CHAPTER FOUR
dam took a sip of his champagne and cast a glance about the large, airy drawing room filled from corner to corner with friends and acquaintances of the Bellingham family. His connection to them came through the son, George, who had attended Oxford with him. The two had never been close, but he found George to be amiable and easy to tolerate—which was saying something, as he rarely possessed the patience to tolerate most people. Olivia had always teased him that he must be the surliest fellow she’d ever known—preferring brooding solitude to being surrounded by others.
He bore it easily now, as he found the open curiosity with which the other guests approached him amusing. They were shameful in their quest for answers, trying to draw something about Daphne from him. He remained tightlipped, which only made them try harder, the men no better than the tittering, gossiping women.
There had been a slight break in the performances—which thus far had included an Italian opera singer, a string quartet, and a passably skilled pianist. Mrs. Bellingham had encouraged guests to take part in the refreshments that had been laid out, after which a harpist was to be followed by another performance from the opera singer.
He had helped himself to champagne and began counting the minutes until he could politely take his leave. Pointless soirées such as these bored him beyond their purpose. He had come to be seen, and they’d seen him. Now, he was ready for food more substantial than finger sandwiches, and a drink stronger than the bubbly champagne.
The need for a warm cunt nagged at him, so he supposed a visit to a whorehouse would have to cap his evening. Otherwise, it would only grow worse. He was not yet ready to go marching up to Daphne’s doorstep, and he needed to keep his cock under control until he was. Remembering that The White House in Soho Square was known for whores in a wide variety and who catered to every taste, he decided he might forgo his other plans and make his way there immediately after leaving the Bellinghams. The ache in his groin and the edge on his temper superseded his need for food or drink.
“Bloody good to see you again, Hart,” George Bellingham remarked, sidling up to him with a fresh champagne glass in hand. “How long has it been? Five years, at least.”
“Aye, that is correct,” he replied, finding that he was not in the mood for idle chatter—not now that he’d decided his nagging itch needed tending sooner rather than later.
“How is life in Scotland?” the other man asked, oblivious to Adam’s increasing agitation. “Are you still hiding away in that old ruin of a castle?”
“Not hiding so much as enjoying country life,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.
“I cannot say I blame you,” George said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve heard the hunting there is magnificent.”
Adam snorted sarcastically. “That, it is … better to be the hunter than the prey, eh?”
George chuckled at that. “You are right about that. London during the Season makes me feel like a prized buck being inspected by every eligible chit who crosses my path. Mother is insufferable. She has steered me toward at least six debutantes this evening alone.”
Adam did not reply to that, simply lifting his champagne flute and finishing it off.
The fool did not know how fortunate he was to have a mother at all. What he wouldn’t give to have his own mother here to nag him about marriage and steer eligible chits into his path. He had almost made up his mind to say so when Mrs. Bellingham lightly tapped a fork against the side of her champagne glass, gaining the attention of her guests. Biting back a curse, he swiftly grabbed another champagne flute from a passing footman. His window of opportunity for escape had just closed, the little intermission having gone by faster than he’d expected.
As they were herded back to their seats, conversation eventually faded to a dull buzz, then dispersed altogether. Downing his champagne in two swallows, he handed his flute off to yet another footman and moved toward the back row of chairs pointed at a small, elevated dais in the center of the room. Perhaps he could slip away while everyone was engrossed in the performance. He’d been here far longer than he’d intended as it was, and the room had begun to feel too small, closing in around him more and more with each passing second. Being accustomed to the large, open rooms of Dunnottar and the sprawling countryside of Scotland, he could not fathom how the residents of London could stand their cramped townhomes and overcrowded city streets.
Noticing that a harp and stool had been placed at the center of the dais, he twisted his mouth to smother an amused smirk. He’d heard whispers of the absent harpist and wondered whose milky-faced daughter had been coerced into performing in her place. He could not decide if watching the unfortunate chit struggle through her compositions would prove tortuous or entertaining.
