MC BIKER ROMANCE: Bad Boy Romance: BETRAYED: (New Adult Motorcycle Club Navy SEAL Romance) (Contemporary Military Romance Thriller) (54 page)

Undignified though it may be, that didn’t stop the yearning in my loins from beginning. My body remembered. My body wouldn’t forget.

But I couldn’t allow myself to remember. It wouldn’t happen again. That had been the night I had gotten, and it had been magnificent. It had been worth all the nights I would never have with any other shadow of a man I might have picked instead of the love that had picked me.

And just like that I was in a foul mood. I didn’t realize how foul a mood until Lucy caught me on the way in and commented on the scowl I had fixed to my face.

“Was it so bad as all that?” she asked, and I was scandalized for a moment, until I got my head straight.

“Oh, the appointment with the solicitor, you mean?”

She smirked.

“No, that wasn’t what I meant. But I supposed I’ll hear about that too, if I must.”

I ignored the insinuation, and we headed in for tea. I wanted to sleep. My body was sore all over. But coming back into these quarters that felt like exile, I was resolved not to sleep until I could sleep in my own bed, in my own family home.

When I finished telling Lucy of the solicitor, she was unimpressed.

“Yes, your family is all very interesting, I’m sure. There are dark, deep secrets that one of you was once rude to a vicar or some such. It is nice we will get to move to your home, if only for the finances. But honestly, how are we not discussing that you left last night and are only now returning in the morning?”

Yes, of course.

“I’m sorry, Lucy. I hadn’t planned on it. I was waylaid. I hope you were not worried?”

She was exasperated with me, and I knew why. She wanted all the lurid details.

“No, of course not.
You’re
the one who worries. Do you really not intend to enlighten me? What happened last night at the ball between you and that mysterious, handsome, ruined lord from your deep, dark, secret past?”

My face must have betrayed my surprise, because she laughed at me. But I held firm.

Even if I wanted to tell her all of the passionate, undignified, mind-capturing things I’d been doing, I couldn’t. Certainly not now, of all times. Perhaps she wouldn’t tell on me. I dared to say that I could trust her more than I trusted nearly anyone else in the world. But there was always the chance that she would say something she didn’t know she shouldn’t say to precisely the person she shouldn’t say it to. And so I left it alone, and decided not to say anything at all.

Our servant helped us to pack our things, and we were off. I thought we were going to need to call for several cabs, with the gifts and knickknacks I’d been given as presents to curry favor from acquaintances since I’d been back in London. But to my surprise, the family carriage was sent for, along with a few servants to help us pile all of our things as high as they would go.

I recognized the chauffeurs, but I could not remember their names. They remembered mind, and looked on me as affectionately as their station would allow them.

Home! It had been such a long time since I’d been there. I’d paid the greatest price to preserve my right to go there. I’d paid for it with my heart. And now I would see it again.

Lucy put on a pretense of not caring, but I could tell she was excited about it, too. She kept looking out of windows, and asking if we were near it yet, in the most roundabout of ways.

The manor wasn’t in the city, but it wasn’t far out into the country, either. It didn’t have such a prime position as Henry’s family home had, but it was a fair deal bigger. And it was beautiful! The house itself was in books, I was told, and was opened on occasion to visitors to study it, though it hadn’t been much lately.

When we arrived, all the servants were out in a row. There were mostly old, recognizable faces, but it was hard to pick out any one or another of them. It had been such a very long time.

A great many people were saying a great many things to me, and I found it hard to listen. I was struck with a sudden tiredness, as though I’d been putting off sleep for all the years I’d been away, and now that I was home I could finally shut my eyes. Perhaps that is the universal effect of a homecoming after a long time away, but in any case it was abetted by my actual need to rest, ignored for so much of the morning. The servants were barely able to show me to my room and get me under the coverers before I fell asleep.

When I woke, the afternoon had come and nearly gone. The house had a stillness to it, before dinner was in full preparation anywhere other than the kitchens, but after everyone had more or less done what that day was supposed to bring them. I had hated this stillness as a child, but now as an adult I cherished it.

I thought of Henry. And I hated him, just for a passing second, for all the stillnesses that he’d made me miss in this place. But that wasn’t fair, I knew. He hadn’t done that to me. I’d done it to myself. And perhaps I hated myself more for all of the stillnesses that I hadn’t been able to share with him.

