“Is this close to my home?” she asked as she looked around.
Grant pointed. “Three blocks that way.” Then he pulled out a key and unlocked the door before gesturing her inside.
She stepped in, smelling the dust that came with an unused space. In the dim light, she saw the sparse outlines of covered furniture and long-abandoned rugs.
“What is this?”
“A property that I’m considering buying. It’s rather large, but the location is excellent. The price is reasonable, and I cannot forever live at an inn.”
She wandered through the parlor and to the dining room, then into the kitchen itself. “How many floors?”
“Four. The first has parlor, kitchen, and dining room. Seven bedrooms above—”
“Seven!” she gasped.
“—and more for the staff on the third floor. Storage above that.”
“That’s a lot of room for a bachelor,” she said, her heart sinking. He wasn’t thinking of himself as a bachelor. He was thinking of a wife and children. Of nannies and maids, not to mention a cook and butler. He was thinking of setting up his household, and the thought made her heart ache with longing.
“There’s more,” he said as he gestured up a narrow staircase. It was London, after all, and houses like this tended to be narrow and deep. And tall. This house was very tall.
They wandered the upper floor, viewing the bedrooms. One was larger than the rest—for the master of the house—and she easily imagined his furniture there. Armoire to the left, reading chair by the fire, and a large, handsome bed fit for a king. Or at least an earl.
“It’s this last one I want you to see most,” he said as he opened the door.
It was the nursery. Painted in light blue, it had a covered cradle in one corner and a small pallet for a nurse.
“Who used to live here?” she whispered, her throat tight. “Please tell me that they lived happy. That they weren’t struck by tragedy.”
“They did suffer a tragedy,” he said softly, a teasing note in his voice. “Poor bastard had the misfortune of striking it rich in mining. Not a problem there, but he’d married a woman who loves fresh country air. He’d held her off, saying he didn’t have the money to set up in the country like she wanted. But they have it now, so he lost the battle to stay in London. The woman packed up the whole lot in the spring and moved them out.”
She laughed, as she knew he intended. “So they aren’t returning to London?”
“Turns out he prefers his wife’s company to the dirty city life. Decided to sell this place and stay in the wilds. I heard about the decision from a friend who knew I was looking. He got me the key yesterday, and here we are today.”
She took a step forward, unable to resist lifting the cover to look at the cradle. There was nothing special about it. A sturdy piece of furniture without decoration. And yet, looking at it, her heart squeezed tight. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. And what a ridiculous thought that was.
“So what do you think, Irene?” he asked, his voice a soft whisper. “Do you think this is a good home? A place where a woman could be happy?”
She nodded quietly, unable to trust her voice.
He touched her cheek, turning her to look into his eyes. When he saw her tears, his eyes widened in shock. “Irene! What happened? What’s the matter?”
She shook her head, wishing she could explain. “It’s nothing. Every childless widow longs for children. Some little one to fill her lonely days.”
He caressed her cheek, the soft brush leaving heat in its wake. “You would have beautiful children.”
She swallowed, not able to answer. Beautiful or not, she wanted a babe. Some days she felt so empty. And in a room like this, the lack was like a yawning hole in her life.
He kissed her tenderly, the touch of his mouth and tongue telling her without words that he knew her ache. That perhaps, he shared it too.
“Grant,” she whispered into his mouth, wishing he were just plain Mr. Grant again.
“Shh,” he answered, as he kissed her neck. “It’s me. Mr. Grant. Lord Crowle. We are one and the same.”
It wasn’t true. The needs of the two men were very different. And yet, at the moment, it didn’t matter. She wanted him to touch her. He wanted her as well. And as he undid the buttons down her back, she arched into him. Her dress went slack. And when he was finished with her buttons, she pushed his jacket off his shoulders. As he shrugged out of that, she worked on his waistcoat and shirt.
“Mr. Grant had fewer clothes,” she said with a laugh.
“And neither man wears as much as you,” he said as he began to work on her corset.
She took a deep breath as her ties were loosened and her shift pulled away. A moment later, his mouth was on her breast, sucking at her nipple until she cried out at the pleasure. Her hands clenched on his shoulders. He was her only support.
He pressed more kisses into her breast, murmuring as he slowly made his way to her other nipple. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve wanted you every night,” she said.
He pulled it into his mouth, sucking hard. She cried out, undulating against him. She didn’t consciously feel what he was doing, only an overwhelming sense of wonder. He was suckling her, and she never wanted him to stop.
He kept her going for a while, but eventually, he had to stop. He straightened, looking about him. “This isn’t the way I meant to—”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.” And she didn’t. She didn’t care what it would do to her clothing or her hair. She didn’t care who might see them or what the footmen outside would think. He was nearly gone from her life. She felt it like she felt the coming of a bleak winter. She would take what harvest she could now.
“Irene,” he groaned.
“The cot.” Then she pulled back to look him in the eye. “Or the floor. I don’t care so long as you fill me.”
