Chapter 26
Blackthorn was drunk. Damn bloody drunk.
And he didn’t wish to go home. The one drink at the tavern turn into two, then five until he lost count.
Now, he wanted Amelia. He wanted to see her.
Here and there, images of her materialized, causing him to stop what he was doing. Or he imagined talking with her about his day. No doubt she’d argue with him. Now and again, the idea of having a real family pulled at his heart. But then there was something else, something that troubled him deeply today. Normally on this day, he drowned in his grief alone. Even his mother had locked herself up in her room and he’d left instructions for her personal maid to stay close by.
Strange that he’d think of Amelia on this day of grief. After all, today was Max’s birthday. He would have been three and thirty today.
Before Max’s death, Blackthorn had planned to live the rest of his life abroad. But with Max gone, his plan to remain abroad had been indefinitely cancelled, and he’d found himself in London running a household with a title that wasn’t supposed to be his.
All this should have been Max’s. Rightly so; his brother had deserved peace and some happiness. But instead, his brother was dead and Blackthorn was here. Never once had he had the desire to remain in London, for anyone or anything.
But now, all that had changed.
He had never known how it felt to have a real family. His father had been too busy with his elder brother. His mother hadn’t liked the distractions of London and preferred the quiet in Bath. At most, he had only seen his family once a year. The rest of the year he spent traveling or at Eton. Now, Amelia was stirring feelings in him he hadn’t known he was capable of.
He wasn’t sure why he had returned to stand in front of her stylish Mayfair townhouse, rain pelting down on his cool face, like a common thief watching his victim. He could easily slip into the house. God knew he’d done that enough times to do it blindfolded.
He’d count to ten and if the candlelight still burned, he’d slip inside.
One. Two. Three. Four.
His heart pounded against this chest, breathing life into his body.
Five. Six. Seven.
Just then, she walked up to the window and pulled the curtains aside. Looking up at Amelia, he quietly counted.
Eight. Nine.
Her gaze lowered and she saw him.
She didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Then she slipped away. A minute later, she opened the front door and pulled him inside in an instant.
Holding his hand, she led him up the stairs, looking to see if Mrs. Pots was lurking about. Once up the stairs, she rushed him into her room and clicked the door locked.
Only then did she face him. “You are soaking wet,” she whispered. “Come by the fire and take those clothes off before you catch your death.”
His gaze lifted, but he said nothing. One by one, he pulled off each layer—first his cravat, then his coat and his shirt that clung to his skin, his muscles flexing as he worked. Then he pulled off his boots, his breeches, and before she knew what was happening, he was standing there in his underthings that barely covered his manhood.
From the fine cords of his neck down to his well-built chest that glistened from the rain in the glow of the warm fire, and to his hard stomach, he was a delicious specimen of a man. She eyed the scars on his shoulder and chest, thinking with tenderness of all he’d been through safeguarding his country.
She forced herself to focus. Walking to her bed, she pulled off the sheet and handed it to him. She walked over and grabbed a chair sitting against the wall and placed the wet clothes there. She tried to think of anything, anyone other than the naked man standing before her.
“Are you trying to catch your death?” She realized he hadn’t said a single word to her. Her heart lurched, afraid that he may have some news she didn’t want to hear. Had something happened to the girls? Millie? Or the baby? Why else would he be here at this hour in the rain? “Is everything all right?”
He stood there near the hearth just looking at her, the look on his face a mixture of torment and desperation. Something akin to a broken soul, and she desperately wanted to kiss away the pain. Something has happened, she saw it in his eyes.
“Sit,” she said, prompting him to sit by the warm fire. She joined him. “Are you warm enough?” When he nodded, she sighed in relief and smiled.
He was indeed a beautiful man and nothing about him was ordinary. His eyes looked deeply into her and she melted into them. Oh, God, why must you look at me like that? The pull in her heart was so fierce she feared he might see right through her, so she did the only thing she could think of—talk. After all, this was a dangerous game he was playing, and while she knew he needed to leave, she realized she would be gravely disappointed if he did.
“What happened? Are the girls all right?”
“Must we speak of the girls tonight?”
