“But you didn’t play last night,” she said. “It’s all right.”
“Because I remembered you.” He thrust in again. His breath rasped, and his tempo increased. She arched beneath him, increasing the power of his impact, and her breath caught on a soft cry.
He reached down between them, his fingers burrowing. It was an awkward angle, so he pulled back. He sat between her thighs and then rubbed her so deeply, so perfectly, even while still inside her. He spread her folds and massaged her in a steady circle, while she writhed in pleasure.
“Don’t cast me aside, Irene. I know I shouldn’t ask this of you, but please let me stay.”
“Stay?” she gasped out.
“In London. Helping you. Talking to your Bow Street Runner.”
Her belly tightened, and the blood roared in her ears. Her body arched, and she couldn’t catch her breath.
“Say yes, Irene. I need something to keep me focused. Let it be you.”
He was relentless with his attentions, his stroke building her passion by leaps. But when she would have soared, he stopped, drawing her knees high as he fell down over her. He braced himself on his arms, his weight well off her. But in this position, he had plenty of room to thrust. Long, hard impacts that sent explosions through her body.
“Say yes, Irene. Say. Yes.”
She would say anything at that point. Anything at all, if only he would continue.
“Irene!” he said, stopping his motion, holding himself back.
“Yes! Of course, yes!” she cried.
“Thank God,” he breathed. And then he thrust hard.
Once. Twice.
Heaven!
She soared, as did he.
An eternity later, he fell not so gently to the side. It pulled him out of her, and she gasped in reaction. But he cuddled her close, and they lay nestled together. His breath was hot on her face, his body so warm. She felt safe in his arms, and after their discussion, that was no small thing.
But what had she just promised him? That she would let him talk to Mr. Morrison? That she would allow him to investigate into her worries? Surely that shouldn’t generate any sense of unease.
But what if he meant to do more? What if his investigation never ended? What if he became intrusive or demanding? And what if he exposed what they had done this night to the world? How would she face her family? She was living with her in-laws, for goodness sake. How would they react to the idea that she had taken a lover?
“Shhh,” he said as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “It will be all right,” he whispered. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Of course, he would—unless he turned out to be the problem. Then what would she do?
Thirteen
Grant felt a tightness as Irene was leaving the inn room, a vague sense of panic that spurred him to action. “I will ride with you. Just to make sure you make it home safely.”
She frowned. “I don’t see that’s necessary. Truly—”
“We were attacked last night. I won’t get out of the hackney, but I won’t be at ease unless I see you safely to your front door.”
She bit her lip then nodded. He searched her face for more clues as to her mood, but he saw nothing helpful. She was busy dressing, and her eyes kept looking at the clock. It was past eight. The servants had long since been up and about. Fortunately, the time fit with her story that she had spent the night with Miss Drew, the seamstress. She would hardly have risen much earlier if she’d been with her friend. But that didn’t solve the problem of her dress and the fact that she would be seen leaving the inn.
“Give me a minute,” he said. “I’ll see if I can find you a cloak.”
It didn’t take him long. This inn had seen many secret assignations, so the innkeeper had a large cloak available for purchase at exorbitant cost. One month before, he never would have paid it. But one month ago, he wouldn’t have been in London at all, much less in bed with Irene. And a bare twelve hours ago, he had thought he needed to save his pennies to court Miss Josephine Powel.
As that was no longer the case, he suddenly had money available and nothing to save it for. Might as well spend it on Irene. So he paid the indecent price and whisked it upstairs, while the innkeeper called for a hackney. She was staring out the window at the increasingly busy coach yard.
“I will be seen,” she said without turning around.
“You can wear this. It will cover your gown, and no one will see your face. You’ll just be a woman leaving the inn.”
“With you.” She turned and faced him. “They’ll know you.”
He nodded as his chest tightened. Was she casting him off already? Fighting the fear, he stepped forward and took her hands in his. He tried to be gentle with his words, but in the end, he settled for blunt speaking.
“Forgive me, Irene, but you are a widow. Affairs are common among the upper crust.”
“They are not common to me!”
“Of course not,” he said, moderating his tone. “But that makes little difference to society.” He pulled her cold hands to his lips. “No one will make the tiniest remark upon your actions, even if anyone does recognize you. Which, of course, they won’t. You are a widow and can do as you like with your time and your favors.”
She sighed and squeezed his fingers. “I know you are right, but I still feel awful.”
“Not about what we shared, I hope.”
She hesitated a fraction of a second too long, but then she released a sigh. “No, not that. And truthfully, I would do it again.”
His mood brightened considerably. Or it did until she hastily amended.
“I mean—I would make the same choice again, given the circumstance last night.” She shook her head. “Goodness, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
He sighed as he drew her into his arms. “You are saying that you don’t regret last night, but you also have no intention of repeating it.” He tried not to sound disappointed. Worse, he was startled by a sudden surge of anger, especially as she drew back slightly to flash an apologetic smile.
“Yes, I suppose you are right. That is what I’m saying.”
“I intend to fight you on that, you know.”