He paused, searching her face. “I could fill you in truth. We could have children together.”
They could, and she nearly wept at the thought. She wanted it so desperately. But that worry she could not simply sweep aside. “Do you have a French letter?”
He nodded, the motion jerky.
“Then…” She bit her lip thinking. She’d learned of something new—sexually speaking. Helaine had whispered it to her, and Irene had been consumed by the thought. “Will you put it on?” she asked.
He nodded, his fingers already fumbling in his pant pocket. As she watched, he shed the rest of his clothing then slid it on. And when he was done, she took a step backward, away from him.
He frowned. “Irene?”
Then she slowly stepped out of her gown, allowing it to pool on the floor. Corset and shift were already tossed aside. She wore only her stockings and her shoes. He watched her closely, his eyes burning, his organ proud as it stretched for her. He was a large man, she realized, but they would fit well enough. They always had.
So she turned around, arching her back as she slowly bent over. She bared her bottom to him as she braced her arms on the sides of the cradle. It wasn’t as stable as she’d thought. It was meant to rock, and so she swayed back and forth as she took her position. But one glance behind her told her that it didn’t matter.
Grant’s face was flushed, his body taut. His eyes burned into her, and he swallowed. “My God,” he breathed. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
She had been feeling a little inferior lately. In truth, she’d felt old next to all his virgin dance partners. But now, any doubt was swept away. And as she smiled, her bottom high, he grinned and closed the distance between them.
He kissed her back, a delicious sensation, even as she felt his organ thrust between her legs. She was already wet, but the slide of him there made sure everything was ready.
His hands were on her breasts, squeezing her how she liked, but it wasn’t what she wanted. So she pressed backward and was rewarded with his groan.
�
�Fill me,” she rasped. “Now.”
His hands slid down her sides to her hips. He hadn’t even gripped her yet, but his organ was pushing inside. Little thrusts—from him or from her—and he was nudging into her core. She arched her back, wanting more, wanting him.
Then his hands tightened, and he suddenly jerked her back.
Big. Hard. He filled her.
She purred and was surprised by her own sound.
But damn him, he didn’t move yet. He was deeply embedded, but he didn’t continue the motion.
“I wish this was our home,” he said as he pressed a kiss to her spine. “I wish we were here right now making our child.”
“I wish that we had met when we were younger,” she said. And as she spoke, she squeezed her internal muscles, hugging him tight enough to draw out another of his groans.
“I am done with the past,” he said as he slid his hand between her legs. “I want you. I want our future.”
He was stroking her in earnest now—clumsy pushes with his finger against that magical spot. She cried out, trying to curl toward his finger and arch back onto him at the same time. In the end, she gave herself up to him. Behind her. Between her. Before her. It was all him.
“Yes,” she rasped. “Now!”
Her heart lurched as her body rolled.
Pleasure took control.
She heard him growl, felt his thrust. And then he joined her. He filled her.
Or rather, he filled the condom, keeping that magical future out of reach.
She pretended it didn’t matter. She reveled in the pleasure still coursing through her body. Eventually, they both pitched forward. They went slowly, with him doing his best to support her as her knees bent, and she collapsed across the cradle. He pulled out then, and she mewed in distress, but she had no strength to prevent it.
Then they lay there, her head on her arms, and his body surrounding hers. He pressed kisses into her shoulder, even as he tightened his arm around her belly.
“Am I too heavy?” he asked.
“No. Don’t move. Stay with me, just like this.”
She felt the rumble of his chuckle. “I’m not sure I could do anything else.”
She smiled, and she closed her eyes. She let her mind drift and her body relax. Then when her resistance was at its lowest, she forced herself to say the words she had held back for so long.
“I am afraid to love you,” she said. “I am afraid I already do.”
She felt him still against her, a sudden tension, and then a hard squeeze as he pulled her tight. Then he rolled his face into her back and held still.
It lasted a long time, while her heart hammered and her mind rebelled at what she had revealed. Then she felt him relax his hold. He kissed her again. Tiny kisses at the back of her neck. And then, he slowly pulled back.
She felt a tension in him long before he spoke—anxiety that transmitted without words from his body into hers. He was anxious, and that made her stiffen in fear. Then he spoke, his voice laced with regret.
“There is something you have to know,” he said. “Something I have to tell you.”
Twenty-six
He didn’t want to let her go. He didn’t want to tell her the things she needed to know about him. And yet, he didn’t want to share it with anyone else. And he feared if he didn’t talk about it to someone, he would go mad.
Or more mad. Or less sane.
Bloody hell. He pressed his face one last time into her skin. He smelled her musky scent, tasted the salt on her skin, and he waited a moment more.
One moment more.
She was the first to move. She stroked her fingers across the back of his hands. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
He rolled away, feeling exposed, and not just because he was naked. He didn’t stop touching her. Just sat on the floor and held her hand. She looked at him, her hair tousled, her cheeks flushed, and her breasts hanging free. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed.
“And you’re avoiding the topic.” She sat beside him, curling into his arms. “What is it?”
