Morley released her and strode to the door to keep the footman from venturing into the room and seeing anything he ought not to.
Likely saving the footman’s life.
“My wife has fainted and taken a fall; I need you to send for the doctor.”
Bart’s eyes went round with worry in his moonlike face. “Right away, sir.” He scurried back in the other direction.
Morley shut the door, and when he turned around, his knees nearly buckled from beneath him at the sight of his wife levered over her chest of drawers, her arm frantically fishing within.
She still clutched a towel to the front of her, but she currently faced away from him. Revealing. Everything.
Morley’s mouth went dry as lust punched him low in the belly with such savagery, he felt slightly ill. His body responded violently to a sight he’d never forget.
Her ripe bare arse and thighs created a perfect heart shape to frame the shadow of the cove between her legs.
Sweet Christ just when he didn’t think he’d anything left in him to break.
Snatching up a nightdress, she straightened and pulled it over her head and down her body, all the while still flailing to find the openings for the arms and neck.
He went to her in swift strides. The moment he put his hands on her, she stilled, allowing him to guide her arms into their sleeves and unbutton the high collar enough to permit her dark head to pop through.
Something about helping her into her gown settled him, as well. His breaths calmed, though his cock did not, but he no longer felt as if his heart tried to escape by way of his throat.
She reached up to push the tangles of her hair away from her face, but he beat her to it, smoothing the damp tendrils from her cheeks and elegant neck.
She regarded him with a lost, rather unsure expression that tugged at his heart.
“For future reference, you’re being neither prudent nor good,” he said in a voice suddenly made of silk.
Her lip quirked. “For future reference, my name has always been a lamentable irony.”
She attempted a good-humored smile, but it never took. She only succeeded in looking exhausted and alluring, and very young.
Too young for him, probably.
Good Lord, he didn’t even know his wife’s age. He knew next to nothing about her. Her health. Her skills, her strengths, her flaws. Her life before this.
Before him.
Though he’d had her in a garden, he’d never even seen her naked before tonight.
Certainly, he’d fantasized about it to an obsessive degree, but nothing had been able to prepare him for the perfection of her. Generous breasts, dramatic curves, and an arse so delectable he ached to—
“You really should be lying down,” he said with brusque efficiency, closing the door firmly on those thoughts.
Her face fell. “I needed to dry and dress. I’m not about to meet the doctor in the altogether, am I? Also, my hair will dry in clumps of snarls if I don’t brush it.”
He gently but firmly steered her toward the bed. “I will tend to you.”
She kept any remonstration to herself as she allowed him to tuck the bedclothes around her lap. Her eyes tracked him as he retrieved her silver hairbrush from her vanity and brought it to her. “Allow me to—”
She snatched the brush from him. “No need, I’ve a tender head and it takes a delicate touch.”
Better she do it, then. His hands still shook, and his emotions seemed to be taking wild, pendulum-like swings. His feelings for her, he realized, were not gentle. But ardent.
Violent even.
It was why he stayed away. Something volatile hung in the air whenever she was near, and volatility wasn’t something he allowed himself.
Lord, but it felt as though he were an abandoned tangle of yarn only just discovered by a sharp-nailed woman intent upon unraveling him.
Morley perched on the foot of the bed, bending his knee so he could face her. “Do you still feel ill?” he asked as she began to run the brush through her damp hair, starting at the ends and working her way up.
“I haven’t been for a few days beyond mild bouts of nausea.” She flicked him a shy look from beneath her lashes. “Thank you for the ginger ale. I’ve been sipping it when I feel poorly.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. Well. I read about it somewhere.”
He’d read anything he could get his hands on, actually. Books on pregnancy and childbirth. Doctor’s pamphlets and periodicals. Everything. If he was going to be a father, he’d be the most knowledgeable father in the kingdom.
She fell into a contemplative silence, her entire being focused on the task of her hair.
Morley watched her alertly, examining her for signs of… well, of anything out of the ordinary. Not that he exactly knew what to look for. Bleeding, he supposed. Another loss of consciousness. Confusion. Pain.
Charming little mannerisms became apparent under such close scrutiny. She’d one very expressive left eyebrow, while the right one never so much as arched. Her left hand was the dominant one, as well. She’d a freckle beneath her right eye. Just the one. And a little scar behind her jaw on the right side. She slept in a great deal of ruffles.
And when she brushed her hair, she laced her fingers through the section to test for snarls in very rhythmic, graceful gestures.
The inky swath draped over the shoulder of her white nightgown, waving in places and framing her face with little tendrils that beckoned to be touched.
Lord she was lovely.
And she was his.
He’d never seen her like this. Even pale and fresh-scrubbed, damp and unadorned, she remained a beacon of beauty. The kind of siren that would dash a man like him on the rocks.
And still, he’d go willingly.
A strange, unidentifiable emotion stole over him. Not peace, exactly, never that, but a loose-limbed mesmerism he would akin to that of a cobra being charmed by a clever instrument. He couldn’t look away. Nothing else existed. Just the woman in his bed and the gentle motions of her grooming. The air was warm and moist from her bath, and he breathed in the summer scent of her soap as his heart slowed and his lids grew heavy.