I set about trying to find Lucy. I’d been placed in the room I’d grown up in, which had been kept as I’d left it. I’d expected that Lucy would be just next to me. We’d always been just next to each other. Lucy had always been just next door. But here she wasn’t, and it unnerved me.

My search for her became an inadvertent tour of the house. I knew all the passageways so well, or at least I had once. Now there were some that blurred together.

I finally found Lucy in the gallery. Here we kept the most favorite of our collection: portraits of ourselves. For reasons I’d never had adequately explained to me, Grandmother only showed visitors those pieces of art the family had that were expensive or valuable. They were generally by famous painters, and were of biblical scenes, or half-fabricated historical tableaus. These were hidden away, in a room that visitors never toured.

“Those were my great-great-grandparents,” I said, startling her. She glanced at me, then turned her attention back to the painting.

“Oh, were they?” she said, as an afterthought, half under her breath.

We regarded the painting together for a time, until she spoke again.

“It must be a sweet thing, to have a family history.”

I didn’t know what to say, exactly, so I just let any old words come out.

“You have the memory of your parents, as I have the memory of my parents. All these others are only people I have never met.”

I could tell by the look on her face that it wasn’t reassuring.

“Yes, but even so…” her voice trailed off.

I sat on a bench put there for the purpose of sitting in observation, and Lucy joined me, and laid her head on my shoulder.

“You can stay here as long as you like,” I said. “This house is your house. I want you to really feel that way.”

Lucy sighed. It wasn’t like her to be introspective or morose.

“It’s only a house,” she said.

I must have seemed offended, because she quickly qualified.

“It’s a very
fine
house.”

But I knew what she meant.

“And my family, too. I want you to feel that my family is your family. It’s the most important thing, in the end, isn’t it? You must protect your family.”

We sat and looked up at my great-great-grandparents. And Lucy must have been pleased enough, because she said nothing more. She simply sat with her head on my shoulder.

And I understood my grandmother, then, if only in the smallest way. She was wrong, so very wrong, about Henry. And she always would be. And she had been wrong to do to me what she had done. But she was protecting her family. And now that she was losing her mind, I could not fault her for that.

Chapter 13

Henry

There’d been no one of interest at the first party I went to of the night. No matter.

Well, there had been a few of interest, but that was not a matter of importance. It was not unheard of that a lady shouldn’t fall to my advances. It was just usually much less common than this.

Perhaps it was the rawness I felt. Perhaps they could see it written across my face. All the years she had been gone, Emma had left me to grow like a pearl. I had layer upon layer upon layer of protection around me. And those layers were enticing. They were cleverness, and carelessness, and glamour. And the women loved those layers. They loved to feel as though they were only on the edge of my desire, and that were they only marginally less beautiful, I would toss them away. They liked to feel as though I could do better, and was only settling for them.

At least, the sort who were most amenable to fulfilling my needs on a regular basis felt this way.

But when Emma returned, and when she had done what she did and then left again, it was as though all of those layers had been stripped away. And what is a pearl without its protective layers?

A grain of sand. Now I was a grain of sand, and no one wants a grain of sand.

Still, I did it before. I found a way to establish myself and my reputation. And I might not be in fine form, I thought, but I could at least let my reputation do some of the heavy lifting for me.

I miscalculated on a few occasions earlier on in the night. I meant to be playfully, pleasingly, enticingly critical. But I had strayed over the line and disparaged their entire sex in entirely too heartfelt a manner. And that hadn’t played very well at all.

But I held out hope. I kept trying. And finally I found a woman willing to speak to me for long enough that I was satisfied she would let me speak to her with my body as well as my mouth.

“Is your home far away?” I asked her, as suggestively as I could. She looked excited, but regretful at the same time. A bit early for that. Usually the regret didn’t set in until after the women realized what they’d done to their husbands or to their marriageability.

But it turned out I’d read the reason for the regret entirely wrong.

“My husband is there. He would hear us.”

She leaned in close and whispered in my ear.

“Isn’t there any place of yours we might go?”

Why was she out if her husband was at home? What self-respecting woman leaves her husband at home alone and goes off gallivanting about the town, so that any man might think she were free – at least for the night? I was annoyed, but tried not to let her see it. I had a contingency plan for precisely this sort of situation.