She blinked. “Fight me? Grant, you must know that I cannot become your mistress.”
“Why not? As I said, you are a widow. I could…” He almost said he could compensate her generously for her time, but two thoughts made the words freeze on his tongue. The first was that she would be horrified by that offer. She was not a paid courtesan, nor would she ever be happy in that role.
The second was that he did not have the money to compensate her generously. Certainly, he no longer needed to do a good showing this season, but that didn’t mean he was flush with cash. The mill had just now begun paying off. The only reason he had the blunt to buy back his land was because he’d intended to sell his stake in the mill to Robert. Now that he wasn’t doing that, he had enough funds to be comfortable, but certainly not enough to pay a mistress.
Good God, barely two weeks back in the fashionable round, and already he was spending money he didn’t have. Had he learned nothing in the last five years?
“See?” she said, her voice gentle. “Even you cannot think of a way to make this work.”
He frowned. She had misinterpreted his silence. “I can think of a dozen or more ways to whisk you into my bed without anyone else the wiser. But it is not what I think that matters, is it? It is what you want. And you do not want me anymore.”
Never had he thought to voice those words! A woman who did not want to return to his bed? Back when he’d been a profligate young buck about town, the women had flocked to him. He was a good lover, paid well, and was heir to an earldom. He had his choice every night. But, of course, Irene wasn’t even remotely the same as those women. Meanwhile, she touched his face, the caress tender, even though it was a definite good-bye.
“Last night was so wonderful, I cannot even express it. But Grant, I have things to do, a life I enjoy.”
“I have no intention of interfering with your life,” he said. Then, before she could raise more obstacles, he drew her hood up so that it covered most of her face. “Now let me get you home. We can discuss the particulars of when and how we shall meet again—”
“Grant!”
“To discuss what I have discovered,” he hastily added. “You were attacked last night, remember?”
“We were attacked by a footpad.” He didn’t argue. He simply held out his arm, which she took with a frustrated sigh. “You should be doing other things than chasing after my imaginary pursuer.”
“Last night was not imagined, and pray allow me to choose where and how I spend my time.”
Her face was in shadow, but he knew she was grimacing in distaste. Damnation, but he would have to fight tooth and nail to remain in her life. He did not pause to consider why it was suddenly so important to remain focused on her. He merely accepted it as fact and set his mind to figuring out ways to do it. But first he had to get her home, so he escorted her quickly to the waiting hackney.
They spoke little in the cab. He tried a few conversational gambits. He asked her what she intended to do this day: she wasn’t sure. What parties she might attend in the future: she had no idea. How could he contact her in the future? That question had her grimacing, an expression he could see even in the dim interior. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I suppose through the shop. Or through Mr. Morrison. Samuel can get a message to Penny, who will get it to me. But I don’t want her involved in something so sordid.”
His eyebrows shot up, and he did his best not to feel insulted. “You consider meeting me sordid?”
She huffed out a breath. “Of course not. It’s just the passing of messages like that, as if we were in some horrible gothic novel.” She rolled her eyes. “Mama reads them by the dozens, and they are universally silly.”
What did he say to that? Aside from the general insult, he had not considered how hard it would be to meet with a woman who worked and did not, as a rule, attend parties. But of course, he was forgetting that he was Lord Crowle. He had an easy way of finding her. It was only because they were used to dealing as Mr. Grant and Mrs. Knopp that he hadn’t thought of it earlier.
He waited for his moment. He knew if he gave her time to argue, she would find some sort of excuse to deny him. So at the last second before the hackney stopped, he made his move.
A kiss: swift, sure, and very deep. He nearly missed it. She was pulling her cloak back over her head, and if he’d timed it differently, he would have gotten her elbow in his nose. He took hold of her cheeks, lifting her face. Then he descended, pressing against her mouth, and thrusting into it until she softened. She fought it—a little. Her body longed for him, even if her mind resisted.
“’Ey now!” called the coachman as he rapped on the roof. “Up and at ’em!”
Grant drew back, pleased to see her dazed eyes focus somewhat blearily on him. “I shall call on you day after tomorrow. That should give me enough time for some initial inquiries.”
“What? But—”
“Best go now!” he said as he pushed open the door.
He stayed in the shadows. No need for anyone to see him. She made it to the ground, pausing only for a moment to look back. She was gathering her wits and meant to say some objection, he was sure. So he pressed his fingers to his lips and waved good-bye before firmly shutting the carriage door.
Then she had no choice but to huff out a disgusted breath before she rushed to her front door. The cab waited, as he’d instructed it to, until she’d disappeared inside her home. Then with a quick click of the reins, the horse started up again.
Grant stayed right where he was, his gaze on the house as long as possible. He watched it with a longing that pierced him, making his mouth run dry and his hands shake. And the moment it disappeared from sight, he felt a physical pain as sharp and devastating as he’d once felt every time he’d been forced to step away from a gambling table. Or a bet. Any bet.
