She turned on him, and he saw the rage in her face. “Before? Before what? Before you stumbled onto the balcony that night? Before you urged me to dance? Before you kissed me? Before you sent a carriage to fetch me to your country house? Because, as I recall it, there were two of us on the floor of your study, Duke. Not just Delilah, with her wicked blade.”
His anger rose, too, along with guilt and frustration and—goddammit—desire. And he approached her, pulling her close. “You were Delilah,” he growled. “Delilah and Salome and Diana . . . goddess of the damn hunt.” He paused. “And I the blind, fat bull.”
“What nonsense,” she spat back, meeting him without fear. “You think I do not remember? How you opened my gown? How you lifted my skirts? Who begged then, Duke?” She laughed, the sound a wicked sting. “I wish I could take it all back. What a mistake I made.”
He pulled her close, and she bent backward, over his arm, his lips lingering at her skin, loving the warmth and the scent and the feel of her even as he hated himself for being drawn to her. For wanting her so desperately. For being unable to give her up. Even as he hated her for wanting to go. “You say you made a mistake.”
The words were air at her throat, and he imagined he could see the proud pounding of her pulse beneath them. “The worst of them.”
“Tell me precisely what it was. Was it the trap that was your mistake? Or the fact you were caught setting it? Would you do it again if you could be certain I’d never know what you’d planned? How you orchestrated it? How you lured me in?”
Her gaze flew to his and he saw the pain in her eyes the instant before she confessed. “Of course I would.”
For the rest of his life, he would wonder why he kissed her then, crushing her mouth beneath his until they were both gasping for breath. Until her arms were wrapped around his neck and she was matching every touch, every groan, every caress. And he would wonder why she kissed him back instead of pushing him away and leaving him forever. Perhaps it was because in passion, they saw the truth—that they were perfectly matched in strength and power and desire. Perhaps it was because, in those moments, there was a tiny thread of hope that they might find each other again, when their anger had passed and there was space for something else.
Or perhaps it was because he loved her, and she loved him in return.
Chapter 16
Lawn Bowls? Or Courtship Goals?
“Come along, Emily, toss the kitty!”
“Oi! Don’t rush her! You take your time, Lady E. Get it just right.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s lawn bowling, not surgery, Em.”
“All right!” Lady Emily found her voice, and Sera could not help but smile. “I’m throwing it.”
“Tossing it,” Seline corrected, quickly adding when the entire assembly looked to her, “What? That’s what it’s called.” She added under her breath, “It’s not my fault I’m married to a sportsman.”
Sera resisted the inclination to suggest that lawn bowls were not precisely sport, and most definitely not when played by eight women in the gardens of an Essex manor house.
A cheer went up when Emily tossed the small ball the ten yards or so necessary to start the next round of bowls, punctuated by a cacophony of barking from the Marchioness of Bumble’s dachshunds and Sesily’s “Cor! That’s a good arm, Emily!”
Lady Emily blushed prettily and dipped her head, uncomfortable with the praise. “Thank you,” she said softly. “It is a good throw, rather, isn’t it?”
“No one likes a lady with confidence, Emily,” her mother called out from where the older women were assembled beneath several large shades nearby, fanning themselves and watching the game with frustrating focus. “You shall never win the duke’s attentions if he thinks you prideful.”
Emily’s face fell. “Yes, Mother.”
“If we ever see the duke, you mean,” Mrs. Mayhew said before barking, “Shoulders back, Mary. He could arrive at any time.”
Sera did not think Malcolm would come anywhere near lawn bowls, but she avoided saying so, turning her back to the mothers with a bright smile for Lady Emily. “I thought it was a terrific throw.”
“Toss,” Seline said again, following the groans that ensued with, “I agree. Also, don’t ever listen to your mother, Emily. Decent men like a woman who knows her value.” She paused, then said, “Though I’ll grant that we’ve seen no evidence that Haven is a decent man.”
Sera sighed. “He’s a decent man.”
“I should demand proof of it before I agree to marry him, girls,” Sophie said from her place near a stack of blue bowls.
Her sisters were dangerous, indeed. If they did not stop with their snide comments, Haven might well be without a betrothed in the end, which would render this entire exercise moot and leave Sera without a divorce.
She would be damned if she was spending weeks at Highley, with its memories around every corner, for a moot exercise. “He is a decent man,” she said, sending warning glares at her sisters. “You shall just have to take my word for it.”
“Not to be contrary, my lady,” Lady Lilith piped in, “but did you not leave him?”
“Lilith!” Countess Shropshire barked. “That’s quite enough.”
“You’re the one who said I should do my best to understand the man,” Lilith pointed out.
“Not like this!” her mother protested. “Be more subtle!”
Lilith grinned in Sera’s direction. “Subtlety has never been my strong suit.”
“Not to worry, Lady Lilith, Duchess isn’t very subtle herself.” Caleb had arrived, looking freshly rested and freshly washed. He raised a brow in Sera’s direction. “After all, she nearly brought down Parliament several weeks ago.”
Sera cut him a look and did her best to change the subject. “Mr. Calhoun! How kind of you to join us. I do know how you enjoy outdoor games.”
“I prefer things where there’s a bit more of a threat of danger.”
“You haven’t played lawn bowls with the Soiled S’s,” Sophie said cheerfully.
“Fair enough.” He looked to the field. “An excellent toss.” He winked at Lady Emily, who immediately blushed.
“Emily!” Countess Brunswick barked again, and her red-faced daughter moved to join her team.
“Stop it,” Sera said, approaching her friend. “You’ll chase them all away.”
Caleb’s masculine pride was palpable. “If you think that girl wants to run from me, you’re losing your understanding of young women in your old age.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I’m barely nine and twenty.”
“Practically one foot in the grave,” he replied.
She huffed her irritation. “How is my tavern?”
He raised a brow. “My tavern is fine. Repaired. The entertainment is passable.” He’d been heading to London nightly to oversee the business of the pub, to ensure the entertainers were safe and the liquor well stocked.
She nodded. “But?”
He tilted his head. “But without the Sparrow, it’s a watering hole.”
A pang of regret threaded through her. She missed the place, the smell of freshly worked wood and liquor, the smoke of the candles and tobacco, and the sound of the music—the best in London, she was certain.
But mostly, she missed herself there. The way she lost herself to the music and became herself. The Sparrow. Free.
“How’s your divorce?”
“If he’d spend time with the girls, it would help.”