by Darcie Wilde
“You’re saying I’ve been duped.”
Philip didn’t even hesitate. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
“What we’re saying,” put in Nathaniel. “Harry, you’re the perfect target. You’re afraid to leave home, but you’re restless. You’ve got money to burn, and you spent the better part of a season chasing after one of the worst flirts in London but you didn’t even notice how she was leading you on, because you were so desperate to try to settle down and put Calais behind you.”
Harry climbed to his feet. He would not take this slander sitting down. No one had the right to talk as these two did, not to him, or any man. “Is your little conspiracy now expanding to include Miss Featherington?”
“No,” replied Nathaniel calmly. “But Anthony Dickenson isn’t out of the question.”
That knocked Harry back on his heels. “Dickenson? The man Miss Morehouse eloped with? He’s . . .”
“Bent as a corkscrew,” said Nathaniel flatly. “The Dickenson family likes to make money, but hates risk. This drives them to use various means to ensure they can’t lose. But nobody’s been able to catch him at it. Not, may I add, for lack of trying.” He turned his face away again, watching the street. Perhaps it was Dickenson he was watching for. “The kind of schemes his people run, though, take a considerable bit of money.”
“It comes together this way,” said Philip. “Octavian Morehouse is known for his inability to resist an investment he thinks will provide a huge profit. So, Dickenson tells him about some new scheme. Morehouse starts looking for money to invest.” He paused for a moment, and then went on more softly. “He hasn’t shied away from using his daughter to raise funds before, and he might not be terribly fastidious when it came to how she acquired his new son-in-law. No offence, Harry.”
“No, of course not. Why in heaven’s name would I be insulted by a single thing either of you have said?” Harry’s fists clenched and unclenched and he didn’t have the strength to control them. It was taking everything he had to remember that these men were his friends. “You’ve only called me a fool, and my wife . . .” He was shaking, he couldn’t say it. He wouldn’t say it.
“All I’m calling your wife at the moment is another victim,” said Nathaniel. “I have no reason to believe she’s done anything more than what she’s been pressed to do by her father.”
“At the moment,” sneered Harry. “I suspect this particular belief could change.”
“Yes.”
Philip spread his hands. “Harry, Morehouse has ruined one son-in-law already. Wakefield was Morehouse’s friend and his neighbor, and Morehouse not only hooked him, he baited the hook with his beautiful daughter. Why would he stick at playing the same game with a stranger? Especially with Dickenson egging him on.”
Harry struggled to remember everything Leannah told him about herself and her father. There had to be something he could throw in Nathaniel’s oh-so-concerned face. Some way to make them both see. Make them all see. They had already judged her. They seemed to think they had all the evidence. But they didn’t know her. She was not a fool. She was not deceitful. They hadn’t seen her with her sister. They hadn’t held her. They knew some story about her previous marriage and were spinning it out into a grand conspiracy. Even when, as Nathaniel himself had pointed out, it was the sort of arrangement that happened every day.
He had to get out of here. Anger and doubt tore into him, and he had no idea which would win. He couldn’t stay here and argue this out. He had to find Leannah before these two did. He wouldn’t put it past Nathaniel to have had her followed. He had to warn her. He had to find some way to protect her from their accusations.
A thought struck him, and Harry found he was able to turn to face both Nathaniel and Philip.
“What happened to her settlement?”
“I’m sorry?” asked Nathaniel.
“This incredibly generous settlement you alluded to, where’s that gone? That would have been legally hers, no matter what debts her father had run up.”
The other men exchanged glances. “It’s assumed that she gave it to her father to invest, along with everything else,” said Nathaniel.
“So you don’t know everything after all.”
“No,” Penrose admitted.
“I see. Thank you.” Harry picked up his hat and stick. “Good-bye.”
“Harry . . .” began Nathaniel.
“Good-bye, Penrose. Montcalm.”
For the second time that day, Harry walked away from those closest to him. They didn’t follow any more than his father had. Either they recognized the danger in him, or he’d been mistaken about how much they cared for him. After all, they now seemed perfectly willing to let him walk away into what they believed was a trap and a fraud.
What kind of friends are they, then? He stepped out into the street. What kind of men have they become?
But he couldn’t stop himself from realizing that up there in that private room, they were wondering the same things about him.
For a brief terrible moment, Harry found himself on the quayside in Calais again, with the dead man staring up at him. His anger was bleeding away like the other man’s life. He’d been afraid then, afraid as he had never been, and he didn’t even know what was to come at the house with the mother and the sisters screaming and squabbling, all over money, always over money.
“Harry?” called a woman’s voice. Her voice. Over the noises of the traffic and the turmoil of his mind, he heard her clearly.
“Leannah!” Harry whirled around. It was her. She was climbing down from the barouche, without even bothering to wait for the driver to put down the steps.
Harry ran toward her. He saw nothing else. There was nothing else. She’d come back, as she promised. Leannah was in his arms and he was kissing her, in front of all the world and she was warm and vibrant and real.
There was nothing else, and there never would be.