“We could go to a hotel. Check in under a fake name. Pretend we are not ourselves for the night.”

Usually this was a source of increased pleasure. She should be giggling. That was usually how this went. The girls giggled, and agreed, and then I had only to make certain I left in the morning before they did, so that they were stuck with the bill to pay. So long as I did that, it was the best of all situations: I would get to spend the night in a very nice hotel, without paying the bill, and there was absolutely no chance of a repeat performance of the other week’s events. No jealous husbands and an extremely soft bed made for a very happy Henry.

But this woman was not giggling.

“No, no, that wouldn’t do. What if they recognized me?”

“Who?” I tried to look scornful, as though this were an absurd fear. But it had been known on occasion to happen. It was a perk for me, as it built my reputation just a little bit more. As for the women, it was somewhat less so. But she was married! Her husband was motivated to believe it was only a rumor. It was only when women were in the market for a husband and were searching for the sort of well-to-do, respectable man who would be put off by just such a rumor, that things became complicated.

“People!” she said, and I knew the jig was up.

She wouldn’t go to a hotel with me. We couldn’t go to hers. Perhaps I could try to sneak her into the club and find a secluded room. But I’d nearly gotten caught there before doing just such a thing, and they’d cracked down on the restrictions to avoid such occurrences. And I couldn’t risk being caught. Especially with the bill I still hadn’t paid, this would be grounds for expulsion, and I couldn’t afford to lose either the free (to me) food and drinks, nor the source of income that the foolishly confident card players there brought me.

I had strict rules about bringing women home: don’t. In the early days, before the fortune had gone entirely, I had done so often. And it had helped to whet their appetite for me. A grand family home, but without the prying family to go along with it … it was a dream for them. Even the married women liked to imagine that I would be so pleased with them that I would steal them away from their husbands and take them to live with me there, in that grand house.

But it had the unfortunate side effect that one out of every dozen or so proved very reluctant to leave. They’d start ordering around the servants, and setting themselves up as the lady of the house. It would always start with something I was doing “wrong.” They would tell me about how this chair was out of fashion, or how that painting belonged best in the parlor, not when I’d put it. And they’d start making changes. And the longer I let that go on, the harder it became to unseat them without such an act of cruelty that might spread and make other women think I was not magnificently charming and a bit of a rogue, but actually a cruel and unkind man.

These days, I did not have that problem. I didn’t bring women back to my home because it was best that no one saw it the way it was. They shouldn’t know how I was living. It wouldn’t do for that to get out. It was one thing for it to be an open secret that there were renters in the Headwidge house, and that I must be staying in the cottage. For women, even that could have a romantic flair to it. From my perspective, letting women see the actual condition of the place was a way of dissuading them from future interludes. But the rest of London needn’t know in explicit detail how I lived.

The only exception to this had been Emma. As always.

But it wasn’t right that Emma should always be the exception, was it? It wasn’t right that she should have such a privileged place in my heart, when she clearly didn’t value it. It wasn’t right that she should occupy my thoughts so, even after casting me aside, once again, and for what? For money. For some imagined threat to me and my reputation. What world would she live in that she thought it was correct of her to make the decision on my behalf as well, for the both of us?

Perhaps there were secrets so dark that, should they come out, the legitimacy of my family fortune would be in jeopardy. It would not surprise me. But even then, was it not my family fortune to lose? It was not hers! It was not her choice!

“We can come to mine,” I heard myself say. There was a trace of the bitterness I was feeling towards Emma infecting my voice, and I could see that the woman could hear it. But I was telling her what she wanted to hear, so she got past her momentary trepidation.

We caught a cab home. It was an unfortunate expense, and once that I could not truly afford. It was emergency money that I dug out when she looked at me, expectantly.

When we came in through the gates, the woman headed directly for the main house. She didn’t know! I thought, perhaps in my own self-centeredness, that everyone knew of my situation. But here was a woman who didn’t, anyway.

I didn’t say anything; I only put my arm around her waist and gently guided her away from the direction of the house, with all its lighted windows and charming, polite conversation. I saw the side of her face in the darkness, lit only by the light from the windows. She looked distressed and disappointed.

A terrible ending to a terrible night. She was unhappy and it would put her less in the mood to enjoy herself. I could not take the possibility of her being disappointed with my performance, but it was too late at this point to turn back. I led her down the path.

