinch, but bitter memories assailed him, screams and pleas for help. Shayles’s laughter rang over it all, threatening to disgorge the contents of Mark’s stomach. Thank God he hadn’t eaten that morning.
“You liked it,” Shayles continued in his most taunting tone. “Admit it, you did. Ever the artist, aren’t you? You liked watching, liked observing the way I fucked her.” His smile turned predatory. “It was such a shame that Nahrgang and Grayson had to hold her down. At least they had their turn too.”
“I will not listen to this,” Mark said.
“Such a pity that the poor whore hung herself in shame afterward,” Shayles goaded him.
“Stop it,” Mark shouted, turning away from Shayles and raising his hands to his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the memory, but it battered at his sanity all the same.
At the sound of Shayles’s wicked laughter, he let out a breath and schooled his features to the blank mask that had protected him for so long. It felt like a defeat, but at least it stopped him from going mad.
“Oh, don’t look like that,” Shayles said. It took Mark a moment to realize he was addressing the guard, who had gone pale with fury. “It’s not my fault she chose to ha
ng herself instead of going back to you. The woman was a more than willing participant in our bit of fun.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Mark hissed, too quiet for either Shayles or the guard to hear him. But then, that was his problem. He’d let fear silence him, let the dread of reprisals push him into a cold, noiseless box—as stiff and lifeless as a painting—that had taken decades to emerge from. He turned to face Shayles and repeated, “No, she wasn’t,” in a loud, firm voice.
Shayles snorted. “You and I remember the incident quite differently.” He turned to the guard. “Ignore Lord Gatwick. He’s a spineless toad who wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she sat on his face and sucked his cock.”
“Enough of that,” The guard growled.
Mark’s mind and heart flew instantly to Angelica. He was so grateful she wasn’t there to hear Shayles’s filth that it made him dizzy.
As if Shayles had heard his thoughts, he grinned and said, “Then again, I hear that congratulations are in order.”
Mark stiffened. His face went hot, but he couldn’t speak.
“Rumor has it that the new Lady Gatwick is quite the spitfire,” Shayles went on, moving slowly closer to Mark. “That she’s American and dusky as well.”
As desperately as he wanted to tell Shayles to shut up and mind his own business, Mark was paralyzed with fear.
Shayles stepped closer, moving so subtly that the guard didn’t step in to hold him back. “I would like to meet this woman,” Shayles said with a deceptively genial tone. “She sounds like precisely my kind of lady.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth.
“Never,” Mark managed to say at last.
Shayles ignored him. “You owe me,” he repeated, lowering his voice as he came within feet of Mark. “It would be a terrible shame if Angelica met the same fate as Kitty.”
Ice shot through Mark’s veins. His vision blackened and he had to fight the urge to pass out. He would rather die than see any such thing happen to Angelica. But apparently that was precisely what Shayles had in mind.
October Revenge Page 12
