A Lady's Guide to Ruin (19 page)

Joan hid a smile. Grey spluttered. “You won't tell her. You wouldn't.”

“My sister is more intelligent than you give her credit for. She will have put together enough of it.”

“But—”

“If it's your funds you're worried about, don't. I'm sure she'll keep you comfortable. As long as there are no further missteps.”

If he tightened his jaw any further, Lord Grey would crack a tooth. He swept a mocking bow and exited without a further word. Lord Farleigh relaxed, sighing as if he had set down a great burden. “I did not expect that of him,” he said.

“Neither did I,” Martin admitted. He looked down at his hand. “I wish I'd gotten to hit him.”

“I'm glad you didn't,” Joan said, even if it wasn't entirely true.

“What on earth were you thinking?” Lord Farleigh asked, sounding mystified. “You could have been hurt. You could have been ruined.”

“I suppose I still could be,” she said, disinterested. “What will he do, do you think?” She watched the hallway
where Grey had vanished. He was not a clever man, but he wasn't an idiot, either. She suspected his next rendezvous would be with a great deal of alcohol, and by the time he sobered up, he'd have realized that Farleigh's dictates were the only way out of this with some shred of honor—and wealth—intact.

“Grey's not stupid. If he told that story to anyone, Kitty would cut him off entirely. You don't think—” Lord Farleigh stopped. Clenched his hand, then relaxed it, and repeated the gesture. Bringing himself under control. Oh, lord. Save her from protective men and their need to strike things.

“You know your sister better than I do,” Joan said. “I do not think that he has hurt her. I think that she is disappointed. Sad. I do not think she is afraid.” She was borrowing Elinor's insights there, but she didn't see the point in complicating the matter.

Lord Farleigh nodded. “Yes, I think you're right. It's too late for anything to be done, apart from give her the shelter of my home, should she need it. Damn. I wish I had any inkling of this when he proposed. Our father never liked him, you know.”

“I'm sure it's no fault of yours,” Joan said politely. Martin had moved to her side. He did not touch her, but she could feel his presence there. Not steady, precisely, not with so many emotions still churning just below his skin, but comforting nonetheless.

And this was the last evening she would have him. Sudden sorrow clenched at her. She would slip away tonight. Never see him again.

“It's all right,” Martin said. His hand fell over her shoulder. “It's over now.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. She wished it were true. She covered his hand with her own. Lord Farleigh regarded them, as if still trying to work out a puzzle in his mind.

“We should return to supper,” he said.

“I need a moment,” Joan said. She did not think she could stand. She wanted to hold Martin to her, to feel his arms around her and know she belonged there. But she didn't. Not in his arms, not at Birch Hall. “Please,” she whispered, when it seemed he would not move. His hand tightened around her shoulder, then he stepped away. His hand slid out from under hers slowly, the touch sending a shock up her arm. She curled her hand against her stomach. And closed her eyes so she would not have to watch him vanish.

She would be the one vanishing, in a few hours' time.

“Miss Hargrove.”

She jerked, opening her eyes. Captain Harken stood in the doorway, his hands clasped behind him. He cleared his throat. “You've proven me a coward, miss,” he said. “A girl stood up when I had not the courage to contemplate it. You've shamed me, and I thank you for it. If you need anything, speak the word.”

She set her hands to the arms of the chair. “That won't be necessary,” she said.

“Anything you need,” he said again, and then he was gone.

Anything she needed. What she needed, she could not get from him. She would not leave like this, without the touch of Martin's lips on her skin one last time. She rose. Tonight, she departed. Before that, she would claim one last memory to carry with her.

Meet me in the ruins
. A whisper that seemed to return, a susurrus around him at every step.
Meet me, meet me . . .
An invitation and a promise. He should not have gone. But he had used all his restraint in staying his fist from Grey's face. If Farleigh hadn't been there, it might have gone very badly for one of them. He still had a mind to demand a duel. Daphne was under his care, even if they weren't officially engaged. As she had reminded him, more forcefully than he felt was entirely warranted.

He strode out over the lawn. The moon provided enough light to see by, and memory carried him swiftly in her direction. She couldn't just creep into his bedroom. No, that wasn't Daphne's way. The ruins. What did her skin look like in starlight? With no one to hear, would she cry out for him?

His arousal spurred him forward. Not far now. He had
moved amid the trees. Their shadows made the path murky and he was forced to slow. He wetted his lips. Perhaps she had changed her mind about this two weeks business. Surely she wouldn't risk another night with him without the safety of an engagement.

The pale bulk of the ruins rose before him. They weren't true ruins. They had been constructed in shambles to begin with, an affectation of his grandfather's. The toppled pillars were designed to be perched upon, as Daphne did now, one leg beneath her and her gaze on him. Was she smiling? In this light, he could not tell. He drew close. She did not move until he was close enough to touch her. Then she seized his hands and drew him beside her. She wasn't smiling. But she touched his face with the back of her hand, skimmed a finger down his throat.

