Page 45 of The Danger of Desire
He scowled.
Ridiculous. He wasn’t lonely. He could have a female companion any time he wanted.
So why the devil was he standing here, staring at a dark house in Bedford Square at four in the morning?
And why was the house dark, anyway? Were there no candles lit anywhere inside? If Delia had made it to her room—which surely she had by now—he doubted that she’d be moving about in the dark to prepare for bed.
Telling himself he just wanted to be certain she’d reached her room without being caught, he left the mews and circled around to the front of the house. Ah, on this side there was indeed a single candlelit room, up in the corner. It must be hers. And if shehadbeen caught sneaking in, there would be far more candles showing in windows, so she must have managed not to rouse anyone.
He could leave now. She was safe.
Yet still he stood watching the damned window. About now, she’d be peeling off that shirt and those ridiculous trousers. The ones he’d rubbed her through. The ones that had dampened beneath his caresses.
He groaned. She had grown wet for him. Because once he’d foolishly introduced Delia to the pleasures of the flesh, she’d fully embraced them. And that was his fault. He shouldn’t even have kissed her, much less sucked and fondled her.
Yet he would do it again if he had the chance. The feel of her beginning to come apart beneath his hand...
As his cock stiffened once more, he growled a curse. This was absurd. He should go to a brothel, take care of this pesky erection. Or go home, for God’s sake.
Instead, he used his key to the Bedford Square Gardens and slipped inside. He found the private spot where they’d kissed yesterday, where she’d first made him so aroused he could hardly hide it. Opening his trousers and drawers, he seized his cock and allowed his imagination free rein.
Delia had been bare beneath the shirt. Had she been bare beneath her trousers, too? She must have been, for him to have felt her dampness through the fabric as he caressed her. God, she’d been so wet and willing. How he wished he could have taken advantage of that.
Pumping his cock in his hand, he imagined her in her room. Was she naked now or had she already donned some fussy nightdress? Had she taken down her hair? He didn’t even know if it was naturally curly or forced into ringlets by a hot iron. But he could still imagine the black silk of it cascading over her shoulders, all the way down to that winsome bottom of hers that he would love to grab and squeeze—
He came with a vengeance, spurting into the bushes as he stifled his moans. Then he stood there shaking, his hand sticky and his skin clammy.
After a moment of savoring his release, he felt the reality of where he was and what he was doing creep over him. Good God. He rarely pleasured himself.There was no need, when he could find a willing wench at every turn.
And to have done it in a semi-public place like some drunken lout... clearly he’d lost his bloody mind. Thank God no one was about in Mayfair at this hour, even servants or tradesmen.
Using his handkerchief to clean off his hand, he restored his clothing to respectability, then left the garden and hurried away from Bedford Square. He still wasn’t sure where he was going, but he knew it had better be somewhere well away from Delia Trevor.
Because the more he delved into her secrets, the more fascinated he became, and that would not do. She was an innocent; he couldn’t have a torrid affair withher.
Nor was he looking for a wife—certainly not some chit who recklessly gambled in the hells dressed as a man. Who’d mysteriously taken on a mission involving a tattooed lord, of all things, and blithely refused to tell him why.
Who went after whatever she wanted with a single-minded purpose and a refusal to be cowed by the obstacles. Damned if he didn’t admire her for that.
But that didn’t change the fact that marrying her would mean the end of his life as it was now. It would mean settling down at Lindenwood Castle, where the nights were always long and filled with nightmares. He wasn’t going to let any woman see him like that. And she wouldn’t settle for a marriage spent in town so he could roam the stews until the wee hours of the morning. What woman would?
Not that he wanted to marry her. Good God. He merely lusted after her. No great surprise that he should desire her; he was a randy fellow. Though he’d never in his life stood outside some woman’s bedchamber boxing the Jesuit as a result of that desire.
Still, it was just an annoying attraction that had to be squelched. If he had any sense at all, he would cut all ties with her. He would stay away from Dickson’s and go back to his old habits. Hell, he shouldn’t even go to that damned house party of Clarissa’s. Clarissa wouldn’t think twice about it if he didn’t. He’d done what she’d asked of him. Mostly.
He sighed. The problem was that cutting ties with Delia wouldn’t change her behavior one whit. She would probably go to Dickson’s on her own tomorrow night and get into some trouble, without him or Owen to look after her. Then she would spend all her time at the house party trying to peek up men’s sleeves, looking for her quarry. Someone would take umbrage or misunderstand, and next thing she knew, she’d have some fellow trying to accost her in a secluded garden.
Some fellow like you.
“Shut up,” he told his conscience. It wasn’t the same.
He snorted. The hell it wasn’t.
Regardless, he couldn’t just let her go off alone to either place. If something were to happen to her, Clarissa would never forgive him.
He would never forgive himself.
Bloody hell.