The silence in the room erupted into whispers and gasps as said chit entered the room, her gown a sweep of navy silk gleaming in the candlelight as she ascended the dais.
Adam’s hand curled into a fist as she sank down onto the stool as if it were a throne, keeping her back erect and her chin tilted at the haughty angle of a queen. His fingers itched to wrap around the slender column of that graceful neck, to leave his bite marks all over the delicate slopes of her bared shoulders. She kept her eyes lowered, making him want to approach her, grasp her hair and tilt her head back until she raised those eyes to his … until she looked at him and those deep blue depths shimmered with unshed tears and she made that little sound of fear mingled with arousal in the back of her throat.
While he wrestled against his baser urges, the shock of laying eyes on their substitute harpist mingled with annoyance in his gut. He was supposed to confront her when he was ready, appearing in front of her at the opportune moment.
Instead, she had caught him off guard, turning up in the very last place he would have expected her—and in the most unexpected way. He almost laughed aloud at the irony of it all—because, of course, their harpist couldn’t have been just any chit. Following the predictably unpredictable pattern of his existence, a twist of fate would place her at the center of the room he occupied. It had even ensured she was set on display, so he could stare at her openly, tracing the lines and curves of her body, running his gaze over her from head to toe just as he wished to do with his hands.
He saw the moment his little dove recognized his presence in the room, drawing satisfaction from the way her breasts swelled as if she sucked in and held a sharp breath. The way her eyes flickered up to meet his for a fraction of a second before lowering again. The way she took her lip between her teeth and shifted on her stool, trying to compose herself in order to perform. One corner of his mouth twitched, a smirk he couldn’t control pulling at his lips in the face of her discomfort.
It did not take much imagination to picture the gooseflesh appearing on the surface of her skin, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Like any creature stalked by its predator, she sensed the danger lurking just on the other side of the room. His mouth practically watered for a taste of her, for the sensation of her skin giving way beneath his teeth as he latched onto her and closed his jaw.
It required every ounce of his discipline to keep from stomping down the narrow aisle between rows of chairs and grasp her by her hair, dragging her out of the room in full view of the Bellinghams’ guests.
Instead, he slouched in his seat a bit and watched as she lifted her fingers to the harp strings and imagined those delicate hands of hers on his body, sliding over his chest and abdomen down to his cock. As she plucked out the notes of her first piece, he soaked her in with his gaze, something he’d done often when she’d been with him at Dunnottar. Seeing her this way—head inclined, gaze lowered, expression softened—brought back memories of afternoons stretched out on the settee in the music room, his ledgers resting untouched in his lap as he listened to her practice.
The piece she performed now was one he’d heard her play before—Jan Ladislav Dussek’s The Lass of Richmond Hill. She executed it as effortlessly tonight as she had months before, her fingers flying over the strings and creating the sort of heavenly notes that could soothe any savage beast. He found himself moving his fingers with her, his mind plucking the notes out of the air as if he could see them; as if by moving his own hands, he could make music with her. A symptom of what his mother had called his ‘gift’—this ability to understand music, its muscles and ligaments stretched over the bones of structural notes. He’d never fully understood it, simply recognizing this as a part of himself, as much as his brown hair and peculiar eyes.
He was loath to take his eyes off her, but could not help glancing around the room to observe the others who watched her. The whispers upon her entrance had faded, and their pious judgment seemed to have momentarily ceased, giving way to appreciation for her artistry. He found tears in the eyes of some women, those who were moved by the music floating up from the fingertips of a fiery vision in silk.
When the first piece ended, the room erupted into thunderous applause, the sound seeming to startle her out of a trance. She blinked and stared about the room as if shocked by it, the reaction that was her due after such a beautiful performance. He joined the others in clapping for her, noticing that she pointedly avoided his gaze while looking about the room, inclining her head graciously. Her lips moved, and though he could not hear her, he clearly read the ‘thank you’ that fell from her mouth.
Then, the clamor died away, and she began another composition, then flowed seamlessly into another. No more applause came, as if the entire audience had collectively decided to hold its breath, to hold still and sit in the thrall of her expertise.
