Lord of Darkness

So Jane and Charlotte linked arms and sang to Sarah’s accompaniment, for as it turned out the ballad was to a tune Sarah already knew.



“Lovely, quite lovely,” Great-Aunt Elvina murmured, tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair in time to the song.



Megs leaned back and listened with enjoyment. Her own voice would startle a crow, but she did like to hear others sing and the St. John girls, while not the most polished voices she’d ever heard, were very pleasant. If they stopped now and again to giggle and retry a phrasing, Megs didn’t mind. They were singing to family, and she was rather pleased that they had become comfortable enough with Hero and Lavinia to include them in that designation.



After an hour, the gentlemen joined them and Megs saw the moment the St. John girls instinctively stiffened. She sighed. It was hard to be relaxed with either Thomas or the duke about. But Griffin was here now and she was determined to talk to him.



So she sidled up to her brother and in a low tone suggested he show her his new house—after all, she hadn’t been given a proper tour before.



Griffin gave her an alert look, but he held out his arm readily enough, leading her out of the sitting room with a murmured word to Hero. Megs felt Godric’s curious gaze even after they’d shut the door behind them. The house was quiet outside the sitting room, until the harpsichord started again and a beautiful baritone voice began singing. Megs knit her eyebrows. That was funny. Thomas had no more vocal talent than she, and she hadn’t been aware that Godric could sing.



But Griffin was leading her to the grand staircase and muttering something about skylights and pilasters and the Italian influence. Megs squinted at him. Was he having her on?



“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Griffin, do stop,” she said at last.



He turned and grinned down at her mischievously. “Thought you didn’t really want to tour the house. What is it, Megs?”



“You and gin distilling,” she said bluntly, because she couldn’t think of any way to get to the point delicately, and anyway, she hadn’t the time.



“What about me and gin distilling?” he asked carelessly, but his face had closed, which on Griffin was a dead giveaway.



She took a deep breath. “I heard that you used to support the family, even Thomas, by distilling gin in St. Giles.”



“Goddamn St. John!” he exploded. “He had no right to tell you.”



Megs raised her eyebrows. “I think he did have a right. I’m his wife and more importantly your sister. Griffin! Why ever didn’t you tell us that we were in financial straits?”



“It wasn’t your business.”



“Wasn’t our business?” She gaped at her older brother and not for the first time thought how much a good knock on the head might suit him. “Caro and I were spending money as if we hadn’t a care in the world. I distinctly remember Thomas buying that terrible gilt-trimmed carriage after Papa died. Surely he wouldn’t have done that had he known. Of course it was our business. We could’ve been more frugal. Could’ve minded our purchases.”



“I didn’t want you to mind your purchases.” Griffin expelled a hard breath, stepping back from her. “Don’t you see, Megs? That was my burden to bear. I was supposed to take care of you and Mater and Caro.”



“And Thomas?” she asked softly, incredulously.



“He hasn’t a head for money. Neither did Pater. There wasn’t anyone else.”



“Griffin,” she said softly, laying her hand on his arm. “There was me. Maybe not when I was younger, but I’ve been past twenty for five years now. I had the right to provide mental support for you at the very least. I had the right to know.”



Griffin grimaced and looked away. Megs expected him to refute her right—the Griffin of three years ago, prior to marrying Hero, would’ve—but when he glanced back at her, his eyes had softened.



“Oh, Megs,” he said. “You know I can’t deny you anything.” She arched her eyebrows pointedly, and he threw up his hands. “Fine. Yes. Yes, I should’ve told you, should’ve let you shoulder a bit of my burden.”



“Thank you,” she said, not without a hint of complacency. “I have one more question.”



He looked a little hunted but nodded his head bravely enough.



“Is the family still in financial straits?” she asked. “Are you in financial straits?”



“No,” he said immediately, with what sounded like relief. “I’m still in filthy business, of course, but it’s respectable enough now. I’ve got sheep grazing on the family lands and a workshop here in London spinning the wool.” He shrugged. “It’s small now, but we’re making a good profit and I’ll be expanding soon. Not”—he added wryly—“that I’d ever say that aloud in society.”



Having money was good, naturally. Actually making money was deeply frowned upon by society. Presumably a gentleman would rather starve than let his hands get dirty with commerce.



Megs was very grateful that Griffin had never cared particularly for society’s rules.



She threaded her arm through his elbow. “I’m glad to hear it. But, Griffin?”



“Hmm?” He was strolling with her back toward the sitting room where the baritone was still singing.



“Promise me that if ever you run into straits again—financial or otherwise—you’ll tell me.”



“Oh, all right, Megs,” he replied, rolling his eyes a bit.



She smiled to herself. He might balk, but it was important to her that Griffin was honest with her. A family should be honest. And they should share things—both good and bad.



She was reflecting on the subject and wondering how exactly she could push Godric in that direction with his own family when they entered the sitting room and she stopped short in surprise.



It seemed the Duke of Wakefield had a magnificent singing voice.



MEGS LAY IN her bed that night, surrounded by the cold darkness of her room, and tried not to anticipate Godric’s arrival.