“You’ve been drinking.” She saw the glaze over his eyes, that drunken stupor, but it wasn’t cheap gin; rather there was a hint of a floral scent.
“I had a glass or two.” He was looking at the fire now.
“Something is troubling you,” she said. “What has happened?” Perhaps he didn’t want to be alone. She could hardly believe that a man like him had trouble finding company.
“My brother would have been three and thirty today.”
Her face drained of blood. Oh, no. How terrible to have to be alone on his late brother’s birthday. She kissed his temple and stroked his back. “I’m sorry about your brother. It must have been very painful.”
“More so for my mother,” he said.
She noticed his face, his twitching jaw. There was sadness in his eyes, but it was subtle. “You must miss him very much.”
“My brother should be here.” He looked down at his hands as if rubbing at an invisible stain he couldn’t get rid of. “He was a good man, a good son to my parents.” He sighed heavily.
She pressed her head to his chest and heard the thump, thump, thump. Slow and steady. Surely she knew how it felt to be unwanted by the very parents who gave you life. There was a connection there between them, one that she could not deny any longer.
They remained embraced, then slowly he dropped the thin sheet, pulling her nightgown over her head. “I like you like this,” he said. He kissed her neck, breasts, and down further until he was kissing her abdomen. He stayed there for a moment, and her fingers forked his hair. In their loneliness and grief, they united.
He stood up and kissed her. The softness of his lips lingered, and she didn’t want him to stop.
“Stay,” she heard herself say. “Stay with me tonight.”
The intensity in his eyes shook her and the prolonged anticipation was unbearable. Her heart leaped and raced, in part from wanting to soothe his sorrow and slake her craving for him. He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.
Oh, God . . . kiss me. Let me wipe away your sorrows, she thought. She’d been dreaming of those lips since she opened her eyes this morning. She had found herself giddy and humming a tune she wasn’t even familiar with, feeling light and contented. Mrs. Pots had taken notice of her mood and asked her what was wrong with her.
Yes, yes, yes. Kiss me. The smell of rain and the faint aroma of earthy cologne playfully aroused her senses with an all-consuming urgency. This need for him was something completely foreign to her.
As he worked to release her of her underthings, he kissed her nipples. The throbbing ache between her legs was unbearable. Then he spread her legs and entered her. She gasped as he filled her. Full and soft, he moved in a rhythmic motion as her legs came around him. Slow at first, then faster and faster until he came inside her and they both collapsed onto the bed, gasping for air.
She was shocked by how her body had responded to him so quickly: the pain of that initial thrust and the pleasure of him inside her, and everything in between. Her breath came short as she ran her hands over his chest. My God, was it even possible to feel the way she was feeling now? As childish as it sounded, if she were dreaming, she’d didn’t want to awake.
Lying next to her, he pulled up the sheet and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her temple. “Sleep, my sweet.”
She couldn’t sleep now. There were so many emotions running through her that it was impossible for her to sleep. She sensed he wasn’t sleepy either. After several minutes, she said, “We need to talk.”
“Now?” he said. “I’m not in the right frame of mind to discuss anything, my sweet.”
“If I don’t do it now, I won’t be able to later,” she said. “I need to settle this…this thing between us.”
“All right,” he said, looking at her.
“What is this between us? I need to be sure so that I know what to expect.”
“What do you think this is?”
“I don’t know what this is…that is the problem.”
“I see,” he said, sitting up and sighing. He ran his hand though his hair. “You are the one who wants independence, to be free of men.”
“I do and that hasn’t changed.”
“Then what is the problem?” he said.
“I don’t know, this thing between us is making me confused.”
“Would you rather I not touch you anymore?”
“Yes,” she said. “I mean no. I don’t know.”
“I never lied to you,” he said. “I will get an annulment and leave London. That plan hasn’t changed.”
She said nothing, and his mouth was tight and uninviting. She felt the distance between them stretch for hundreds of miles. “You don’t need to say anything.”
“I think I do,” he said. “I have never considered marriage. Not before and not now. Believe me when I say a real marriage isn’t something I can give you. It will not end well between us.”
“I think you need to go,” she whispered.