“You came,” she said.

“You called. Whenever you call to me, I will come.” He kissed her fingers as they brushed across his lips. “Daphne . . .”

She silenced him with a kiss. “You know the rules,” she said.

“I need to hear your voice tonight,” he said, surprised at the raw need in his voice. “Don't swear me to silence.”

“Not silence,” she agreed. “Not that. Stay there.” She stood and swayed back from him. She reached behind herself, carefully undoing the hooks that held her gown in place. She draped it over the cracked base of a pillar and set to work on her corset. When she stood only in her chemise, she stopped. The cold turned her nipples to peaks beneath the thin silk; he could see the darkness of the thatch of hair between her legs. He drank in the sight of her.

“Now you,” she said.

He hurried to obey, tearing loose the cravat at his neck.

“No,” she said. “Slowly.”

His cock gave a twitch. She could make him hard just by looking at him. He forced himself to slow down. Made a game of it. He slid his fingers around each button before working them loose. His clothes fell away, layer by layer, and she watched, one hand idly playing with her breast. By the time he worked himself free of each trouser leg, he ached with need. He reached to stroke himself.

“No,” she said again. She moved to him and guided his hand back to his side. She was close enough that her chemise brushed against him. When the fabric whispered against his groin he let out a groan and reached for her. She caught his wrists and held them in one hand as she rose up to kiss him. When she lowered herself, her sex brushed against him. A shudder ripped through him. “Stay still,” she ordered.

She ran her hands over his face, as if memorizing his features. Her fingertips moved slowly to his shoulders, his chest. He clenched his hands into fists to keep from touching her. From pulling her against him. Her tongue flicked over his nipple. Pleasure jolted down to his groin. And she followed. With hands and lips and tongue she made her slow way down his torso, until she knelt in the grass. She looked up at him, her huge, dark eyes shining in the moonlight. Then she dipped her head.

When her lips grazed his cock, he jerked. His hand went to her hair. She grabbed hold of his wrist with one hand, held it hard, and ran her tongue in a sweep around the head of his member.

“Daphne—” he said, but if he had anything to follow it with he lost it to the wave of pleasure that came as she took
him into her mouth. His other hand found the back of her head, and now she did not knock it aside. She traced the lines of him with her tongue, fluttering it against the most sensitive parts of him. He moved his hips, sliding into her, and she moved with him, taking half his length inside of her mouth. He could not tear his eyes from the sight of her lips, her entrancing mouth, around him. Pressure built. He gasped. “Not yet,” he said. “I want you. All of you.”

She drew back. Her tongue ran along her lower lip, and he nearly lost control right there. She rose slowly. “You can have me,” she said. “Tonight, I am yours. Completely.” And she drew her chemise up over her head, and let it fall.

The moonlight made her silvery. It touched her scars and turned them into adornments, making each curve of her form more beautiful for the flaws. He ran his hands over her hips. No longer only skin and bone; she'd begun to fill out. He cupped her breast, enjoying the fullness of it in his hand. He rolled her nipple beneath his thumb. “Whatever I want?” he asked. She nodded, and took his hand. She drew him around the other side of the fallen column. A blanket lay in the grass.

“Anything,” she said.

He laid her down. She closed her eyes, but her hands ran down between her thighs, stroking her own skin. He parted her knees and moved his own hand to replace hers, caressing the already wet place between her legs. He slid a finger inside her, and she gave a delighted gasp.

He couldn't wait any longer. He lifted her hips, positioning himself at her entrance. “You are mine,” he whispered. “Tonight, and every night. And I am yours.”

She did not answer, but only drew him toward her. He thrust into her, sheathing himself completely.

*   *   *

Joan cried out as he entered her. She had thought at first that she would only give pleasure through hands and mouth, without the further risk of coupling. She knew quite a few tricks with her tongue, after all, through her own misadventures and late nights drinking with ill-reputed friends.

But the moment he asked, all thought of refusing him fled.

He drove into her in hard thrusts. They were past sweet caresses. She writhed against him, wrapping her legs around his waist. He bent forward and bit the underside of her breast, working his teeth gently up to her nipple. Her hands went to his chest, but he laughed hoarsely and caught them both in one of his own.

“No,” he said, teasing. His next thrust was slow, taunting, sliding into her with infinite patience. She arched to meet him, to take him more fully inside of her, but he withdrew again. She was panting with the need for him. He pinned her hands at her sides. Experimentally, she tugged. He let her slip free. “I would never hurt you,” he whispered.

“I know.” She found his hand again, this time lacing their fingers together before he pressed her back against the ground. They moved together in a quickening rhythm, the weight of him putting maddening pressure on her sensitive core. She bit her lip as the first quake of pleasure struck her.