He took a deep breath then forced himself to speak. “Do you recall when my brother asked me if the madness had returned?”
She frowned. He felt the shift in her expression where she was pressed against his chest. But then, she nodded. “At the inn. You told him what we suspected, and I remember he looked very sad. And then he said your madness had returned. I meant to ask you about that, but forgot.”
“When I was thirteen years old, I had a tutor named Claymonte. He was pompous and very French. He was also very smart. He had this way of telling me exactly what would happen if I did something. He never stopped me, but he would point out the stupidity of my ways.”
She shifted, lifting her chin to flash him a smile. “And that only pushed you into greater excesses.”
He shrugged, his lips curving a bit in memory. “Yes. As I said, he was very French.”
“I doubt all Frenchmen are pompous, but go on. He must have tormented you mercilessly.”
Grant shrugged. In truth, he didn’t remember much of the real Claymonte. “Then that summer,” he continued, “I had an illness. A brain fever. I was sick for a month. My mother said I hallucinated things when the fever was at its worst.”
“Things?”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember it.” He paused, shifting his hold so that she wouldn’t look at him. He didn’t want to see her face when he told her the next part. “What I remember most is that I heard Master Claymonte’s voice in my head. Always before I was about to do something stupid. Or later, when the work at the mill got too hard. Always, I heard his voice telling me to do something different.”
She shifted, trying to pull back, probably so she could look at his face. He fought her at first, but in the end, surrendered to the inevitability. She wouldn’t understand any other way. So he released her, and she sat up to look at him. They still touched. He made sure of it. Knee to knee, fingers intertwined. He distracted himself by holding onto these sensations, as well as the sight of her lush black hair curling about her shoulder and over one breast.
“What do you mean, you heard his voice? While you were sick?”
“No,” he whispered. “At least, not that I remember. Afterward. After the brain fever passed, after Master Claymonte had long since gone on to teach others. I could still hear his voice.”
“Like a reminder? Don’t forget to milk the cows. Don’t forget to write a letter to Aunt Someone.”
He shook his head slowly. “Like a voice. In my head. Usually calling me a damn fool.”
She was silent, looking at him with her brows drawn together in confusion.
“It’s a madness, Irene,” he said softly. “It doesn’t make sense. At first, I thought my dog had talked to me. Or that the tutor was hiding to trick me. But over time, it became clear that the voice was only in my head. No one else could hear it.”
“A voice. Calling you a fool?”
“Sometimes it was more specific. Often it told me—just like Master Claymonte used to—what would happen if I continued. It warned me that blowing fire in the barn would burn it down.”
“You blew fire inside a barn?”
He waved that away. “I had a reason,” he said. “Not a very good one, I’ll admit, but that’s not important.”
“But the… the voice told you to burn down the barn.”
“No!” he huffed out a breath. “The voice warned me if I blew fire there, the place would burn down. And it was right.”
She nodded. “I would think that was obvious.”
He shrugged. “As I said, I had a reason. Mostly having to do with a bet that I would win. And I would use the winnings to pay for my sister’s wedding.”
She nodded slowly. “So you bet on whether you could blow fire in a barn.”
“I… yes. The point is that the voice told me not to.”
She bit her lip, thinking hard about that. “So it’s like the voice of your conscience. Your
smarter self, maybe?”
He frowned, trying to remember. “I suppose. But you have to understand, Irene, it’s a voice. Words, tone—a sound only I can hear. Or at least, it was.”
She straightened slightly. “Was?”
He nodded. “I can’t hear it anymore.” He couldn’t believe that his belly quivered when he said that. At least he thought his hands had remained still, but that was only because he was gripping her so tightly.
“But that is all to the good, is it not?”
He nodded slowly. “I suppose.” Then he caught himself, damning how tentative he sounded. “No, of course it’s good,” he said firmly. “It’s just that I have been hearing that voice for so long. There were times when it was my only companion.”
“You… you got used to it.”
“Yes.”
“But it’s gone now?”
He nodded, closing his eyes against a wave of misery. “I haven’t heard it for a month now.” Then he frowned, counting backward and lining up the time in his thoughts. “It stopped soon after we met.”
She nodded. “Perhaps it’s because you don’t need a childish tutor telling you what to do anymore.”
“I haven’t needed that for more than a decade,” he said dryly.
“Then perhaps it’s because you have friends now. A family again, now that you’re reunited with Will and your mother.”
He thought about that, feeling a whirl of confusion and self-doubt. Then she squeezed his hand, leaning forward to press a light kiss on his lips.
“Or perhaps, it has merely taken this long for the brain fever to pass. But the voice is gone now. You don’t hear it anymore.” She only stumbled a bit over the word voice—a short hesitation that could be anything. Except that he knew it was fear. She was not nearly as sanguine about it as she appeared.
“It is madness,” he said quietly. “And I have had it for most of my life.”
“But it is gone now,” she said firmly. “And I would think you would celebrate.”
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