Page 111 of A Devil in Silk
“We’ll have to invent ways to spend time alone.” Her hand crept from his shoulder to his nape, her fingers stirring the hair in maddening circles. “We could start a new list. One more daring than the last.”
The thought fed his hunger for her, yet he would not skulk about the park at midnight. Besides, only a wedding would satisfy him and appease her brother.
“What would be on this new list?” He wanted to know her thoughts before he continued. Would they ever be anything more than lovers?
Her wicked smile made him hard in an instant. “I thought we could make love on the desk in your study. And in the garden at night, when the roses gracing your arbour are in full bloom.”
“Anywhere else?” He sensed this was leading somewhere. Her illicit confessions left him so aroused, they’d end up making love in the hackney.
Her tongue grazed her top lip. “So many places. Your dining table, surrounded by glowing lanterns. That plush Persian rugbefore the fireplace. I could ride you hard there. And that grand poster bed where you had me the first time.”
He coughed at her boldness. Did she want his heart to give out? “Anywhere that isn’t my home in Bruton Street?”
“Well, there’s your country seat in Kent, though I’ve never visited. Ask me again once we’re married. I shall make a new list then.”
He jolted, unsure he had heard correctly. “Married?”
“How else are we to indulge our desires? You are the love of my life.” She stopped dancing, cupped his cheek and whispered, “Marry me, Bentley. I can’t promise I won’t test your patience, but I promise life will never be dull.”
He stood very still, the music and dancers fading until there was only her, waiting for his answer.
“You do love me?” she asked, a hint of worry in her voice.
“To the depths of my soul.”
“Then why do you look so shocked?”
His chest tightened with all he had never dared hope for. His mouth found hers, the kiss unhurried, tender as a vow. “I’m not shocked,” he murmured, his fingers gripping the curve of her waist, never wanting to let go. “I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”
George Street, Mayfair
The Dowager Viscountess of Rutland’s Residence
“I’m glad your mother had a change of heart.” Rothley sipped his wine, nodding towards the dowager viscountess, who stood with Clara, introducing her to friends. “And I see no sign of Mrs Woodall.”
“She’s the last person I’d invite to my wedding.” Bentley gazed at his wife, radiant as she charmed the company, his heart tightening with pride. Clara had forgiven where others would condemn, and she had embraced his mother with the same generosity of spirit.
“You read the new article inThe Satirist?” Rothley said. “They weren’t shy about naming the gang of conspirators who set fire to the factory in Smithfield.”
Sarah Woodall had been among those named. The violence, coupled with a vicious attack on Lord Henshaw by the same group, had ruined the family name.
“Yes. It proved the curse was nonsense. Mrs Woodall has had her share of misfortune, too.” His mother had apologised to Clara, admitting anyone could see they were in love. The past, she said, had been a shackle around her neck, clouding her judgement for decades.
“How readily people clutch at curses when the truth doesn’t suit them,” Rothley said, raising his glass in salute. “Miss Nightshade was wrong about you being miserable. I’ve never seen you look so happy.”
“There’s hope for us all,” Bentley said, clinking glasses with his friend. “I noticed Miss Woolf is wearing something other than grey. Blue is rather becoming.”
Rothley cast her a brief glance before looking away. “Yes … like a blue flower blooming in a graveyard. Hope where one doesn’t expect to find it.”
“She’s in your thoughts a lot lately.”
“No doubt it will pass. I’m joining the Chance brothers for a night of gaming at their club. Beating them offers the perfect distraction.”
Bentley wished his friend had more faith. Not all women were deceitful and disloyal. But his thoughts soon turned to the secret outing Clara had planned for them. He glanced atthe mantel clock. Two more hours, and they could make their excuses and depart.
“Mercer has closed the case,” Bentley said, changing the subject. “Mrs Morven’s brother did die on the steamer to America. And items found at her house confirmed she was the sister who fled Cheltenham all those years ago.”
“What about Silas Scarth?”