“There's no one to hear,” he whispered. “No one but me. Cry out for me.” He moved faster against her, his breath catching with each stroke. She pressed her head back against
the blanket. He kissed her neck, his breath hot against her skin. “Cry out for me.”

Then the wave of her orgasm broke over her, and she did cry out. Their hands clenched together as a wordless sound tore from her throat. Then he was shuddering, thrusting three times roughly against her before his own muffled cry emerged. He withdrew at the last moment, and the brief panic that had risen in her broke and scattered.

She turned her face against the blanket as she drew in ragged breaths. Her eyes burned. Tears flowed down her cheeks to wet the rough blanket. He touched her cheek, his own breath no steadier.

“Daphne. Love.”

She turned her face up toward him, praying he could not see the tears in the dim light. But his thumb stroked her cheek.

“What's wrong?” he asked. The worry in his voice nearly broke her. She pulled herself back as she sat up, curling her legs so her knees were to the side.

“I love you,” she said.

He gave a choked laugh. “I should hope that is not occasion to weep.”

“It might be,” she said. This time, he did not press for an answer. He took her in his arms and held her while she wept quietly against his shoulder. She cried for all the nights they would not have, for the future that would not be theirs.

When her tears were gone, he kissed her. They lay together in silence; she could not say how long. And then they made love again, with only whispered
I love you
s to break the silence. The peak of her pleasure was a quiet thing this time, a warmth that spread through her with a
delicious shimmer, and when it was done they lay together with the cool breeze on their bare skin. He lay behind her, his arm over her, and pressed his lips against her shoulder.

“Two weeks is a long time,” he murmured.

“You won't have to wait that long,” she said.

“Mm. Good.” He stroked her side. “I should tell you. I do not intend to remain an earl.”

Her brow furrowed. “I had not been of the impression that one could decline such a title, once it is bestowed.”

“No. But I have a brother, Charles. Elder by a few years.”

“I thought he was dead.”

“Declared so. But I do not believe he is. I think he went to Canada, to flee our father. And our father never looked hard enough to find him. I intend to.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “It must be difficult, choosing your brother or your title.”

“It isn't,” he said. He trailed his fingers along her hip. She shivered and pressed back against him. “Not that it would be, even if I enjoyed the duties attached to the position. But I would rather be merely Mr. Hargrove. And be less constrained in my choices.”

“Will your brother feel the same?” she asked, thinking of hers. He would have leapt for the money, and the power. And would not have easily forgiven someone who had taken it in his place. Things had gone wrong between them when she started doing jobs on her own, started bringing in more money through trickery than he ever could with fists and clever fingers. He'd hated to watch her take the lead. Maybe he thought she wouldn't need him anymore.

He'd been right.

“I think so. I think he'll want to return to Birch Hall, to
be the head of the family. But I don't know if he will be able to forgive me. He and my father fought, but he and I did as well. Terribly. I said things . . . I called him a coward. I told him that I hated him. All things I wish I could take back.” His hand had stilled. She turned so that she faced him, his arms around her.

“If he is anything like you, he will forgive you,” she said. She cupped his cheek with her hand. Moses and she had the opposite in common. They never had met a grudge they didn't nurse. She could never forgive her brother what he'd done to her. But Martin was a better person than she, in so many ways. “Is he like you?”

“A bit,” he said. “More stubborn, I think.”

“Not possible.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “And so he will have to return.”

“You don't mind? That I won't be titled any longer?”

She settled back down, nestling close to him. “No,” she said. It did not matter at all. “I would love you no matter your title. No matter your name.” She hated herself for the longing in those words. If only he could say the same. But giving up a title was far different than stealing another girl's name and place.

She turned her back to him. They said nothing more, but lay there entwined, as if they never need leave.

They lay together for a long time, until she was sure that his breathing was slow and steady. She slipped from his grasp and dressed quickly, sorrow twisting her gut. She'd spent more time than she'd meant to. She had wanted more distance between her and Birch Hall before daybreak. Before he discovered her gone.

She stole one last glance at him and crept away. Fox, bless him, had stayed quiet, tethered to a tree some distance
away. If he'd barked, she would have said she didn't want him making noise and waking someone who would check her bed, but he seemed to have spent the whole time chewing on a stick—or what used to be one. He'd worked it down to a nub no larger than her thumb. He wagged his tail and yipped happily when she approached. “Hush,” she said. “Martin's sleeping.” She untied his tether from the tree and tugged him along the path. Everything else was waiting at the cabin, diamonds included. Not far now.

Fox barked again. “Hush,” she said, but this time his hackles were raised, both ears perked. His bark turned to a growl. Gooseflesh broke out on her arms. “Is someone there?” she said, pitching her voice just above a whisper. “Who is it?”

A figure detached itself from the shadow of a tree a few paces away. Moonlight slashed across the man's face.
Grey
.