Page 18 of The Lady Confesses
“Let me go,” she said.
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “That’s a hell of a thing to hurl at me and then just expect me to take in stride.”
She knew that. It had certainly been a great deal for her to come to terms with, as well. And it wasn’t as if she’d been keeping that secret for months. It had only been two weeks since the reality of it had sunk in for her. But she didn’t want to empathize with him, she didn’t want to think of his feelings. There was a little part of her, a petty and vindictive one, that still held a grudge over the way he’d treated her that morning—as if he couldn’t be rid of her quickly enough.
Somehow, she managed to turn around in that small space he’d left for her without actually pressing her body against him. “I don’t have the luxury of breaking it to you gently,” she countered. “There is too much at stake.”
“I know. I know there is. And I’ll handle it. All of it. And once it’s done, then we’ll come back to this conversation,” he warned.
“What conversation? I’m a widow, Joss. No one will bat an eye at my having a child only months after my husband’s demise. In fact, it will likely only garner sympathy for me. You truly need not do anything.” It was the perfect solution. Well, it was for everyone except Arthur’s legitimate heir, but the feelings ofSimon—who, at best, was a wretched little man and at worst was a cold-blooded murderer. His feelings could hardly be counted.
Joss leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath warm against her ear, close enough that she could smell him—wood smoke, a touch of whiskey, and the clean, masculine scent that made her ache to press her face into the hollow of his neck and let that scent consume her.
“Not another fucking word about what I have to do.” He bit out the words. They were low and quiet, but no less fearsome. “You don’t dictate that to me, Henrietta Dagliesh. I’ll make my own decisions. I’ve been doing so for quite some time... and bearing the consequences of them.”
Hettie shivered. His nearness, the sheer size of him—it should have been intimidating. She should have been frightened. But she wasn’t. All she could think of was how good it felt to be in his arms again, or to at least be surrounded by his arms, even if the goal was restraint rather than passion. The temptation to lean into him, to sink against the hardness of his chest and feel his strength seeping into her was overwhelming.
As if he’d read her mind, his hand slipped from the door and his arm curved around her. He tugged her against him and just held her there. And she let him. For just a moment, she savored the sensation and took the warmth and comfort that he offered her.
Chapter Fifteen
She’d haunted himsince that night. Constantly in his thoughts while awake, the memory of her also invaded his dreams whenever he could manage to sleep. There was no peace. No respite from the feelings she’d stirred in him. One night. A span of mere hours, and she had altered him irrevocably. Of course, when those hours were fraught with danger and the risk of discovery and death at every turn, was it any wonder?
In times such as those, one learned things about a person that went far deeper than simply their favorite color or favorite tune. One learned what that person was truly made of, both their character and their heart. And if there was anything he had discovered about her that night, Hettie was a woman of remarkable fortitude and bravery. And if ever a woman was capable of taking on the challenge of raising a child entirely by herself, it was her. But then, she should not have to. And he would not let her. Whatever came, she would not face it alone, because a child changed everything.His child changed everything.He’d not abandon his own flesh and blood as his own father had done. Thoughts of being good enough, or fearing that he was too far beneath her, suddenly seemed insignificant in light of everything else.
He longed to tell her those things, to justify what she perceived as his rejection of her. But the temptation of her was too much to resist. He tightened his arms about her, pullingher close even as he took another step forward until her back pressed against the door. There was no token protest. Before he’d even dipped his head to claim her lips, she was rising up on her toes, her mouth seeking his.
Like that first time, the heat was instantaneous. It flared like a match to dry kindling. He cupped her chin, tipping her face up to his to deepen the kiss. The silken strands of her chestnut hair peeking from beneath her bonnet beckoned to him. Loosing the ribbon, the elaborate piece of millinery fell to the dusty floor, where it was promptly forgotten. Hair pins scattered as he slipped his hands into the thick tresses, twining them about his fingers.