They sat in silence for a moment, or maybe an eternity, him content to do little else but drink in the sight of her.
“Do you still love her?”
The question manifested in the air between them, surely, as he’d barely noticed her lips move.
Morley started a little, sitting up straighter, uncertain if he heard her correctly as his mind had been quite pleasantly—extraordinarily—empty. “Pardon?”
She kept her gaze firmly focused on the gathering sheen of her smooth, glossy, untangled hair. And yet she kept brushing. “The Countess, Farah, do you love her still?”
“No.” The promptness of his answer surprised even him.
She flicked him a fleeting glance. “You can tell me without fear of reprisal,” she urged. “I’m in no position to cast aspersions, and I can’t imagine you lived like a monk before we—before our nuptials.”
The irony was he’d done exactly that for some time now. He’d a few wild years during and after the war but…if one was to describe his romantic exploits of late.
Monk was apropos.
Until her.
“I hold Farah in high esteem,” he answered. “But that is all.”
“She returns your esteem.” An inscrutable emotion darkened her features for a moment, and she abandoned her brush to the nightstand with a sigh.
“I don’t know if I ever loved her.” Morley couldn’t tell what compelled him to explain, but the words escaped him in a torrent of truth. “I was of the opinion that she and I suited, is all. We worked easily together, and we enjoyed each other’s company. We attended events and she liked to eat at the same establishments I do. I thought…” He’d thought she’d fill this empty house with something other than silence. He’d wanted someone to come home to. To share a life and all the beautiful, terrible things therein. �
�I thought love might grow between us. She’s a good woman. Someone I’d grown to trust, respect, and admire.”
The wobble of her chin belied her hard-won stoicism and she nodded slowly as if she did her best to digest his words.
“Unlike me.”
I never wanted her like I want you.
He almost said it. The words tripped to the edge of his lips like a reckless man about to jump to his death. Farah was never a danger to him, but neither had she been a joy. He’d desired her, as she was lovely, and he was a man. But she’d never tempted him anywhere close to the line he’d leapt over for Prudence. He’d never ached in her absence nor did he fear the power she had over him.
For there was none.
Whereas now…
“Was your meeting with Blackwell about me?” she queried, her gaze pinched and worried as it finally met his.
“You know I can’t discuss—”
“You can’t discuss what? My case? My life? You realize this is my innocence to prove and if I knew what was happening, I might have a chance to help.”
“It simply isn’t—”
“How would you fare, husband, under similar conditions? Locked in this infernal house with nothing to do but worry about the future. Treated like everyone’s terrible secret. It’s cruel.” Her voice became ragged on the last words, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Morley had felt pity in his life. Shame, regret, sympathy. But not this strange amalgamation of all of it.
“You’re not a prisoner here,” he soothed. “But it’s safer for you if you’re out of sight until things…settle. I thought we agreed it’s the right thing.”
She made a noise of irritation and scrubbed at her eyes to erase a forthcoming storm.
Hesitantly, Morley reached out and placed his hand on her ankle over the counterpane. Her bones were so delicate, so small beneath his hands.
“I sympathize,” was all he could think to say. “In your circumstances I’d likely go mad.”
She blinked at him, and her face relaxed a bit, some of the frustration draining into acceptance. “Then…why must I be left in the dark?”
“Because that is where I need you,” he answered more vehemently than he’d meant to.
At her pained flinch, the explanation burst from him like a geyser. “Don’t you understand? I cannot stand to be in the same room with you—wait.” He held up his hand against her unspoken pain as her eyes went owl round. “That is, I cannot be in your presence and possessed of my wits at the same time. You’re like…a tune in my head I cannot rid myself of. A torrent, or a whirlwind, spinning me until I cannot see my way forward. I can’t have that now. I need to be objective. Unemotional.”
“Unemotional?” she echoed slowly.
“Especially when the stakes are so high. When I want—” He caught himself just in time.
To see that she’d stopped breathing, her stare rapt and absorbed.
He’d said too much.
“When you want what?” she whispered.
“I meant to say…when the outcome has such a monumental effect on the life and future of everyone.” He slid closer toward her and she moved her legs to give him room. Leaning forward, his hand drifted toward her until it fit over her abdomen. “Of the three of us.”
She covered his hand with her own, and Morley suddenly found himself a prisoner.
His shackles silk rather than steel.
Even through her nightgown and the bedclothes, he could fell that her firm stomach had a barely discernable curve to it.
They each let out an identical breath, wondering at the life beneath their hands.
“Somehow I’m going to prove to you that I’m innocent,” she declared with the resolution of a royal. “If I do that, would I be worthy of you then?”
Awash in a tide of foreign and frustrating sentimentality, Morley pulled away from her, unable to stand the intimacy and not take it further. “This isn’t about that.”
“It is to me.”
He threaded his fingers through his hair, yearning to believe her. If only so he wouldn’t have to face the dark part of him whispering that her innocence mattered not.
That he’d fall for her, regardless.
