Helena’s pulse accelerated. She’d read some erotica here and there. Always the stories seemed to be aimed at titillating male readers, with the female characters completely interchangeable, mere objects to be spanked and poked.
But this was different. The nameless bride of Larkspear was a person in her own right, neither afraid nor given to senseless worship of a man’s cock.
“If only I could be sure that a few scratches will satisfy you.”
I bend my head and bite her lip. Her breaths caress my chin. Her gaze slides down my body. “Ready again, I see.”
“Ravenous.”
“Such interesting nights you give me, Larkspear.”
“Do you think of me during the day, Lady Larkspear?”
She smiles. “Never, my dear.”
“Liar.”
“Prove it.”
I thrust deep inside her. Her lips part. Her eyes close briefly, but the next moment they are wide open again. She likes to look at me in my animal rut, to witness my weakness for her and taunt me with the unattainability of her heart.
Helena turned the manuscript facedown. It made her uncomfortable, as if he’d pulled a fantasy out of the deepest recesses of her mind, a fantasy she never knew about until he’d set it down in writing. A fantasy about power, her power, and a man who pushed back without being fearful of it.
A knock came at her door. She hastily locked the manuscript away. “Come in.”
Susie poked in her head. “Miss, the ball is tonight. Lady Fitzhugh asked me to remind you to leave earlier than usual.”
Of course, the ball in honor of Venetia and the duke—with Hastings certain to be there.
“Yes, I will leave earlier,” she said. “Or Lady Fitzhugh will fret.”
The train bellowed. The platform fogged with steam from the engines. A fading swirl of it passed between Fitz and Isabelle.
Her children were already aboard with their governess. Through the windows they waved at him, excited at the prospect of visiting their cousins. He waved back.
“They like you,” she said.
“I like them. They are good children.” He changed his walking stick—the one with the blue porcelain handle—from one hand to the other. She’d admired it earlier; he did not tell her it had been a present from Millie. “You should probably board. Your train will leave any minute now.”
“I’m loath to leave you,” she said. “I wish I hadn’t agreed to this visit.”
“You will enjoy it—you haven’t seen your sister in years. Besides, you’ll only be gone a week.”
“A week is a long time. Everything can change.”
Any other day he’d have scoffed at her fear. But tonight something would change.
On the face of it, a roll in the hay ought not to matter. He’d sauntered through quite a few beds in his time. Sometimes he grew more fond of a woman, sometimes less. But the change was predicated upon their personal qualities, not because he slept with them.
He already respected and admired Millie. He’d like her even more tomorrow morning, but the fundamental nature of their firmly established friendship should remain the same.
More or less.
“A week is only seven days,” he said.
He noticed he did not reassure Isabelle that nothing would change. Her lips tightened: She’d noticed, too.
The steam whistle blew, a sharp-pitched warning, followed by a deep rumble that rattled the tracks.
“Hurry,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her on her cheek. “Or your children will be in Aberdeen without you.”
She gripped his hand. “Think of me.”
“I will.”
She turned toward the train, then turned back again. “You once told me that no matter what happened, you’d always, always love me. Is that still the case?”
“Of course,” he said, perhaps a little too fast.
“I’ll hold on to that, then.”
“I’ll be here waiting, when you come back.”
She threw her arms about him. “I love you. I will love you till my last breath.”
CHAPTER 11
The Bench
1890
Millie knocked on the door of her husband’s study and pushed it open. “You wish to see me, sir?”
“Yes. Come in, please.”
She took her usual chair across the table from his, but he was not in his chair. Instead, he was before the mantel, a poker in hand, prodding at the coals in the grate. Something in the set of his jaw alarmed her.
“What’s the matter?”
He shrugged.
“Tell me.”
He dropped the poker into its holder. “I opened a letter from Gerry Pelham just now. He informs me he has become the proud uncle of a baby niece.”
Gerry Pelham, Isabelle Pelham’s brother. It had been little more than a year since Miss Pelham became Mrs. Englewood—and now she had a child. A familiar pain gnawed at Millie’s chest—Fitz had been once again reminded of what he’d lost.
He sat down in his chair. “I’m sorry. I was surprised by the news, that’s all.”
Ambushed by the news, more like it. “Would you prefer that I came another time?”
“No, I’m glad you are here. Help me take my mind off it.”