It escalated too quickly. She pressed herself against him, her breasts crushed against his chest and the softness of her body cradling the hardness of his own. Nothing had felt right. Not since that night. Every day, he’d been fighting temptation, fighting the urge to go to her. And if the way she kissed him back was any indication, he wasn’t alone in that. It was a clash of lips, teeth, and tongues—there was nothing gentle in it, nothing fine or tender. It was just hunger. Hunger and the desperation that existed inside them both, no matter how much they might wish otherwise.
Abruptly, she turned her face from his, breaking the kiss. The sound of their ragged breathing filled the room. “I didn’t come here for this,” she whispered.
“I know that. But neither of us, try as we might, can deny it.”
Her gaze lifted, her eyes flashing with accusation. “You did. You couldn’t be rid of me quickly enough!”
She was hurt—wounded by his cold dismissal of her. And she had every right to be. He had rejected her, though likely not for the reasons she might have imagined. “It isn’t what you think... I wanted to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From yourself, from me, from squandering the only chance you had to be free of your husband—or so I thought. I knew that we could not continue after our one night together in the Mint. Because our worlds, the lives we live, are too far removed from one another. That became even more apparent when Vincent informed me of your plans to seek an annulment.”
But an annulment was no longer necessary. And most of the reasons that he had to avoid her, namely the difficulty it would create in both their lives, had largely been eliminated by her husband’s murder. Not all of them, but certainly what had seemed the insurmountable one. That wasn’t a fact they could afford to bandy about. Nor was it one that would lend credence at all to her innocence, or to his own, for that matter. There would be ramifications if she chose to be with him. Her place in society would be forfeit. Her late husband’s fortune, assuming he still had one, might be forfeit, as well.
She stared up at him, her expression guarded save for the fire of righteous indignation which burned in her eyes. “I’ve had enough of men deciding what is best for me in my life. Not a one of them has ever gotten it quite right. I’ll thank you to let me make my own decisions from now on. You will send word when you’ve found something?”
He nodded. And that was all she required. She stooped to retrieve her bonnet, ignoring the scattered hairpins altogether, and then swept from his small office with the regality of a queen.
Alone once more, Joss turned to move back to his desk. But the glint of metal on the floor made him pause. Leaning down to pick it up, he realized it was one of her discarded hair pins. There were several others, as well. Once he’d gathered them, he moved to put them in the desk drawer to return them to her later. All but one. That one, he stuffed back into the pocket of his waistcoat, like some sort of talisman. He’d hold onto it for luck. He was surely going to need it.
*
Maurice Bates lookedat the report from the coroner’s inquest and cursed softly. There was nothing of note in it, nothing that would be useful to him in making a case against Lady Ernsdale. Getting a woman convicted of murder—no, getting aladyconvicted of murder, was no easy task. Fairer sex. Weaker sex. You’d never prove it by him. And Henrietta Dagliesh, Lady Ernsdale, was just the sort he despised. All pious and upright and judgmental. She doled out her charity to the poor unfortunates all while thinking herself far above them.
Had she killed Ernsdale? The coroner’s report indicated only that the man had been stabbed, the blade going all the way through. It had punctured his lung, nicked a vein that bled like the very devil. With his dying breath, the man had fallen into the street, likely begging silently for help, only to be run over by a heavy carriage and after having been trampled by the horses which pulled it. As murders went, it wasn’t the sort most people would lay at the feet of a gently bred lady. Poison, certainly. A pistol, in rare cases. But to get close enough to a man of superior strength and stab him through and through? It was messy. It was risky. It was premeditated. And he’d have a devil of a time proving it.
The truth was, he didn’t truly care one way or another if she was guilty. He only needed a conviction. Making an example of her, getting her arrested, tried, and even potentially executed, would make his career. Scandalous, salacious cases were the making of many a man who worked for the Runners. They paved the way to positions in politics and to opportunities to amass the kind of fortune a man like him would never see otherwise. His position with the Runners was a stepping stone and nothing more. Maurice was a man of many ambitions.
