sense of the word — in every sense.
He’d school her on accepting his
unorthodox methods or break her,
whichever came first, but have her he
would.
His mouth salivated and he cleared
his throat as he tapped on the large
copper
knocker.
Answering
his
summons, the household butler, Cooper,
opened the door and offered to show him
into the parlor while Danbury was
alerted to his presence. Led into a blue
room plastered with florals and lace, he
strode to the fireplace and produced a
cigar. Striking a match, he inhaled the
sweet aroma of his vice of choice and
produced a circle of smoke, watching it
rise playfully toward the portrait of a
dark-haired woman hanging above the
mantle. The portrait was the spitting
image of his intended. Burton reconciled
the woman to be Lady Danbury.
Contented, he gazed about the
room, casting lots on all the objects
within, eager for all of it to soon be his
own. He was a short, portly man. To
compensate for his size, he’d made it his
life’s work to become larger than life in
temperament and purse. He’d succeeded.
His plan to debauch Constance Danbury,
ruin her father, and take everything
Throckmorton
owned
had
been
materializing nicely.
A slight popping of glass caught his
attention. Suddenly, the double glass
doors opened, heralding his host
approached. Throckmorton appeared
tall, lean, his complete opposite in every
way, wielding uncanny snobbery, a
character trait Burton admired. Gone,
however, was the rigid set of jaw and
sense of entitlement one could hardly
miss in a man of his station. Burton
smirked, satisfied he was the cause.
“Burton,” Throckmorton said. “To
what do I owe this pleasure?”
Twirling his cigar between his
fingers, Burton stepped away from the
hearth. “This is not a social call,
Throckmorton. I’m here to find out
what’s happened to my intended.”
Throckmorton’s
hawkish
eyes
revealed nothing. Bravo. “What gives
you the idea there is anything wrong?”
“I have it on good authority the lady
has run off,” he said.
“Run off? I assure you nothing
could be farther from the truth.”
“Produce her for me to ease my
concerns if you would then. I needn’t
remind you that it would be unwise to
fall from my good graces. I have a
limited attention span.”
Throckmorton walked over to the
liquor cabinet, poured himself a healthy
libation, then turned and offered him a
drink.
Grabbing the glass, Burton did not
hesitate to swallow a healthy swig. The
duke’s liquor never ceased to amaze
him. “I intend to announce our
engagement at the ball you’re giving in
one month’s time. Once our engagement
is publicly known, then, and only then,
will
you
profit
from
our
little
agreement.”
“How do I know you won’t go back
on your word?” he asked, sniffing his
tumbler. “Constance is my only child
and I will not sell her like useless
chattel.”
“My dear, sir. You already have,”
Burton quipped.
With that, Burton took his drink in
hand and strutted to the fireplace to puff
on his cigar. He’d set out to bilk
Throckmorton out of his funds, leaving
him only with an empty title, further
pressuring him to permit the marriage of
his daughter for a stipend of thirty
thousand pounds. Though it was
customary for the bride’s family to
produce a dowry, Burton was only
giving Throckmorton back the man’s
own inheritance.
His
own
maniacal
laughter
surprised him. He covered his mouth and
forced a cough. There was little
conquest in secrecy, but no triumph if his
ruse was discovered before the deed
was done. In the end, the deal he’d made
would cost him nothing, but would yield
him the one thing he did not have — a
wife.
“I’ve made you a very reasonable
deal. I want your daughter and you, sir,
have a daughter to wed. It’s fortunate
indeed that I have the means to get you
out of this scrape you and your brother
created.” Puffing his cigar, he sat upon
the divan and spread his short arms
across the back, making himself at home.
“Don’t lose heart, sir. We are both very
close to getting what we want.”
Throckmorton looked down his
long aristocratic nose at him with
disdain. He ambled closer, his added
height dwarfing Burton easily.
“You’ll get what you want, Burton.
But mark my words, if I find out you had
anything to do with my circumstances,
I’ll ensure you are rejected by the ton
post haste.”
• • •
Percy blinked, yawned groggily, and
then opened his eyes, squinting against
the early morning light. More rested than
he’d ever been, he was instantly aware
he was not alone. Since it wasn’t his
habit to sleep with a wench, he was
slightly taken aback — until his faculties
returned.
Lady Constance.
He flexed his hand and found it full
of golden spun hair. Tilting his chin, he
gazed down at the woman sleeping
peacefully in his arms, a woman he’d
used well and long into the night, or
rather these many nights. She’d given
herself willingly, trusting him to
pleasure her until sleep overtook them
both.
Don’t let this happen to anyone
else.
Celeste’s dying words cut him to
the quick.
Unable to face her family after
being ill-used, his sister had turned to
the streets of London to survive. Was
that to be Constance’s lot? What would
become of her now that he’d taken her
virginity? Would she be able to marry?
