He groaned, his hands skimming her sides, clinging to her hips, encouraging her frantic pace. A desperate keening started in her throat and she couldn’t stop, couldn’t quiet herself, could only work harder, faster as the fever rose in her blood.
“Oh, God, slow down,” he gasped, but she couldn’t.
Possessed, she flew against him, with him, his desperate plea heightening her excitement, making her burst from the inside. Shuddering atop him, she arched her spine, grinding down on him with a cry.
He ran a hand over her arched spine, shouting as he released himself inside her and joined her in the sweet agony. His lips met her neck, her collarbone, dragging her skin with a kiss. She fell back over him, resting her damp forehead on his shoulder. Their bodies shuddered and heaved with exultant breaths, joined, linked. She spread her fingers in a fan against his chest, hoping they would cease to tremble that way. His fingers trailed her spine in a slow caress, tracing each and every bump.
Perfectly content to never move again, she managed to lift her head and meet his gaze, holding his gray stare for several moments and feeling a stab of embarrassment at her truly wild behavior.
“Why did you stay?”
She shrugged and broke their gaze, staring down at his shoulder, the serpent’s dark watchful eye, appreciating that he had not asked why she just _ravished _ him like a lust-crazed woman. “I wanted to.” She moistened her lips. “And…” She bit her lip.
She tore her gaze from the mesmerizing serpent tattoo to his face. “You needed me tonight.”
She quickly rested her head back on his shoulder, unwilling to look at him after uttering such sentimental rubbish. He didn’t _need _ her. At least he would never admit to it. He wanted her for one thing. And she had just satisfied him in that respect.
His fingers continued their slow dance on her spine. His chest lifted on a heavy, serrated breath beneath her, like an incoming wave. “My grandfather,” he spoke beneath her, his voice a deep, vibrating rumble against her br**sts. “He’s dying.”
She sucked in a breath, biting back the immediate comment of sympathy. He would not want that. Given his strained relationship with his grandfather, he likely did not know what to feel. But he felt. She was sure of it, had known something was amiss the moment she saw him tonight.
Now she knew what.
She held her tongue, tracing a small circle over his chest, above his heart. A sigh rattled loose from him and his arms wrapped around her, holding her close, and she knew she had given him what he most needed. Even if he would not acknowledge it. Comfort. Companionship. Another human who knew loss, knew what it meant to want something one could never have. Her lips twisted. They had that in common.
Closing her eyes, she let the steady sound of his heart fill her head. “Will you go see him?”
“Why would I do that?”
She lifted her head to stare down at him. “I know he has hurt you, but he’s dying.” It made perfect sense to her. He had to go. Not for his grandfather, but for himself. So there would be no regrets later. Nothing to wonder about. He needed to close that door behind him so that he was not forever looking back.
“So.”
She said nothing, could think of nothing to say. She merely stared at him, at the hard, unforgiving glint in his eyes, and realized he was everything he had ever claimed. An empty shell. Empty because he would never let anyone else in.
“He can die,” he pronounced. “Alone.”
She dropped her head back down on his chest and feigned sleep, unable to witness the coldness in his eyes one moment longer. Nor the cruel press of lips that had kissed her so thoroughly only a short while ago.
In that moment, she realized he was utterly and completely lacking of a heart. He felt nothing.
And she needed to leave him before such a condition grew acceptable…before she became accustomed to loving a man incapable of loving her. Or anyone else for that matter. Who would only ever be the demon duke.
A log crumbled in the hearth, sending up a hiss of sparks. Eyes closed, Dominic heard the sound, knew it for what it was. Just as he heard the floor creak beneath a soft footstep and knew _it _ for what it was. Fallon leaving him. He heard the whisper of fabric as she dressed, the quiet hush of her breath near him, the thud of his own heart in his ears, the beat quickening as she prepared to depart.
Still, he did not move, curled on his side on the chaise, muscles sated and replete. After a moment he heard the door open. A longer moment passed, and he felt her long stare on him as keenly as a ray of sun.
Then the door clicked shut and the old coldness stole over him, freezing him from the inside out.
The sun was gone.
Slowly, he opened his eyes to gaze out at the silent drawing room. Empty. The murky blue of impending dawn peeked from between the damask drapes. His gaze crawled to the closed paneled doors, a live, hungry thing, searching for a glimpse of her where nothing remained.
Sighing, he rolled over and flung his arm across his forehead, considering dressing himself before one of the servants discovered him n**ed on the chaise.
He could have opened his eyes while she dressed. Could have spoken words that would have led to a conversation that may or may not have stopped her from leaving. He could have begged.
Or simply asked.
But to what purpose? He could not give her more than he already offered. And she wanted more.
Hell, she deserved more. Deserved better than him. He’d offered all he could and it wasn’t enough.
Yes, he still wanted her. She consumed him. She filled him with hunger, with need…with wild, desperate emotions he dared not examine too closely. But it couldn’t last. It wasn’t real. He would return to himself. Return to his old ways. Numbness would creep over him and he would drift from her, searching for ways, albeit temporarily, to feel. He closed his eyes tightly.
No, better that he permit her to find her own happiness far from him. She’d find her home. And he’d find his way back to the familiar darkness, forgetting the light he’d briefly found with her.