Even Adam forgot himself for a moment and simply sank into the music, his fingers tapping out accompanying piano chords against his thigh for every note she played. His posture eased, every muscle in his body except for his insatiable cock going pliant, even the harsh frown that seemed to perpetually slash across the lower half of his face easing away.
By the time she’d finished playing, he felt as if he’d been floating on the surface of a stream for hours, the water flowing from the tips of her fingers and washing over him. The sudden commotion of clapping made him resurface, other sounds eventually filling his ears as the final strains of her last composition dissipated into nothing.
Shaking his head to clear it, he joined their applause politely, rising to join them in a standing ovation. Not just because the music had moved him … but so that he could keep his eyes on her, see her over the heads of the people on their feet in front of him. She slowly and gracefully rose from her seat and executed a flawless curtsy, a bland smile stretching her lips. Such a pretty little porcelain doll, putting on airs for the same people who would gossip shamelessly about her once she’d left the room. A well-trained little bird.
But, he’d trained her to do other things … like accept the crash of his palm against her arse or take the length of his cock down her throat. He’d taught her to kneel and to arch her back into that precise curve that let his cock in as deep as it would go. His thumb caressed the pads of his fingers in anticipation of reminding her, of having her in his hands once again … his to control, to rule, to bend and break.
She left the room on swift feet, descending from the dais and making a beeline toward a door Adam assumed led into an adjoining room. He clenched his teeth when the panel slid closed behind her, blocking her from view.
As the others took their seats and waited for the next performance to begin, he quietly made his exit. No one noticed him slip out, their attention remaining on the dais and the beautiful opera singer resuming her place in the spotlight for an encore. A footman went to fetch his greatcoat while he stood in the townhome’s vestibule and tried not to tap his foot impatiently against the floor as the butler attempted not to let on that he observed Adam from the corner of his eye. If it wasn’t his hair earning him such perusal, then it was his reputation. Considering that word of his ruination of Daphne was still making the rounds in London, he assumed it must be the latter.
Once he’d been given his things, he stepped out onto the front stairs. Despite the frigid chill in the air, he had opted to walk to and from the musicale. It would serve well to clear his head now.
Reaching into the inner breast pocket of his greatcoat, he took hold of the slim cigarillo case and matchbook he had stashed there. The fragrant smoke curled along with his breath on the night air as he lit it, then shook the match between his fingers to put out the little flame. He took the stairs two at a time to the street, clenching the cheroot between his teeth. He’d picked up the habit while on his Grand Tour in Spain, enjoying the tobacco in this form as opposed to the disgusting practice of taking pinches of snuff. The smell soothed him as much as the taste and the slight tingle in his veins after a few puffs … though nothing could take the edge off completely now that he’d seen her.
His little dove.
Taking a long drag of the cigarillo, he attempted to shift his thoughts someplace else. He had a plan, and it did not include going after her like some lovesick fool chasing a bitch in heat. He would not give in to the impatience that the sight of her had inspired in him. He was stronger than that, always in control. Always.
A sudden awareness pricked the back of his neck and had him glancing back over his shoulder. His teeth clenched around the cheroot, severing it completely. The burning tip fell to the ground at his feet, forgotten, as he set eyes on a figure in a navy-blue redingote. It matched the feathers pinned in her elaborate coiffure, and the gown he knew she wore underneath.
It was her. He recognized her even at a distance, even from behind with her lithe body shrouded in that heavy coat. The lightness of her steps gave her away, as well as the sway of her hips and the tilt of her head. She moved swiftly, white puffs of steam huffing over her head as if from an engine. Truly, she practically ran down the sidewalk, seeming to be in a hurry. To get away from him, or to get out of the cold, he wondered?
The prickle he’d felt when she had stepped onto the street grew into a full-fledged tingle that raced down his spine and settled in his middle, the heat spreading to his groin. Plucking the other end of the destroyed cheroot from between his lips and tossing it aside, he stomped on the glowing end to put it out, releasing a sound that was half groan, half growl.
