It was clearly her choice.
His hands rested gently on her arms. Those hands had once caressed her bare skin. She craved the joy and terror of his body joined to hers. Her feet arched and raised her higher. He uttered a guttural sound and closed the gap between them, his mouth plundering as if he were a man starved. Her own hunger surged as she pressed herself against him and wound her arms around his neck. His lips travelled to her neck, sending sensations straight to her soul.
She wanted him again with all the wantonness of her wretched body. The body that had betrayed her and led to her deserved ruin. She had learned to erase all thought and all feeling in order to play the role Farley bid her play, but Devlin made her tremble with longing. He tore away the safety of her detachment.
She struggled to speak. ‘Do you want me, Devlin?’ Her voice sounded more controlled than she felt. ‘Do you wish to bed me?’
He stilled. Straightening, his eyes narrowed. Her knees began to shake as his silence grew longer.
Finally, he spoke, his tone cold. ‘Am I able to afford you, Miss M?’
He turned and hurried down the stairs and out the front door.
At the town house in Grosvenor Square, the Marquess of Heronvale pushed food around his plate. The cavernous dining room echoed with the clink of his silver fork against the china.
He glanced at his wife. She looked absorbed in her own thoughts, the corners of her eyes pinched with unhappiness. A ball of misery sat in his stomach where food should have been.
He had disappointed her once again, more inventively this time. Indeed, rolling on the floor, trading punches with his youngest brother could hardly have lowered him further in her estimation. Especially since he had lost the fight.
Humiliating.
She had probably championed Devlin, in any event. He could not blame her. She was at ease with his brother in a way she was not with him. There was so little emotion between Serena and himself he would have been surprised if she had taken his side. Serena undoubtedly would think him too severe with Devlin, that a marquess should wield his power with more compassion.
But Devlin had infuriated him with those comments about his wife. Success with women came as easy to Devlin as riding, shooting, gaming. His youngest brother did everything without effort, as well as without thought, while he, the bearer of the title, had laboured for every accomplishment.
How well he remembered Devlin’s birth. He had been home on school holiday, old enough at ten years to take charge of Percy, Helen, Julia, and Lavinia during his mother’s confinement. He smiled inwardly at his less-than-learned explanation to his sisters and brother of exactly what would transpire during the birth. From the moment he’d held the newborn baby in his arms, Ned had been full of pride in this littlest brother. He made a solemn oath, that day, to always protect and defend him.
Devlin had made keeping that vow a challenge. A more reckless individual had never been born. It had been no surprise to Ned that Devlin joined the cavalry. Had Ned not been heir, he might have served his country as well, fighting at his brother’s side, but all he could do was bring a near-dying Devlin back home.
‘Ned? Is something troubling you?’ Serena’s sweet voice broke through his reverie.
‘What?’
‘I thought you might be troubled.’ She averted her eyes.
‘No, I am not.’ She would think him weak, for certain, if she knew his thoughts.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she murmured.
He wished more to beg pardon of her, for his abominable behaviour, but did not know quite how. It seemed to him the silence between them was a condemnation.
‘You disapprove of my dealings with my brother,’ he blurted out.
Her eyebrows flew up in surprise. ‘I would not question your judgement.’
‘You think me too harsh.’
‘I would not presume…’
He dismissed her words with a shake of his head. With trembling fingers, she picked daintily at her food.
After eight years of marriage, his wife remained a stunningly beautiful woman, her restraint the epitome of what became a lady. He could not complain. She was biddable, even when he pressed his carnal urges upon her, something he did as rarely as he could tolerate. The marital act was too painful for her sensibilities, but she craved children and he wished to give them to her.
Another failure on his part.
Ned drained the wine from his glass for the third time. ‘Do you go out tonight, Serena?’
She jumped at the sound of his voice and barely glanced at him. ‘No.’
It was his turn to be surprised. She had lately developed the habit of accompanying friends to the evening entertainments, the ones from which he begged off with increasing frequency.
She pressed her fingertips against her temple. ‘I shall retire early. I…I have the headache.’
He had made her ill. He poured another glass of wine, wanting to express his concern, to offer to get her headache powders, to escort her up to her room and help her into bed.
He did none of those things.
‘If you will excuse me…’ She rose and, without waiting for a reply and probably not expecting one, left him alone in the room.
A footman entered and moved quickly to clear the table. Ned gestured for him to take away the plate from which he had barely eaten. When the man set the brandy in front of him, Ned began to see how much of that bottle he could finish.
D evlin picked a secluded chair at White’s far from the bow window. He intended to sip his brandy in peace, away from the curious passers-by in the street. He wished to steel himself before circulating among the gentlemen of the ton in another attempt to procure employment. But what reason was there to expect this afternoon to differ from the last two weeks? He had made inquiries with the few of his senior officers still alive and exploited every imaginable family connection.
He might as well have bivouacked in a field. In fact, he would have preferred it, sharing cold, damp nights and bawdy soldier’s tales with men who knew life could end with a musket ball the next day.
‘May I join you?’
Devlin glanced up. The elegant figure of the Marquess stood before him. He shrugged his assent.
His brother signalled for a drink and settled in the comfortable chair across from him. ‘How do you go on, Devlin?’
How did Ned think he went on? He and Bart had counted every coin that morning. They had a few days’ escape from the River Tick, no more.
‘Tolerably well,’ he said.
Ned regarded him with a bland expression. What lay beyond that inscrutable countenance was a mystery.