“Please, let’s not talk of this now. I’m too…where in God’s name is the doctor?”
“I assure you, I’m well. The table took the hardest tumble, I all but glided to the floor.”
He turned his back on her, going behind the screen to lift the table back to its position. The furniture was a heavy piece, the top pure marble.
Gads, what if she’d pulled it over on top of her?
Suddenly he was very aware how dangerous a home could be to a woman and child.
“You don’t have to stay, you know,” she said, arranging the covers in a prim display. “It’s dark. You may go about your…your work as the Knight of Shadows.”
He took the watch chain from his vest and checked it. “There’s no chance of me leaving tonight.”
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, there’s hardly a reason to fret,” she insisted.
“Oh? And from what distinguished institution did you get your medical degree, Doctor Morley?” He scowled at her. “I just found my wife crumpled on the floor; if that’s not a time to fret, I can think of none better. So you will submit to an examination or—”
“Or what?” she asked around a wry smile. “You’ll have me thrown in jail?”
That surprised a sharp snort of mirth from him. “Don’t tempt me.”
A red-faced Bart arrived with the doctor, a beakish gentleman with a gentle manner, interrupting further conversation between them.
Morley hovered as his wife was examined, palpated, and interrogated all in time for the doctor to declare that she and the child were likely in little to no danger of miscarriage. After advice was given and a draught administered, Morley left his wife’s side long enough to pay the man and walk him out.
He stopped to fortify himself with several scorching swallows of Ravencroft Scotch before returning to her room.
Only to find her sleeping peacefully.
Her dark hair flared on the pillow, shining like a phantom halo of ebony around her delicate features. Her hand was draped next to her cheek, relaxed into a little cup, as if he might give her something precious.
A stark pang of yearning pierced him as the smooth side of his bed beckoned to him. Here she was, a strange and seductive fantasy sleeping the sleep of the innocent.
And she was his.
A dark desire welled within him with such ferocity he shuddered with it. He wanted to own her. To claim her, body and soul. To plant himself inside of her and pleasure her until she was mindless, until she was boneless, replete with satisfaction.
He wanted to feed her from his hands. To nourish her and the life within. He wanted to buy her things to adorn her loveliness. Gems and ribbons, silk and precious metals. A storm of errant whims and desires swirled and eddied within him until he felt as though his flesh could no longer contain the strength of it.
He. Wanted. Her.
He wanted…everything.
“Don’t tempt me,” he whispered once more.
He’d meant it in jest before, but now it was a plea.
She was nothing but a temptation. One he couldn’t resist for much longer. One that could bring his entire world down upon him.
And still he’d use the last of his bloody, broken remains to shelter her.
Chapter 13
Less than a handful of days later, it’d taken Prudence and Mercy the better part of three hours to comb over their father’s study, library, and personal belongings before they had finally stumbled upon the documents she’d been searching for.
Mercy was the perfect partner to rely upon for this assignment. She was fleet-footed, quick-witted, and always up for an adventure. Or, as she’d dubbed their vocation, a caper, a word she’d claimed to have purloined from the detective novels she was almost never without.
“Do you really feel like this will help clear your name, Pru?” Mercy worried. “I don’t see what father’s business could possibly have had to do with Sutherland’s death.”
“Probably nothing,” Prudence agreed, carefully filing the papers away in a case. “But if I can provide my husband means with which to further his investigation into the illegal goods being smuggled into the city—to find the truth about father—I think it’ll go a long way to establish trust between us.”
Mercy sobered, a glimmer of doubt reaching through her eyes. “Pru…what if the truth is that our father is guilty? It would kill poor Mama. And…the rest of us would be ruined.”
Prudence had abandoned the briefcase to gather her sister close. “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,” she soothed. “Our father is many things, but he is a principled, law-abiding man. I’m hoping the truth clears the Goode name. And, in the unlikely event my husband somehow uncovers his guilt…”
Mercy stepped away, smoothing her smart plaid frock and adjusting her hair. “Like Detective Inspector Aloysius Frost says in his fourth novel, The Cheapside Strangler, ‘When the guilty escape justice, it is denied the innocent, as well.’” She wistfully locked the briefcase and handed it to her. “No matter how this plays out, Felicity and I will survive it. I mean…what’s the worst that could happen? We’re denied a season and end up as spinsters?” She shrugged. “Considering what you and Honoria are up against…I can’t say either of us are aching to be wed.”
Pru could have cried, but instead she kissed Mercy on the cheek and rushed to Number Four Whitehall Place.
She navigated the chaos of the infamous Scotland Yard with her briefcase clutched in hand, asking solicitous clerks, and a few gruff policemen, how to find the Chief Inspector’s office.
Several minutes and four stories later, she stood in the hall adjacent him, admiring her husband at work.
Prudence felt rather like an explorer on a safari, watching a magnificent beast in his native habitat.
Unlike the holding cells and general rank pandemonium of the first and second floors—or the secrets in the basement, one of which she had recently been—men of all sorts and sizes crammed around desks here on the fourth. They filled the room with the bustle of the more intricate and intellectual side of crime enforcement.
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