Twenty-Seven
Leannah didn’t remember how they arrived back in their rooms. She was barely conscious of Lewis making her hasty retreat, or the door slamming behind her. There was only Harry, whom she wanted, and who wanted her.
The moment the servants removed themselves, Harry wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her to him and pressed his mouth fiercely over hers. For a moment, Leannah knew fear at the strength of his embrace and the raw emotion of his kiss, but fear quickly melted into desire.
“I need you,” he murmured against her mouth. “I need you now.”
“You have me,” she answered him. “Anything you want, you will have.”
He groaned and pressed his face against her shoulder. “Don’t say so, Leannah. You have no idea what I want right now.”
She took his face between her hands, lifting and turning him so she could look directly into his eyes. “Anything,” she said again. “Anything at all.”
They were clumsy, fumbling, frantic, clawing away at clothes and shoes, at anything that in any way separated them. All the while, Harry’s eyes remained wide, distressed. What had happened to him? Something had. This desperation had not come from a few hours abstinence. But the distress changed and grew dark when she at last stood naked in front of him. He ran his palm roughly over her cheek, down her throat to her breast. He grasped her there. When she gasped, he smiled and circled his thumb hard over her ruched nipple. The sensation burned through her to her core and she moaned.
His smile was dangerous as he lifted her breast, lowering his mouth so he could suck on her. She moaned again as his tongue lapped hungrily at her nipple, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders. Pleasure overcame her strength and it was a struggle to stay upright. Harry felt her faltering and cupped his free hand under her buttocks to hold her. He squeezed her there, too, hard, possessively.
When at last he raised his head, he was panting. The danger in his eyes had not subsided in the least.
“Lie down for me,” he ordered. “Open yourself for me.”
She was reeling with
pleasure and need. The heat in his eyes was as maddening as any touch could be. His need was so complete, his member was straight and hard, so ready for her. She wanted to take him now, immediately. She needed to take him.
“Lie down!” he barked and the command thrilled her.
She moved to the bed and fell back on the soft quilts and bolsters. Harry circled to the foot of the bed, watching her. Lust burned in his eyes and in each tightly controlled movement. Leannah ran her hands up her thighs and around her hips. She pressed her hands to her folds, and spread her legs, doing as he ordered and opening herself to him.
“Please, Harry,” she whispered. Her breasts were so heavy with want, she could barely breathe for the weight of them. The touch of her own hands was not pleasing, as it might have been if she were alone. With Harry watching, it only increased her desperation. “Please, I need you.”
Harry moved forward. He was staring at her hands, at her folds. His hands slid across the sensitive inner skin of her legs and all the way up until his fingers curled around her thighs. He pushed her open yet farther. He leaned forward. She felt his breath hot against her hips, against her folds. She knew a moment of confusion. Then, his mouth pressed against her and his tongue thrust inside her and she forgot everything else.
It was beyond wickedness. It was pure wantonness and she wanted it never to end. She knotted her fingers in his hair. Maybe she cried his name. She couldn’t tell. Her whole awareness was centered on his mouth against her. Harry lapped, and he sucked. He found her hot, greedy nubbin and he licked it mercilessly. She was frenzy. She was desire incarnate. When she cried out, caught between the bliss and agony of his attentions, he only licked harder.
And then he stopped. He pulled away and reared back over her. She cried out, confused, lost. There was nothing left of mind or intelligence. He’d burned them all away. There was nothing left but need.
“Oh, yes, that’s good,” he growled, as she struggled against his hands as he pressed her down against the bed. “But I want to see you when you come.”
Without warning, he thrust his fingers into her.
“Yes!” Her body tightened around him, welcoming the invasion. It was good. It was better as he began to move, pumping into her, circling the heel of his palm hard against her mound. He held her ruthlessly in place with his free hand, even as he fucked her relentlessly with his fingers.
Leannah moaned. She struggled, writhing her hips, but that only drove him deeper. It felt so good. He had three fingers inside her now. He thrust hard and deep. He circled again, grinding his palm against her.
“You’re going to come for me, Leannah. You’re going to come so hard.”
“Yes. Yes. Please.”
“Because you’re mine. Only mine.”
“Yes, Harry. Only yours.”
“You’re going to come for me now!” He pressed down, rubbing her, fucking her with his words as much as with his hands. “Now!”
She shattered. Her hips slammed against his hands as her body wildly sought the source of its pleasure. He withdrew abruptly and she cried out. Still shuddering, almost feverish with the heat of the pleasure he’d given her, she felt his member press against her wet folds, and thrust inside.
“Oh, yes!”
How could she want yet more? She didn’t know and she didn’t care. It was nothing but the truth. She wanted him more than her next breath. He filled her and her shuddering body clamped down around him, holding him in place. But he was in no mood to be still. He thrust, driving himself into her not once, but again, and yet again. His hands were everywhere; on her breasts, on her buttocks and thighs, wrapping her tight around him.
“Harder!” she cried. “Harder!”
