She came over him, hands curling on his muscled shoulders as she straddled him and bent to take his lips again. They kissed until both were panting and moaning, straining toward each other. The sensation of his broad palms sliding over her, sweeping her bare back, her hips, her thighs, drove her mad. She ground down against him, the hard ridge of his manhood burning into her moist heat.
His hands spanned her waist and slid up, brushing her belly and ribs until he reached her breasts. He played and toyed with them, pulling, tweaking, and rolling the nipples until she arched and cried out, ripples of sensation sizzling through her.
Quivering, she worked to free him of his shirt, her hands shaking as they roamed over his broad chest, delighting in the feel of his warm flesh, the undulation of his muscle beneath skin. She traced his tattoo, nails scoring the coiling serpent. Lowering her head, she kissed it, using her tongue to trace its form.
“Did it hurt?” she whispered, her mouth hovering over the serpent’s coiling shape.
“Yes.”
She winced, imagining that he must have had to sit for hours, enduring the discomfort. “Then why did you do it?”
“It’s just pain.”
She smiled dryly. “People usually try to avoid pain.”
She felt his voice rumble from his chest. “Pain is good sometimes. It reminds you you’re alive.”
He needed reminding of that?
She peered down at him, staring into his shadowed eyes, and realized that he did. For all his outrageous ways and life of excess, he couldn’t—didn’t—feel much of anything.
She slid down his body, loosening his trousers, hot determination feeding her. You’ll feel alive. You’ll feel more alive than you’ve ever felt.
He watched her, his eyes a hot gleam beneath heavy lids, his hands relaxed at his sides.
Her eager hands shoved his breeches down. She took him in her hands, stroking the hard length of him, squeezing him, satin on steel in her grasp. She watched his face, studying the tight muscle flinching in his jaw, the dark want smoldering in his eyes.
Wrapping her fingers around the base of him, she took the tip of him into her mouth, sucking softly at first then harder, her tongue circling slowly, languorously, savoring him. He shuddered beneath her and wedged a hand between them, cupping her breast even as she eased more of him into her mouth.
Long fingers found her nipple and squeezed. White-hot sparks shot from her breast to the throbbing core of her. She cried out with him thick in her mouth. Determined to illicit his pleasure, to savor and taste, to know she brought him the deepest of pleasures, she slid her mouth over him, taking him deep, tongue gliding, caressing his hard length.
His hips surged and he groaned, the fingers of his other hand sifting through her hair. “God, Fallon. Now. Now.”
Gratified in his response, her blood burned, pushing her to the breaking point. Desperate and aching, she guided him inside her, easing down on the hard length of him with a moan, sinking until he was buried to the hilt.
Hands curling around his neck, she brought his mouth to hers again, her breasts flattening against his chest. She worked her hips as their lips fused, pumping over him. Feeling somewhat clumsy in her wild need, she tried to move slower, to control the frenzied pace. But her passion burned too hot, and she moved faster, her muscles clenching around him, tightening. Something elusive loomed ahead, just out of her reach, and she felt she would die if she did not reach it soon.
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 breasts. “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 naked 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
F allon 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.
And yet she did.
She had fought the feeling, resisted it like a bad cold creeping into her lungs. She had plunged ahead into her new life: settling into her home, meeting and greeting the curious, well-intentioned neighbors and villagers, spending time in her garden. Her garden. She paused. It felt remarkable to even think those words.
On a whim, she had decided to create an arrangement for the church. A small thing to do for the community that had embraced her with such warmth. A few of the residents recalled her father. Even her. There was something in that, she supposed. Almost as though she really had returned home. Som
ething to distract from the ache for a man incapable of emotion. Incapable of love. A man she would never see again.
She did not fear meeting Dominic here. Even with Wayfield Park a rock throw’s distance, it was the last place he would visit. Her cottage on the southeast corner of Little’s Saums posed even less of a threat.
She had convinced herself the ache wouldn’t last. Like any sickness, it would pass and she would grow stronger from it.
She strolled along the churchyard, pausing at the gate to the cemetery. Dull light peered down through tree branches. She spied a figure bending awkwardly at a grave, clinging to a brass-headed cane as he set flowers upon it. Extravagant yellow tulips. Cheerful for the dreary afternoon.
The gentleman stood, straightening his frame and lifting his face to the muted light. There was no mistaking him. Dominic’s grandfather. Mr. Collins. Not quite at death’s door, it would seem. Something terrible twisted inside her at the sight of this man who caused Dominic such pain. Who made him what he was—a man who could never love. Never love me. Not as she loved him. And she did love him. Painful as it was to admit, painful as it was to feel. And she did feel it. Every day.
Jaw set, she strode ahead, her strides swift and purposeful, even if what she would say to him remained a void.
He looked up, startled at her approach. “Who are you?” he snapped.
“Fallon O’Rourke.” She stopped.
He appraised her critically. “Am I supposed to know you?”
“I’ve taken residence at the cottage just beyond the old mill.”
He nodded once, the motion curt, dismissive. With a grunt, he turned his attention back to the grave.
He reminded her a little of herself just then. Enough that she could only stand and stare. No doubt Wayfield Park abounded with servants. People left and right. Yet here he stood. Looking as she felt. Alone. Lonely.
Fallon had only thought to claim her home and everything would be right. Solved. Happy, even. But at night, long after the Redley sisters had departed for the day, she climbed into bed and lay alone. There she could not fool herself. Nothing felt right. She had not counted upon the stark sense of aloneness that would come with living independently. The humming silence of her house. The quiet hush of her breath in the room. In her bed. Damn Dominic. He had ruined everything for her.