And then, when I believe the night to grow no less fortunate, I saw a figure there, near the door to my cottage.

It was very dark here, indeed. I was guiding the woman down the path partly by the light of the waning crescent moon, but mostly by memory. But I knew the woman standing at the door.

I would always know her.

“You may go home,” Emma said, directed at the woman.

“I beg your pardon?” the woman said. I would have introduced her to Emma, perhaps, but I could not just at the moment remember her name. I felt sure I’d known it only a few minutes ago – it was far too early for me to forget it, yet. But with the sight of Emma it had flown from my head.

“I said, you may leave. Go home to your husband now, and he may never hear of this. I’m sorry for the inconvenience this causes you, but tonight is not yours.”

Emma’s voice was cool, and calm, and collected. It had not a trace of impatience, or of jealousy. She was not jealous of this woman. She did not mind her. She only regarded her as something that must be disposed of at the moment, and done with civility.

The woman I’d brought with me would have to find her own way down the path without me to guide her. It would be tricky for her, not knowing it well, and it wouldn’t do to have her lost on the grounds. But there was nothing to do about it now. I couldn’t go back with her. I had the terrible fear that if I let Emma out of my sight she would be gone entirely, and gone forever. I could not allow that to happen.

The woman looked to me to stand up to Emma, but I wouldn’t do it. I only took my arm away from around her waist and stepped away. And the woman understood the situation entirely. She said a few choice things as she began to wind her way down the path. They’d been right about me, apparently. She should have known better. All those sorts of useless things to say after the fact.

The sounds of her walking and muttering and tripping grew fainter and fainter, until they disappeared entirely. And we were, at last, alone.

I walked up to Emma. She was no longer collected the way she had been in speaking to the woman only moments before. Now she was shaking, just slightly. I’d have said she was shivering but for the fact that it was not a cold night.

I stepped up to her, close. I was well within that silver circle of space that social propriety demands we must maintain. I could feel her now. I could feel the beat of her heart, and her breath hitting softly on my neck.

And I could see her lips, opening and closing slightly, as though she were about to speak but could not. And I saw her bite them slightly as she looked me up and down, and I knew of her desire.

I had spent much of the day thinking of all the things I would say to her if I saw her again. Half of the hours I spent composing grand speeches about the sanctity of love above all, to convince her that there was no threat we couldn’t overcome together. The other hours I spent spewing condemnation of her and everything that was in her heart. I called her full of bile and greed, and insisted that no life, no heart, could be trusted to such a woman.

But now none of those words come to my lips to be said. None of it needed to be. Not now. Not now that I could feel her, nearly in my arms again.

I wound my left arm around her, and with my right, put a finger on her lips. It was as though I were quieting her, only she was not speaking. She let out a sound when I touched her, like a tiny little moan crossed with a cry of surprise.

I pushed harder with my finger. The moan reminded me of the noises she had made the night before, and how each one had gratified me. I slid my finger in, and felt myself begin to grow hard as it entered her soft, warm mouth.

She was mine. Her body was mine. Whatever she might say in the light of day, or in the morning, as I felt her heart racing, I knew it was mine to do with as I pleased.

And I could think of so many things that would please me.

I didn’t even take her inside before I began. I took my hand from her lips, and reached down, down to the bottom of her skirts so I could reach up her legs. My fingers glanced off her smooth, long legs as I went, but they weren’t my mission.

No, this was. She was already ready for me, and my fingers slid in easily. I saw Emma’s mouth open, as though to scream, or yell in surprise, but no sound came out. Her eyes were wide, staring at me.

As I moved my fingers, I saw her react. It was immense, the power I had over her. The slightest motion of my fingers produced a profound effect.

The bed would not do. The bed was too far. Even the table was too far. Here, on the porch, she would feel what she nearly gave up.

It was easy to get her on the ground. Already her legs had grown weak with pleasure, and I was holding her up almost completely. I laid her head down as gently as I could. With both hands I worked her up, bringing her to the brink, and then brought her back down. She should feel it. She should feel how it is to be denied. She looked up at me, her face a mess of pleasure and frustration.

And so I began again, playing with her, watching her face and learning what brought her the most pleasure. And I brought her, again, to the edge. She was almost gone over, but I stopped, just short. She reached with her own hands to finish herself, as she had the night before.

“No, no, no,” I said, stopping them gently.