He obeyed, his frantic desire driving them both on. She laughed with it, she cried out with it. She wanted this madness, this final proof of how much he needed her. She needed it to be rough, blinding, unendurable. Nothing less would erase her agonizing doubt. She pressed her thighs against him and thrust her hips up, meeting him, matching him. He would not escape her. He would not outstrip her in this journey of passion. He was hers, only hers, as she was his.
He was groaning, panting. She felt the stillness amid the frantic motion, the pleasure that built and burned in the deepest part of her. He roared and he thrust, and his own climax overcame him. That maddened pulsing inside her was too much. She was coming again, riding his waves and her own.
The waves calmed, lowering them both down into their bodies again. Leannah pressed close to him, reveling in their mutual warmth and spent strength. He smiled at her, but what she saw in his eyes was not just love or gratitude for passion. There was relief, and the sight of it sent a breath of cold slipping through the easy warmth their lovemaking had left in her.
“What happened to you, Harry?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not yet. I can’t tell you yet.” He took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “We’re here, together, and that’s all that matters.”
But as she took him into her arms and cradled him against her, she knew just what had happened. Someone had told him—about her, and about her family. That was what had been behind the darkness in his claiming of her. He didn’t want to believe what he had been told, but he could not escape it, either.
Leannah closed her eyes, but not before a tear slipped out from under her lids. She waited until Harry’s breathing deepened and sleep took the last of the tension from his shoulders before she reached up to wipe it away.
* * *
Leannah did not sleep. She lay quite awake as darkness slid into the room and the fire faded away to gently glowing coals. She listened to Harry’s breathing, and held him in her arms, savoring his warmth and the exquisite contours of him.
All the while she knew this might very well be the last time she did so. He might have said that their being together was all that mattered, but the desperation with which he had taken her told its own story. He’d been hurt by what had happened to him when he returned to his family. He’d doubted her, doubted them.
Worse than this, though, was the fact that she could not be angry about that doubt. She could only stare into the night and remind herself she had known full well such uncertainty must come.
Her arm tightened around him, involuntarily. Harry stirred, and she tried to loosen her embrace. She tried to pull gently away so he would fall back asleep. But his eyes opened, and he smiled up at her.
Leannah felt her heart constrict painfully. How will I ever learn to do without you? She brushed his hair back from his brow.
“What is it, Leannah?” Harry murmured, running his hand across the curve of her shoulder. “What’s troubling you?”
She considered lying. It was dark. As close as they were, he would not be able to read her face. But she couldn’t do it. Maybe the time would come when she could lie to him, maybe soon, but it was not yet.
“You’ve been given questions, about me, about what I’ve done.” It was the only way she could think to say it. “I want you to know I’ll answer anything you ask.”
“Perhaps answers aren’t what I want from your mouth.” Harry traced the line of her lips with his thumb. She was coming to love that gesture and that realization left an ache inside her. She wanted him. She wanted to roll him over and do whatever was necessary to make him hard, so she could take him inside her again.
She grasped his wrist and pulled his hand away from her face. Her palms stung as the salt of his skin leeched through her bandages, which had been loosened and disordered from their rough lovemaking. She ignored it.
“Ask me,” she said. “I’m going to tell you anyway, but it will be easier if I know what’s hurt you most.”
She saw he wanted to deny that he had been hurt, or perhaps even that he’d heard anything at all of her past. But slowly he turned and shifted in her grip until he could wrap his hand around hers. A look of soft disappointment filled his face. Leannah’s throat tightened.
I will not cry. If it is over already, I
will not cry. It’s better this way. He should go before he can be hurt, by me or Father or Mr. Valloy. Anyone.
“Tell me about your first marriage.” He spoke to their fingers, twined together against the crisp white sheets.
Leannah nodded. It was as good a place to start as any. All the same, she did not begin immediately. First, she reached up and touched his face. She smoothed her fingers across his brow and combed them through his entirely ridiculous and overgrown sideburns. She could not leave off touching him. She would not pull away. If this was the end already, she would let herself drink in every detail of him, so she would have at least that much to hold on to through all the dark nights to come.
“I was married to Elias Wakefield when I was nineteen.”
“Married to?” Harry murmured. “That’s an old-fashioned way of putting it.”
“It’s what happened. It was a bargain. Elias Wakefield was a friend of my father’s and my father wanted his money to invest with. Elias . . .” She smoothed her palm across his shoulder. She had to say it. She had to tell him what she had been. “Elias wanted a young bride who might be able to give him an heir.”
“I’m sorry.”
She’d meant to keep looking at him, but she couldn’t. She’d never said any of this out loud before. Until now, those who had needed to know had done so without her telling them.
“It was not so very bad. I always knew I’d be married however it would help my family. I was even cheerful, because I thought Mr. Wakefield was rich enough that this time Father’s schemes could flourish.”
“This time?”
Leannah nodded. “Our family fortunes rose and fell with the success of his market stratagems. When he found a solid investor and when the markets or the schemes cooperated, we were rich. When they didn’t . . .” She bit her lip. “He was never caught by the tipstaves, but it was close a few times.” Her fingers curled into a loose fist against his arm. “He always seemed to need just a little bit more than he had.”