Tried not to long for him.



She lectured herself on the reasons why she was doing this, but the arguments had become muddled in her own mind and all she could hear was the drag of her breaths in and out of her body. She focused on the dinner at Griffin and Hero’s house, the face of sweet William, the accord she’d found with Griffin, the astonishing sight of the rigid Duke of Wakefield singing like a stern archangel, but each image wavered and slipped through her mind’s grasp. She even tried remembering the taste of the syllabub at dinner, the smooth texture of cream, the tart wine, but the phantom sweet dissolved in her mouth, and all she could taste on her tongue was Godric’s mouth.



There in the darkness she might’ve moaned.



He came at last, moving like the ghost he was. She didn’t even know he’d entered her room until she felt the dip of her bed, the warmth radiating off his body.



She trembled before he ever touched her.



Then his hands were gliding over her shoulders, sweeping down her chemise-covered sides, sliding up the slopes of her breasts while his head and shoulders hovered over her like a hawk shielding its prey.



Her breath caught. There was something dangerous about him. Perhaps there always had been and he’d simply damped it the night before. This was only their second joining and she nearly panicked at the thought. There would be many nights more. Nights when she lay in the dark and waited for him. Nights when she desperately tried to order her mind. Nights when she tried not to feel.



As she was trying not to feel now—trying and failing.



His hands moved, swift and sure, cupping her breasts, and she had no trouble at all remembering their pale, elegant length. Imagining what they would look like against her flesh.



She bit her lip, and his thumbs coasted over her nipples, catching, for they were already erect and pointed. Goose pimples shivered across her skin at his touch. When he brushed across her nipples again and then pinched both at once, it was all she could do not to arch into those beautiful hands.



Roger. She had to think of Roger.



His head descended with alarming swiftness and suddenly his mouth, hot and wet, was on her nipple. He tongued her through the thin fabric of her chemise and all thought scattered. She arched beneath him, whimpering. His hands clamped around her rib cage, holding her still. His pendant slid coolly across her belly as he suckled her nipple hard. He let go and drew back, blowing on her oversensitive skin, covered only by the wet fabric, and she shivered under the sudden chill. Then he was ministering to her other breast, thoroughly, intently. His focus entirely on her and her body. She hadn’t time to recover, to regain control under his sexual siege.



She could only feel and yearn.



He lifted his head finally, when her breath was ragged and nearly broken, and began trailing his open mouth down her quivering belly. At first she had no idea of his intent—couldn’t even think—but as his hand bunched up her chemise and moved lower still, she had a terrible premonition.



“No.” It was the first word spoken between them since he’d entered her room, and it sounded overly harsh to her own ears.



Megs licked her lips, feeling her heart still beating too fast in her chest, the obscene dampness on both her nipples, and the still of the night.



He’d frozen at her word, but it wasn’t in fear or apprehension. His stance, hovering over her, his arms on either side of her hips, seemed dangerous somehow. As if his will were held back by only a tiny thread. As if he might ignore her plea and place his mouth against her anyway.



Against her cunny.



That’s where he had been moving. She was no virgin and she knew what his intent was: to disintegrate her composure. She wouldn’t be able to take it. She’d succumb to that beautiful mouth, that quiet expertise, and she’d forget everything.



The last vestiges of Roger would dissolve and blow away from her mind.



So she inhaled slowly and reached tentatively for his shoulders. His muscles were bunched, hard and unyielding, and she couldn’t move him if he did not wish it.



“Please,” she whispered.



For a moment more he didn’t move. Then he was shaking her hand off his shoulder, hauling up her chemise, settling between her thighs. She was already wet, but perhaps not quite enough. He rocked against her, his penis a hard prod, sliding in her moisture before catching and slowly beginning to invade.



She swallowed, arching her head back, trying to relax as he slid more and more of himself into her. Animals did this without thought. Why, then, couldn’t people? She knew some did. But not her it seemed.



She thought—felt—far too much.



She gripped his arms as he shoved resolutely against her, seating himself fully. She looked up, trying to see something of him in the darkness. An expression, perhaps how he held his head.



But he was simply a large male shape.



And yet … she knew it was him. Would’ve known it blindfolded. Whether by scent or some more primitive means—perhaps an alchemy of souls—she felt him bone-deep.



Godric. Poised above her.



Godric. Withdrawing his cock in one long, pulling slide.



Godric. Flexing his hips back into her with a final twist at the end.



He was overpowering her senses, laying claim to her soul.



She struggled internally, resisting, closing her eyes, dropping her hands from his arms, trying to shut away her senses.



But that was impossible. How could it not be? He was making love to her.



She tried her best, she really did, and in the end she had one small victory: As his thrusts grew harder and closer to his point, she held herself together. He shook against her, rubbing into her, making her feel, but she was stubborn and strong, and when finally he shuddered, the dark shape of his head arching back, it was by himself.



She had no time to congratulate herself.



He leaned down in the dark and she thought he meant to kiss her. She turned her head aside and it was in her ear he whispered huskily, so close she could feel the brush of his lips.