Was he just as guilty of ruining
Constance’s chances at happiness as the
man who’d kidnapped Celeste, used her,
and then cast her aside?
He hated himself for being as much
of a danger to Constance as she was to
his soul. The trail he’d followed for the
past year, the things he’d done in the
name
of
revenge
proved
him
undeserving. Once they reached London,
his options would be limited. He would
hand Constance over to Simon. Thomas
Sexton would disappear as he always
did, and Percival Avery would once
more take center stage. He could not
afford attachments. Not with justice
weighing in the balance.
Constance moved against him. His
damned cock immediately aroused with
need. Percy eased out of bed, going
against his instincts to grind the woman
into the mattress until he once again
instinctively filled her with his seed.
Light
reflected
off
the
windowpanes, producing bright golden
rays
which
illuminated
the
dark
mahogany walls. What he’d done, giving
in to his lust, weighted his shoulders like
an anvil. He glanced back at the alluring
tangle of sheets and silky limbs on his
bunk. Constance lay in dishevel, her hair
draped over her shoulder and arm, her
tempting breasts jutting against the sheet.
The juncture between her thighs, hot,
moist, had become the home he could
never rightfully own. Though he desired
to abide there more than anything else in
the world.
Percy turned away in disgust.
He
wanted her again!
And hated himself for
what he had to do. Constance was going
to loathe him. But the heartbreak had to
come. It had to. He was not worthy of
her. She deserved far better than an
imposter. It was too late for him to pull
her into his miserable life, no matter
how much he wanted to. Loving him
could get her killed. Loving him had
been detrimental to everyone he’d ever
loved.
Shrugging into his clothes, he was
just about to walk out the door when her
angelic voice hailed him from the bed.
“Thomas? Where are you going?”
Taking a deep breath, knowing
London was but a day away, Percy
closed the door and turned back around.
“I’ve got duties to attend.”
“Can’t they wait? We’ve hardly
had time to talk.” She was right. Talking
had not been part of their activities. Her
eyes fluttered sleepily, enticingly, and
she drew the sheet up to her neck.
“We’re almost to port and I have
much to do in order to ensure we dock
safely.”
“London?” she whimpered, a dark
ominous cloud sweeping over her eyes.
“How I dread it.”
“Winds being what they are,” he
explained, “we’re making good sail.”
She lifted her sweet eyes again and
he knew unconscionable damnation.
“When we arrive, will you escort me
home? Father would be honored to meet
the man who saved my life.”
She asked too much and put too
much trust in the duke. “No, little rose.
Your father would not approve.”
“I could talk to him. He’d
understand — eventually.”
“I want to live to see another day,”
he exclaimed. When she did not smile,
Percy’s heart hinged. “You know there
can be no future between us.”
Her glistening eyes gutted him
cleaner than any cutlass. “Will you not
… come to see me then?” she asked, her
voice hesitating slightly, as if the idea of
what he was doing finally dawned upon
her.
He resolved to get this over with
and quickly when tears slid down her
cheeks. “We come from different
worlds, you and me. Though you suit me
well, I would not make a good husband.
I thought you understood.”
“Yes, but we’ve … we’ve slept
together. I’ve given you — ” Her lips
trembled.
“Aye, and what a riotous time
we’ve had.” He looked fondly at the bed
and shook his head, tsking. “Life is what
it is, little rose. You’ve a fine body and
you’ve pleased me well. Keep that to
heart.”
“Keep that to heart?” she cried.
“How can you be so callous?”
“You’re
beautiful
and
young.
Someone is bound to jump at the chance
to wed you. They needn’t know we’ve
pleasured ourselves until the wedding
night, though I’m quite assured you’ll
give your husband the ride of his life.”
“You’re despicable!”
He winked. “I imagine the man will
be thanking me for it someday.”
Constance
lunged
for
him.
Understanding her torment, Percy stood
his ground, allowing her to vent her
anger. Naked and fuming, she pummeled
him with her fists, tears rolling down her
cheeks. He’d thought he could withstand
her
outburst
but
it
was
almost
impossible. He grabbed both her fists
and held them behind her, imprisoning
her against his chest.
“I rather like this unruly side of
you,” he said, trying to be reasonable.
He kissed her pouting lips, knowing
this would be the last time he tasted her,
held her. Something within pushed him
to his limit. He wanted her, wanted to
implant her in his memory, and he dared
not think of the consequences. The heat
of her burned into his chest as she
writhed in his arms. Nothing mattered
but coming home, finding his way back
to the crux of her womanhood. Lifting
Constance, he carried her to the bed.
“I can’t keep my hands off you, no
matter how hard I try,” he admitted.
“Then don’t try, Thomas,” she
pleaded. “Don’t try.”
CHAPTER NINE
T h e
Striker
pulled into port amid
laudable
hails
and
applause.
Dockworkers and passersby stopped to