“Fucking hell,” he grumbled, his legs already moving him toward her, his entire body honing itself for the chase, the fight, the inevitable surrender. “Bloody fucking shite … goddamn it.”
He had thought himself stronger than this, but apparently, three months of starvation had proved his undoing. The meal he wanted was within reach, and the beast in him roared, baring its fangs, mouth watering. His belly clenched and quivered, the urge to devour overcoming all good sense. Muttering the oaths at himself did not help. Nothing would, save getting his hands on her and expelling every ounce of his pent-up lust. The space between them began to close, his swift strides helping him overtake her in a matter of moments.
Her breath quickened—he could both hear and see it. Then, the flash of her face over one shoulder, the widening of her eyes and parting of her lips. A strangled cry emitted from her throat, speeding his pulse and quickening the dull throb in his breeches. He was unbearably hard now, his tip painfully abraded by the fabric of his clothes, beads of wetness already gathering at the slit. His bollocks drew up tight against his body when her scent wafted up his nostrils, his abdominal muscles clenching and hardening with the maddening desire driving him. Impulse ruled his every move, all his carefully laid plans forgotten as he grinned at her, flashing his teeth, letting her see his intent before he’d even laid a hand on her.
“No,” she whispered, the desperate sound carrying to him on the light evening breeze.
Yes, he thought, the word lodged in his chest, trapped there by the breath he held. Anticipation made his blood sing in his veins as he drew close enough to see the way moonlight made her hair gleam like polished cherry wood, the way her dilated pupils ate away the blue of her irises until her eyes almost appeared black.
Words failed him, but then, he did not need to speak for her to know why he was here, what he wanted from her. He spotted an opening between houses, a dark slit that would make them invisible to anyone on the street. Taking hold of the back of her neck, he steered her to the right, aiming her toward the alley. She turned on him, her nails raking against his face just before the darkness swallowed them up.
He took hold of her waist, propelling her up against the side of the building and trapping her with his own body, bracing his legs on either side of hers to keep her from kicking. Her palm slammed against his jaw, the aggravating burst of discomfort the blow caused only making his cock strain harder toward her. He was surprised his placket didn’t burst under the strain, sending buttons skittering across the ground.
Taking hold of one wrist, he suffered yet another blow and the scratch of her nails over his cheek. With a growl, he captured the other arm and pinned them both against the stone wall. The sparse moonlight allowed him to witness the conflicting fear and desire written in her parted lips and widened eyes. Though he didn’t need the benefit of sight to sense it. He heard it in her rapid, panting breath, felt it in the rise and fall of her breasts as he melded his body against hers from chest to knee.
Pressing his face into the curve of her neck and trailing his nose along her skin, taking his first real scent of her, he released his breath on a primal growl, the fragrance ramping his lust to its limit.
“Now, now,” he whispered, chuckling against her skin when she shuddered. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, little dove?”
She writhed and twisted in his hold, her pelvis bumping his and her breasts teasing his chest as she tried to fight her way out of his hold. He clenched his teeth and groaned, his cock practically weeping in response to the stimulation. Bucking his hips at her, he let her feel him, nestling the underside of his shaft against her mound.
“Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten how much I love it when you fight me?” he murmured, rasping his lips and the stubble on his chin against her smooth throat, tracing a path to her ear.
“Damn you to Hell,” she growled, tilting her head to meet his gaze.
If eyes were weapons, he would be dead on the spot, the venom in her glare undisguised. Meanwhile, her body had begun to give in, her tension melting away by degrees.
“Only if I can take you with me,” he quipped with a smile.
Her nostrils flared, and she tried again to twist away from him, this effort downright halfhearted compared to her earlier one.
“Damn you, release me,” she begged, turning her head so she was no longer looking directly at him. “I will scream.”
Biting the point of her chin, he chuckled. “Promise?”
Her growl of frustration was smothered by his open mouth covering hers, his tongue dipping inside. She tasted like champagne and some sort of creamy dessert, the flavors lingering just over her own familiar tang. His hips surged over and over, his cock rubbing against her mons through their clothes.