Five years ago, he wouldn’t have thought about that. He wouldn’t have worried that he felt the same pang now as he had when his brother had interrupted his fire-blowing mid-wager. But he was alone in a carriage with at least fifteen minutes before arriving at the office of the Bow Street Runners. What choice did he have but to wonder at this ache?
How could a woman get so important to him so fast? That he shook when he left her?
Aw, listen to you, his madness suddenly drawled. One night of fun, and you have to turn it into an epic tale.
Grant winced as his madness returned. In Yorkshire, he’d gone whole weeks without a peep from the bastard, but back in London the thing was a buzzing insect that wouldn’t go away.
He studiously ignored it, choosing instead to focus on his hands. He held them in front of him. They were steadier now than yesterday, but he wouldn’t trust himself with a sketching pencil right then. The lines would jump all over the page.
He closed his eyes, dropping his head against the hard side of the cab. For five years, he had gone without these symptoms. Without the morning shakes or the physical wretchedness. Years ago, he’d thought them signs of excess drink. Perhaps last night’s alcohol was having an adverse effect.
You call a night of tupping an adverse effect? You are an idiot!
But even back then, he’d known it was as lie. In truth, his drinking declined because of the expense. Though there were certainly nights he had overindulged—his sister’s wedding being the last obvious example—mostly, he’d drunk from his own flask of “brandy,” which was more water than wine. But even then, the wretchedness had not ended. If anything, it had increased.
It’s wagering, you bloody fool. You like the wagers.
He grimaced, knowing that his madness was right. For years before his sister’s wedding, he’d thought of little else but gambling. Wagers had become his obsession and not because of the money he could win. Certainly, the cash had been important. There were times when his winnings were all that kept his parents from starvation. But his thoughts had been on the game, not the money. And it was leaving the game that had produced such physical wretchedness. In fact, fear of that pain is what kept him playing long after he should have quit.
Made you burn down the barn. About time you realized that.
Was that why he’d taken that risk in the barn? He tried to remember that night. He’d told himself it had been about the money, but maybe not. Maybe he simply hadn’t wanted to quit the wager.
But there was no wager with Irene. Why now—after five years without a single wager—was he shaking after leaving a woman?
No wager? What was the mill, except for one great, big bet?
He watched his hands curl into fists as he realized his madness was right. Five years ago, he’d been forced to lay everything on the table, so to speak. Sell the land to Lawton on the hope—
The bet.
—that he could make enough to get his land back. Day and night, he’d worked to that end. To earn enough money to buy back his land. Build a business with the payoff being his land and his family’s respect.
Buggered that, didn’t you?
Yes, he’d failed at that game, and that still rankled. Or it would, if he didn’t now have a new game to play. A woman this time—Irene.
Don’t be making her into something she’s not. She’s a woman. Good tits, long legs, and a honeypot sweet enough to make a man forget his cares.
“Stop it!” he spat at his madness. He didn’t like that his own thoughts turned Irene into something crude. Thank God that he had finally arrived at his destination, otherwise he might start ranting at himself, and they would lock him away in Bedlam for sure.
So he glared at nothing, silently cursing his own insanity, then stepped out of the carriage. He paid his fare and focused on a surprising moment of satisfaction. He had the funds to pay a cab fare without worrying he’d be short on something else. That was cause for celebration, wasn’t it? He hadn’t though
t that way in… ever. What a glorious pleasure. Though, he thought cautiously, it would be best to walk back to the inn to save his coin.
Then he tucked away his thoughts—madness included—and headed into the magistrate’s office at No. 4 Bow Street.
Fourteen
It took a while to find Mr. Morrison. Not because people didn’t know him. In truth, every time he spoke the man’s name, someone would shake his head and say, “Oh, that bloke.” Sometimes the tone held anger, sometimes awe, but always there was a larger measure of suffering. As if Mr. Morrison was appreciated and hated in equal measure.
It gave Grant some concern, but still he was determined to proceed. Finally, he found the man in a rather unremarkable room. Someone had said it was reserved for the runners, but there were no markings on the door to indicate such. He did see battered desks scattered about the small room, each with stacks of scribbled notes upon it. And in the corner stood a lanky man with curly brown hair. The man was in the process of shedding his coat, but he stood frozen, his attire half on and half off, while he frowned at a crack in the wall.
Grant stepped into the room, his gaze shifting to the crack. He saw nothing remarkable in it, but then again, he knew little about masonry. Perhaps, if he went closer. He closed the distance between himself and the wall, inspecting it in minute detail. He was stretching up on his toes to look higher when the man’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“What the devil are you doing?”
Grant whipped around, his face heating in embarrassment. “I, uh, I was just trying to figure out what was so interesting to you.” When the man’s frown deepened, Grant gestured rather vaguely toward the wall. “You were staring at the crack.”
The man blinked, nodded, and then proceeded to pull on his jacket. “Ah, I see. Sadly, there was an error in your perception. I was not actually looking at the wall or the crack, and yes, I have spoken of it to the magistrate. It does need to be repaired, though in my estimation, it will be another year and five months before it actually leaks.” He popped on his hat and started heading for the door.
Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] Page 13
