Page 32 of The Rake
“Let go.” He told her. Then he bent once more back to his task, kissing, nibbling, and stroking with his tongue until he felt Margot’s body start to shake and convulse around him.
She gasped out his name as her body peaked, and he watched in fascination as the colour rose in her chest and cheeks, lighting his Amazon in pinks and reds. It suited her a great deal, as if she had finally cast off some unknown burden.
Langley stayed where he was, enjoying as he always had the reaction of a woman on finding her completion. There was a satisfaction in knowing he had played a part in such an act. This was fun, enjoyable—perhaps too, a sense of finally having one over on Margot’s stiff-necked refusal. Well, it was petty on his part, but he could settle that at least in his favour.
But when Margot lowered her eyes to seek him out, her breathing eased and she seemed to come back to herself, Margotsaw him holding her steady against the wall. There came over her face the most tremendous of smiles, a grace that illuminated her as if by a light from within. She was both the wanton woman he had tasted until his tongue and face thought he might die from the pleasure of it, but she was also the lady he had traipsed through London with on a mission. She was as strong, clever, and resourceful as ever. Then there was added to this mix all the titbits she had dropped about her life and pastimes, the little giveaways Langley swore he hadn’t been listening to, but somehow had lodged in his mind: ones that indicated that she was a dear, sweet companion ready to risk all for the right cause. It had not occurred to Langley that this would happen when he saw her after such an act. Or rather, he had not realised how it would bring a sudden tear to his eye, and that urgent need reared its head again, and he knew he wanted to put as much space as possible between Margot and himself before those dangerous feelings came upon him again.
With as much speed as he could manage without, he hoped, too much rudeness, he lowered her to the floor, stood up, and set about righting her gown.
“Silvester,” she tried as he pushed the red material back down her legs. Somewhere nearby her mask must have been displaced or forgotten. He needed to find that before they left the passageway. “Silvester,” she said his Christian name again, but he would not let himself heed her. That urge to put space between the two of them was mounting, and remaining to talk, to dwell, or to pick through what had occurred was anathema to him. “Langley.” Margot’s voice was sharper, calling him back to himself, and he finally turned back to her, the false, charming smile he used with countless other women firmly in place.
“Yes, love?” Even to his own ears the endearment sounded false.
“I will take my mask.” The softness and the shining grace from Margot had vanished, and in their place was the familiar robustness they had gone about their mission with. It stung, although Langley reminded himself, surely it was preferable to confronting whatever he might be feeling. “We must resume our search.”
All thoughts of the blasted clock and key had honestly fled from Langley’s mind the minute he had touched her. Now the damned woman wanted them to continue through the brothel… well, he would have to honour that.
With a mock bow, he bent and scooped up the lantern. “Lead on, love.”
Margot turned on her heel and marched off, with Langley forced to follow in her wake, unable to resist watching the bob of her bottom in the faint shadows. The next gap in the panelling they found was thankfully unoccupied, and the one after that, the couple had clearly just finished. Neither room had the clock in it.
“Perhaps,” Langley said, desperately wishing they could leave, “I should return on my own.”
“No, I am here now. This is the final key I can find without the rest of the map; I want to have as many as I can before the new duke comes to Town.” Margot leant forward and took the lantern from him, making her way down the stairs. Following in her wake, Langley saw her glance briefly through one peep hole, colour, and then shake her head before turning and looking through the room opposite. At this point he caught a tiny smile before she looked back at him. She stepped away from the gap and then she spoke triumphantly. “It’s in there. On the mantelpiece. I recognise the markings.”
“How long do you reckon we might have to wait?” Langley tried to make his question sound humorous, but it brought no answering smile to Margot’s face.
“I don’t know, my lord. I would suggest you simply ask Madam Sandrine if we can buy the clock, and then we can leave this place once and for all.”
“Very well.” Langley strode away from the room and rapped against the panelling that was linked to the outer corridor. It swung open and he exchanged words with the servant. He watched the man’s eyes widen in surprise, but it was hardly the oddest request the servant would have heard that week, and after Langley had passed over a pound note, the man ushered them out of the passageway onto the main corridor, indicating where they should go. Minutes ticked by as they waited, and then the servant returned with the clock, which he passed over to the earl. In the candlelit hallway, Langley recognised it. They had completed their mission, he thought with a sinking heart. With that done, the two of them departed the brothel via the main staircase and made for his waiting coach outside.
“Will you break into it now?” Langley asked after a few uncomfortable moments of silence in the carriage.
“No,” Margot said. “I think from now on, I will speak to the Runners, and reveal all I know.”
“All in preparation for the new duke?” For some reason a note of annoyance edged its way into Langley’s voice, and he had a sneaking suspicion it was down to jealousy of the mysterious heir. Which was, of course, stupid, as Langley never got envious of any man.
“It is time the truth, or as much of the truth as can be known, be made public. Besides, Ashmore deserves his funeral.”
Whether this was true, and the danger was now removed from her situation, Langley had his doubts, but he knew by the decided set of Margot’s jawline that she had come to a decision. Perhaps tomorrow he might be able to convince her of the wisdom in waiting just a little longer, but right now he knew it was pointless. They lapsed into silence, and when they reachedBolton Street, the two of them hurriedly parted company, walking speedily up to their own front doors.
It was only then as he saw her pause as if to speak, that the noise of what was certainly his friends carousing inside his house could be heard out on the street, and it dawned on Langley then that this was the night he had suggested to Fleming for an orgy. It had entirely slipped Langley’s mind.
Margot pivoted where she stood, hesitating on the doorstep, her eyes searching his face for the truth. To Langley’s disappointment, she read him all too clearly. He had always been good at cards, but to her, his face revealed too much. “A late-night treat for a returning lord?” she asked with disdain dripping from every word as her hand fumbled to both manage the clock she held and to push open the front door.
To Langley’s annoyance, the door to Margot’s abode swung open and she disappeared inside before he could think of a suitable reply.
Served her right, Langley thought, if he were to go and indulge himself. She may have found her own climax, but he certainly hadn’t. His visible desire for her may have waned, but he was still frustrated. The doorway to his own townhouse opened, but rather than beat his way into the salon which was undoubtedly filled with his friends, willing bodies, and happy laughs, instead he turned and went straight up to his own bedchamber, stopping only to pour himself a large glass of brandy before falling into his own empty bed, all too angry and confused to do anything else.
CHAPTER 15
Margot made it into her bedroom and considered throwing the clock against the wall in the anger that engulfed her. On the way up the stairs towards her room, she could hear some of the raucous laughter from the neighbouring party. Yet more of Langley’s sexual extravagances on display. Inescapable, it seemed.
Silvester had consumed her, literally and metaphorically, and now the memory of him was wedged in her chest. It wouldn’t matter if she put half a country between them, or a dozen years, she doubted she would forget the sensation he had created with the touch of his tongue and hands. That realisation stung; he had shown her such unexpected but intense pleasure, only to abandon her as she came back to herself. She had even lost one of her fine silk stockings, abandoned on the floor along with her respectability.
“You know it’s the nature of a rake,” she said it aloud into the darkened bedroom. Mrs. Bowley had warned her. Her mother had. In the few trips she had had to Vicar Keating’s mother in Edinburgh, there even Grandmother Keating had told both Elsie and her the same thing: rakes didn’t care about their conquests.They didn’t have hearts to lose, and hoping for faithfulness was like wishing for the moon.
Casting the red gown from her and throwing herself into the lonely bed, Margot thought she was no better than her mother—eager, willing, and begging for the touch of a noble. A lord who it seemed had no consideration for her.