“Fuck,” he muttered against her open mouth, shuddering as he fought not to spend in his breeches like some green boy. “I forgot how good you taste.”
Her only response was a whimper, her resistance fading away as raw desire took its place. Her body arched into his, like that of a marionette controlled by the strings of its handler. Against her will, it bent to his, coming alive at his fingertips. Her nipples pebbled against his palms when he cupped her breasts, and she quivered when he dragged his fingers lower, over her ribs and the nip of her waist. Then, her hips filled his grasp, and he spread his fingers to squeeze her buttocks, moving one of his legs to wedge between hers. Lifting her, he pulled her down onto his thigh, bending his knee to keep her balanced. They moaned in unison—her likely from the pleasure of her mons being so tightly compressed against him, Adam from the realization that she wore nothing under her gown. Her coat had parted, so only the silk of her gown separated them.
“Wicked little dove,” he rasped in her ear, giving her hips another squeeze and rocking her against his leg.
She choked on a moan, its strained sound telling him she hovered right on the edge of giving in, of losing the fight with her own desires.
“You couldn’t possibly have gone without proper undergarments for my sake, did you?” he teased.
A huff of annoyance tickled his jaw, and then she gasped when he surged her against his thigh again, dragging her mons over the hard muscle.
“No-oh!”
Her denial broke off on a sharp cry when he tightened his hold on her, his fingers digging into her arse and pulling her against him, harder and harder with each stroke. With a weak moan, she slumped, her head falling onto his shoulder and her arms going limp as she rode his thigh. Seeming heedless to her own actions, she undulated against him, her legs tightening around his hips. The heat emanating from her cunt scorched him through his breeches, the fabric between them going slightly damp.
“That’s it,” he crooned, burying his nose in her hair and taking in her scent, never ceasing to move her back and forth on his leg like a rag doll. “Take your pleasure from me … I know it feels good. You’re so hot and wet for me.”
Another sound came from her, this time one of surrender when she shuddered, her hips bucking against him a few more times as she reached her end. He held her against him, going still so she could recover, soothing his hands over her hips, then up and down her back. He kissed the top of her head and murmured to her until her breathing became even, until she went still against him, her body tensing once more.
He knew it the moment the fight returned to her, acting before she could come completely back to her senses. Taking her throat in one hand, he pressed his fingers against the twin veins humming with her pulse, compressing them just enough to tease her. Even in the dim lighting, he saw the spark in her eyes, the glittering depths speaking of her desires—the ones she kept hidden away, the ones that proved as dark and filthy as his own.
With his opposite hand, he fumbled with his fall, ripping one of the buttons completely loose in his haste to free his cock and bury it inside her. His hand shook with the force of his need, several urges slamming into him at once. He wanted to shove her to her knees and force his prick between her lips. He wanted to bend her over, spread her buttocks and penetrate that tight, hot little arse. He wanted her cunt wrapped around him tighter than a fist. He wanted it all at once, but since that was impossible, he settled on taking her cunt. The other things he had been fantasizing about would require walls around them and a bed to throw her down on.
Wrapping a hand around his erection, he gave it a few strokes, hissing between clenched teeth in agony. She’d made him so hard, it was painful, and even his own hand wouldn’t have done. It was a damn good thing he hadn’t kept walking, instead deciding to pursue her down the street. Only one thing would ease this sort of hunger.
She closed her eyes as he snatched up her gown, baring her slender legs, the black lace edges of her stockings, and the warm honeypot between her thighs. Still holding her neck with one hand, he used the other to open her, lifting one leg and bending it at the knee to spread her. The scent of her arousal flooded his senses, and the sight of her inner thighs, slick with wetness, had him running his tongue over his teeth, fighting back the urge to drop to his knees and taste her, to sink his teeth into that tender flesh. Instead, he surged his hips, aiming the tip of his cock between her legs. She whimpered when he came against her entrance, the little hole as tight as it had been the first time he’d had her.
