Page 71 of A Devil in Silk
“You’ll be the death of me, woman,” he growled.
“I’m not sure I’ll survive this either.”
Her heart would never recover. She would live to remember this. Remember him.
“Oh, Bentley.”
But this wasn’t lust. Lust was fleeting, temporary, shallow. And she wanted to hold on to him forever. It wasn’t love in its noblest form, where people made great sacrifices. She didn’t have the strength to walk away.
But if love was messy … If it was a tangle of fear and longing, of selfishness and surrender, then she was in love.
He jerked his hips, reminding her how hard he was, how far he was willing to go. No matter the risk, he couldn’t stop either.
And he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop kissing her or drawing his hard manhood over her aching bud. He kept the momentum, the teasing friction until she shattered with a gasp, her body shuddering against his.
“Sweet mercy,” he cried, his breath ragged, his hips jerking as his release followed.
She felt the damp heat of it on her thigh, the tremble in his limbs as he locked his arms around her like he might never let go.
Then he looked at her, the virile lover giving way to the uncertain man, and she saw her own fears reflected there.
What did the future look like? Neither of them knew.
Their breath mingled in the narrow space between their mouths. The fire ebbed, but the glow remained.
The need to speak honestly, to define what their lovemaking meant, had her cupping his cheek. “Whatever happens to us, Bentley, I want you to know this was perfect.”
Chapter Fifteen
Life was simple if one walked with their eyes open and reason engaged. All the mental to-ing and fro-ing was unnecessary if a man cast aside his doubts and accepted the hard truth.
He was in love with Clara Dalton.
The signs had always been there, clear milestones he had ridden past without a second glance. The first sleepless night at her family home, when all he could think about was her unpinning her raven hair, jealous of the nightgown that brushed her bare skin.
“I’ll teach you to play piquet, Miss Dalton.”
The spark of excitement in her eyes was like an elixir for his tortured soul. She’d laughed and sulked, batted his hand and accused him of cheating, while he sat wishing he could bottle the warmth she stirred inside him and keep it for an eternity.
And so it went on for nearly four years. Charades at Christmas. A stolen visit to the music room to play a bawdy tune on the pianoforte. Partners in a treasure hunt, though he had already found the prize. When Clara Dalton smiled, he no longer felt dead inside.
If only her father had felt the same. Bentley rarely visited when the ill-tempered Gerald Dalton was at home. Now he wished he had, for he might have prevented the tragedy that followed.
She was sent away to recover from theaccident, a quiet exile no one mentioned. Details were vague. Her brother drank and brawled as though possessed by the devil, and two years passed before Bentley saw her again.
A sudden burst of applause snapped Bentley back to the present, from the memory of first seeing Clara’s blind eye. It had taken every effort not to fall to his knees. Not for the scar, but for the light that died inside her, the brilliance that dimmed.
In the music room of The Burnished Jade, Miss Pennywell curtsied to the crowd and stepped down from the makeshift stage.
Rothley nudged him from the adjacent seat as Miss Woolf was called to perform in The Jade’s weekly programme. “Here she is. The highlight of the evening. I’m curious to hear what the lady has planned for tonight.”
“Why don’t you ask her to ride out with you? Then you may question her to your heart’s content.” Bentley thought of the years he’d spent blind to his growing feelings and did not wish the same sad fate for his friend. “There’s clearly something about her you find intriguing.” And Rothley rarely looked at a woman twice.
“Yes, she’s a damn enigma. I haven’t the faintest notion what she’s thinking or feeling. Usually I can see the game and know the rules. With her, I haven’t even found the board.” He gave a nonchalant wave. “Once I uncover her secret, I daresay any attraction will fade.”
Miss Woolf stepped onto the small platform without fanfare, her copper-red curls pinned with pearls, her figure swathed indark green silk. She gave no curtsy. No coy smile. Just a faint nod to the room as she addressed the crowd.
“This is a short, untitled piece written by a … friend.”