Chapter 28
Fallon waited upon the settee for Lord Hunt to enter the room, her valise at her feet. The toes of her slippered feet tapped the floor impatiently. Head cocked, she studied the striped-and-floral-
patterned wallpaper of Lord Hunt’s drawing room and tried not to think of the night spent in Dominic’s drawing room. He would be awake by now. He would know she had left…
She squeezed her eyes tight against their infernal burn and opened then again, determination thick in her throat. The room’s décor reminded her of the Hunt estate in Little Saums. Flowery, cluttered with all manner of knickknacks and fripperies.
Fallon had snuck into the main house a time or two to spy on Lord Hunt’s sisters playing at the pianoforte. Clearly his mother’s handiwork extended here as well. Fallon assumed the viscountess, a fashionable lady who had always concerned herself with making everything around her beautiful and stylish, still lived. Fallon glanced down at her worn navy wool skirts, so drab and ill-placed against the brocade settee. Likely the fine lady never imagined the likes of Fallon gracing any of her drawing rooms.
The viscount arrived, pausing in the open door of the drawing room at the sight of her, his expression all solicitousness. “Miss O’Rourke.” He advanced into the room, bowing smartly before her. “I’m so pleased you called. I intended to give you more time to reconsider my offer before calling upon you again.” His face adopted a look of contrition. “I’m afraid I made a muddle of it last time.”
He sighed, lips curving in a lopsided fashion, rueful and apologetic, and she could suddenly understand why so many maids surrendered him their hearts. “I’ve given it more thought and I truly appreciate all you’ve gone through—all my family put you through. I apologize if I came off as a thoughtless cad. I hope I can change your mind without offending you again.”
Fallon nodded as he lowered himself into a chair across from her. “That is why I’ve come. I would like to accept your offer now.”
His face eased into a smile, relief loose about the curved corners. “Indeed? My father would be most pleased.”
She stifled the surge of bitterness and the stinging retort that burned on the tip of her tongue, eager to express how little she cared about pleasing his late father. She no longer wished to live in a perpetual state of bitterness. She wanted to change. She wanted peace. Even if that meant forgiving those who had wronged her. She wanted to stop hating the world—blue bloods in particular—for every wrong to befall her. Da would want that. Would not want her to live with hatred in her heart.
Nodding, she murmured, “As would mine.”
Now ready to hear what Hunt had tried to explain to her before, she cleared her throat. “What does the provision…entail?”
“You will have a stipend of course.” Lord Hunt leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers together. “And there’s a cottage…”
Dear Evelyn,
I hope this letter finds you well. I imagine you’re basking in the sunshine of Barbados by now, the spray of seawater fresh on your face. Do take care of that fair complexion of yours. I’ve heard a tropical sun can wreak vengeance on a lily-white such as yourself. No doubt you’re living the adventure you have always craved—and deserved.
You will find my situation much changed upon your return. Fret not, I’ve not landed myself in prison. I know you worried greatly over my last venture. Permit me to put your mind to rest. It will come as a surprise for you to learn that I am residing in my very own home now, a lovely cottage in Little Saums.
I never thought to return here, so close to where my life took such a sad turn. The late Viscount Hunt provided for me in his will. Initially, I had no wish to accept a pound from the family responsible for my father’s death, but forgiveness is a grace I’ve learned to embrace.
Astonishingly, I have a home now—just as I wished for when we were girls. I can scarcely believe it. I cannot wait until we next meet and pray it is not too long an occasion from now.
Marguerite will be staying with me for Christmas. Of course, you know you always have a home with me should you ever tire of adventure. You need never beg a home from either one of your brothers again. Love and God-speed in your travels.
Your dearest friend,
Fallon
Fallon departed the vicarage, her boots—a shiny new pair, well-crafted for the muddy-lane home—fell with cheerful alacrity on the church’s tread-worn path. She pulled her thick wool scarf high at her throat to ward off the chill.
The lunch hour drew near. Depositing the arrangement of flowers had taken longer than expected. Mr. Simmons wanted her opinion regarding tomorrow’s sermon. Her lips twisted. She hardly considered herself the most pious of souls, but she had done her best by the young reverend…even with the remembered aroma of chicken soup and fresh-baked bread teasing her nose and calling her home. She chafed her gloved palms, eager to reach her cozy cottage.
She no longer woke before dawn. And for once, when she did wake, it was to someone cooking—for her. A blessed change. She hastened her steps, knowing Ms. Redley’s pot of chicken soup would be well ready by now. Her stomach grumbled at the prospect, and despite the chill, a warmth pervaded her at the memory of her warm cottage—home—and the cook and housekeeper puttering about within.
She could not complain of loneliness. Or rather, she shouldn’t. The two Misses Redleys bustled about the house during the day, chattering like magpies. Like the rest of Little Saums, they had embraced her into their midst. The young reverend’s kind reception stood out as the most discernible among all. She was certain he needed only a little encouragement to begin a formal courtship.
Life was good. Inhaling crisp air, she waited for a deep sense of gratification to sweep over her.
And waited.
She had been waiting ever since she arrived and landed herself such an ideal situation in Little Saums. With a disgusted snort, she exhaled her breath. She had achieved all she ever sought. She had no call to feel so… alone.