Page 50 of A Devil in Silk
He didn’t want time for himself.
He wanted a distraction, to feel the burn of Clara’s lips, to lose himself in her soft sighs. To laugh without caution. To cry without shame. To become the man he wished he could always be, if only for a few precious hours.
“Lord and Lady Berridge are joining us,” she quickly added. “And I’ve always wanted to visit the King’s Theatre.”
I would have taken you.
I would take you anywhere.
Bentley managed a polite smile. “I’m confident you’ll have a splendid evening.” He opened the door to the waiting carriage. “I’ll take you home. You’ll need time to dress, and Rothley is notoriously punctual.”
The ride to Bedford Square passed in silence, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the distant cries of street hawkers. Clara gazed out the window, her gloved fingers twisting in her lap. Bentley watched her reflection in the glass, torn between the urge to pull her close and knowing he should keep his distance.
When the carriage finally rolled to a stop, he cleared his throat. “I’ll call for you at eight-thirty tomorrow morning for our appointment with Daventry.”
Clara offered a grateful smile. “I’ll be waiting.” She hesitated. “And what will you do tonight? Have you made plans?”
“I’ll drink brandy and sit in a shadowed corner, flintlock in one hand, the dratted treasure trove in my lap.”
“Is there a way I might help? The responsibility is mine too.”
Stay with me.
The hours are never dull when we’re together.
Let me make love to you, Clara, every stroke slow and deep.
He gave a crooked smile. “Hearing Giuditta Pasta sing should top your list. Don’t worry about me. I once had to fight bare-knuckle in a dockside tavern when Rothley challenged half the room. I’ll survive one night with a box of secrets.”
“As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” He thought of her dressed for the opera, her luscious lips stretched into a radiant smile. What kind of man would he be to deny her that pleasure? “Enjoy your evening.”
He stepped to the pavement and helped her alight.
She didn’t release his hand right away. “Goodnight, Bentley.”
He swallowed hard. “Goodnight, Clara.”
As soon as Bentley saw his butler’s mouth twist into an apologetic line, he knew his evening was about to take a sudden turn for the worse.
Cook hadn’t burned the caramel custard. His valet hadn’t sliced his finger while sharpening the open razor. The maid hadn’t emptied the coal bucket onto the new Persian rug.
If only he were that lucky.
No, his mother was upstairs, visiting the old nursery.
“I told her ladyship you weren’t expected home for hours, my lord, but she insisted on staying for dinner.”
Bentley bit back a curse. “How long has she been here?”
Hockton winced. “Half an hour, my lord. She went straight to the nursery and hasn’t appeared since.”
Saints have mercy!
“Is she alone?”
Hockton paled, shifting like a schoolboy who’d lied to the headmaster. “Mrs Woodall is walking in the garden, admiring the roses with her daughter. Her ladyship asked to have three extra places set for dinner.”