He squeezed her thigh and spread her open wider, until the tendon at the juncture of her hip and thigh stretched taut. Then, he impaled her with one brutal thrust, tightening his hold on her throat at the same time. She cried out, the sharp sound echoing down the alley, lost somewhere in the dark abyss. He paused, only halfway inside, her snug opening slowly stretching to accommodate him. Despite her wetness, it had been too long since she’d taken him, his cock big enough to split her in two if he wasn’t careful.
However, the evidence that no other man had been where he was now made that difficult. It made him mad with lust and possession and a thousand other feelings he could not name.
“No one else has fucked you, have they?” he growled, pressing his lips to her cheek and kissing his way to her ear. “Have they, little dove?”
She gasped again when he withdrew until only his tip remained inside, then thrust in again, this time giving her almost his entire length. A shudder rocked her, and then another, and the beginnings of another climax seemed to stir deep inside her, pulling at his cock with deep spasms.
“Answer me,” he growled, his voice tinged with a warning she would heed unless she wanted to be taken over his knee. “Tell me what I want to hear. How many men have had this delicious little cunt wrapped around them?”
She whimpered, and the hot splash of her tears heated his knuckles, their salty taste dancing on his tongue as he kissed his way toward her mouth.
“N-no one,” she moaned against his mouth.
He slammed into her again, this time seating himself to the hilt. She was torn open for him, pulsating and dripping her desire all over his bollocks, her shudders increasing until she shook like a leaf lashed by a gust of wind.
“You know what I want to hear,” he panted between thrusts, his body battering her against the stone wall, his fingers pressing her throat just enough to keep her in place, to remind her of how exquisitely he could make her climax if she remained docile and let him use her. “Say it, little dove … say what you know I need to hear.”
“Adam!”
Her shrill, passion-roughened voice wrapped around his name was his undoing. With a rough groan, he pressed her tighter against the wall, shoving his hips at her hard and fast.
“Again,” he rasped as he fucked her. “Tell me again, who’s the only man to have had you.”
“Adam,” she whispered weakly. “Adam … Adam.”
He compressed her neck veins at the right moment, just when she drew in a sharp breath, her back going tight as a bowstring, her body tensing against his just before she spent. Her sheath tightened around him, drawing him in deeper, throbbing around him in powerful spasms that grew stronger the harder he pressed. Her pulse throbbed against his fingertips at the same cadence that her cunt squeezed him, bringing him to his own end.
Releasing her neck, he pumped into her one last time before pulling away, muttering curses under his breath while jerking his cock and spilling all over the ground at their feet. She stood pressed against the wall, her gown’s hem having fallen to the ground, eyes wide as she tried to catch her breath, watching as he groaned and spewed his seed. Despite the countless hours he’d spent frigging himself over the past three months, he came for what seemed like several minutes, the volume of mettle that left him alarming considering how much of it he’d spilled in his washroom back at Dunnottar.
It hadn’t been enough … it never would have been. He’d needed this—needed her.
Bracing himself on the wall with one hand, he stared up at her while closing his fall with the other. Despite the missing button, he was adequately covered as he straightened, looking her over from head to toe. She looked exactly the way he preferred her—hair mussed from his handling, lips swollen from his kiss, eyes wide and glistening, cheeks flushed. He wondered if she had any idea the carnal picture she made, how beautiful she was when glowing with lust and desire. Like any other beautiful thing, he wanted to touch her, own her, possess her. He’d come to London to do just that, so he wouldn’t count his loss of control as defeat.
Avoiding his gaze, she raised her chin, tried to hide herself from him with a haughty display of arrogance. It only made him want to fuck her again, to break her and remind her that her pretenses didn’t work on him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her words coming out on a weary sigh.
Glancing down at the mess he’d made at her feet, he laughed. “I should think that was plainly obvious.”
She leveled a murderous gaze at him. “I meant, why are you here?”
Reaching out to stroke her cheek, he inclined his head. Could she truly not know?
“I came for you, little dove.”
She reared away from his touch as if he’d burned her, slapping his hand to prevent him from doing it again. “Our business is concluded. You got what you wanted from me, and I received my compensation.”
“Except, I didn’t get what I wanted,” he murmured, edging closer, forcing her back against the wall.
Panic flared in her eyes, and he could see the sound she held in her throat, the whimper she swallowed, her throat convulsing and her mouth pinching closed. He strummed his knuckles over the swell of one breast, teasing her nipple into a stiff point.
“I wasn’t nearly finished with you,” he added, still steadily teasing her through her gown.
Her chin trembled, and her brow furrowed, her gaze boring into him as if she searched for something. Answers to questions she could not have answered otherwise. His face would betray nothing, and neither would his eyes. Like his father, he’d practiced the art of coldness … of holding people at the distance he dictated.
“You certainly seemed to be finished when you sent me away from Dunnottar,” she accused. “You could not even be bothered to say good-bye. After you used me, embarrassed me, and destroyed any chance I might have had for marriage or a future, you … you did not even have the decency to show your face the morning of my departure.”
Some unfamiliar emotion opened in the pit of his gut, lodging itself in places that made him want to squirm. Could it be guilt?
He certainly hadn’t relished locking himself away in his study while waiting with baited breath for her to leave Dunnottar under Niall’s care. But, it had seemed like the best course of action. A clean break. A fitting end to their short time together.
Only, that time had not been enough, and here he stood, ruining the clean break that had seemed so important to him three months ago.
“You are angry with me for not saying good-bye,” he murmured, gripping her chin and stroking her lower lip. “Let me make it up to you.”
She tried to dislodge his hold again, but failed, wincing when his fingers bit into her jaw. “There is also the matter of the ten thousand pounds you paid my father. ‘Compensation’ for one’s only daughter, I believe you called it.”
That feeling in his gut increased, twisting cruelly. He didn’t like it one bit.
“I paid you more,” he reminded her.
She shook her head. “After you’d already paid them … knowing that I was ignorant to the truth … knowing they would take it and do nothing.”
“I believe the words you are searching for would be ‘thank you’,” he snapped, agitation ruining the good mood that had followed fucking her. “‘Thank you, Adam, for showing me the truth about my despicable family, and giving me enough money that I never have to depend on them again for as long as I live.’”
She sneered at him, her upper lip peeling back to expose her perfect, white teeth. “Thank you, Adam. Now, kindly sod off.”
He released her, laughing as she spun on her heel and began marching back toward the street. “We are not finished, little dove. You do realize that, eh?”
Pausing at the mouth of the alley, she swiveled to face him again, hands braced upon her hips. “Actually, we are, Lord Hartmoor. You see, I do not believe you could afford the amount it would cost for me to let you back into my bed.”
He raised an eyebrow, both amused and intrigued by her words. His little dove wasn’t the spoiled, pampered little chit she’d been when he’d first met her. She’d grown a spine and sharpened her teeth a bit, now able to give as good as she got. It only made him want her more.
Watching her disappear around the corner, he fished in his coat pocket for his cigarillo case, retrieving another one of the cheroots from inside. His blood hummed in his veins as he took the first inhale. Slowly releasing it, he allowed the flavor of the tobacco to linger on his tongue, along with the remaining taste of Daphne.
“And so, the chase begins,” he murmured to himself as he made his way back to the sidewalk, turning in the opposite direction she’d taken.
She had no idea what she’d just gotten herself into. Maybe if she’d given in, if she hadn’t fought him or tried to make him feel guilty for adhering to the boundaries of their agreement, he might have been satisfied with a few more tumbles.
But, no … she’d mauled his face and thrashed in his arms and reminded him how goddamn good it felt to chase her, to clench his teeth around her and slowly tighten his jaw until she stopped resisting and admitted defeat. She had reminded him exactly why he’d come all the way to London just for another taste of her.
He laughed, taking the cigarillo between his teeth and shoving his hands down into his pockets as he quickened his pace, lowering his head against the cold.
This was going to be fun.