In Your Arms Again (17 page)

Groaning, he broke the contact between their mouths, caught her insistent hands in his, and shoved her—gently—away. God give him strength, he would not be able to refuse her again, not with his control stretched so thinly.

“Octavia, no.”

Her lips red, her eyes wide, she stared at him. “Why not?”

“Because I do not take advantage of foxed women.”

She stomped her foot. “I am not foxed!”

Her blatant lie made him want to smile. He resisted the urge. “You are close enough.”

“I do not care.”

“You will care in the morning, when you wake up in my bed.” Just the thought of it made him throb. “You know I am right.”

Dark, slightly unfocused eyes blazed. “No, I will not. I am tired of doing the right thing all the time. I want to do what I want. I want to have my own way. Give me my own way!”

He shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help but laugh at her petulant tone. How ironic. The one time she was prepared to not care about what others thought, or the consequences of her actions, and he couldn’t take advantage. “Not when I know you will regret it later.”

Her fingers tightened around his as her expression softened. “I do not regret making love to you twelve years ago, North. I would not regret doing so again tonight.”

North swallowed hard. He believed her. Drunk or not, she would not regret lying with him. Maybe she wouldn’t regret the act, but she might regret the consequences.

Warm, liquor-sweet breath fanned his face. “Do you know why I promised my mother I would become a lady, North?”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this. “No.”

Suddenly her gaze seemed infinitely clear. “I knew how much you wanted to belong to society. I thought that if I became a lady that you might…but you never did.”

He stared at her. There were so many things that she could be alluding to, but in his heart he knew exactly what she meant.

“I did.” Pulling one of his hands free of hers, he lifted it to her cheek. “Oh, Vie, I did and I wanted to, but—”

“But you knew my grandfather wanted you to stay away.”

“Yes.” Of course he knew. The old man had told him in no uncertain terms.

Her mouth tightened as her chin trembled the slightest bit. “You found it easy enough to do that.”

How could he explain so that she would understand? It was for the best. What kind of life would they have had?

“It was a fantasy, Vie. It wasn’t real.”

“No, Norrie.” She pulled free of his grasp. “What we are doing now, the lives we live,
those
are not real. Our friendship was as real and true as anything you or I have ever experienced. The rest has all been lying, something we both are entirely too good at.”

What could he possibly say to that? He wanted to deny it, to tell her she was fooling herself, that they had been living in a dream world back then and
this
was reality, but he couldn’t.

“And what is the most sad,” she continued, her voice hoarse with what he feared might be tears, “is that we have been lying for so long, we no longer know how to be ourselves. It is so much safer to be someone else.”

“Vie—”

“Thank you for a lovely evening, North, but I think it is time that I returned to Mayfair.”

She still hadn’t referred to her house as home. Only his house had that distinction. Right now he didn’t want to entertain the meaning behind it.

He didn’t even bother to straighten his shirt as he shrugged on his coat. He’d paid the hackney driver to wait outside. He’d see her back to her house and then he’d go around to Wyn’s and see what he was up to. He couldn’t come back here right away, not with the scent of her still lingering.

Because for the brief time she’d spent there, the house actually felt like home.

N
orth was either the noblest man in England, or the stupidest. One thing for certain, Fitzwilliam Markham, Lord Spinton, was without a doubt the luckiest. North hoped the earl’s luck would hold out and Octavia wouldn’t kill Spinton on their wedding night.

Lying in the middle of his bed among rumpled, sundappled sheets, North rubbed his palm over his stubbled cheek. God knew Octavia was going to be the death of
him
. He couldn’t survive another interlude like last night’s. He wouldn’t be able to stand against her. It was only the fact that she hadn’t had all her wits about her that stopped him. Thankfully she hadn’t been sober.

Even sober she was a temptress of mythical proportions.

What would Spinton think of that? His lady bride was
not
going to be very ladylike in the bedroom. In fact, she was going to be all woman, with all the needs, desires, and demands that came with that soft, luscious flesh. She would be wasted on a proper dolt like Spinton.

North would make certain none of her went to waste.
Christ, if last night was any indication, there would be nothing left of either of them by the time they were done. The want—nay,
need
—for her had been so intense, so incredibly strong, it scared the shite out of him. Never before had he ever experienced such a sensation. He’d actually thought he might die if he didn’t have her. It had taken all his strength to refuse her.

Too bad he couldn’t take comfort in his noble gesture. He should have screwed her. That would teach her to get foxed and tempt poor defenseless men. Weak, randy men.

But he didn’t want to simply “screw” Octavia.
That
was what saved her. He wanted her in his bed, completely aware of what was happening to her. He wanted clarity in her gaze when he buried himself inside her. God knew he would be acutely aware of every inch of her wrapped around every inch of him. He wanted no less from her—and he wanted her to come to him fully prepared to face the consequences of letting him possess her.

And there would be consequences. There always were. Consequences were what made a difference between simple screwing and what the poets called “making love.” How apt that was. Love was often one of those consequences. He had faced that one with Octavia once before. Could he risk facing it again?

No, the risk was just too great. To give her his heart once more and then let her walk out of his life was beyond him. Letting her go once was noble. Twice would be the height of stupidity.

She hadn’t been with anyone else. The knowledge was staggering. Twelve years, and the only man to have ever touched her—to have ever been inside her—was he. What he had done to deserve such an honor, he had no idea. He knew only that Spinton would soon rob him of it, and that he would rather saw off his own arm than see that happen.

North pushed the sheets down around his hips. He was too warm, too hard, and a little too late for such jealousy. Spinton would be good to Octavia. His insistence that North investigate these mysterious letters was proof enough of that. He even risked Octavia’s wrath to ensure her safety. He was wealthy and powerful and well liked among the
ton
, and he had the benefit of having been handpicked by Octavia’s grandfather. North, of course, had been decidedly unwanted as far as marrying into the family was concerned.

He doubted the old curmudgeon even told Octavia that North had come to visit the morning her grandfather took her. And he would bet money that the old man certainly never told her that North had been prepared to propose marriage. Of course he hadn’t. Octavia had been so surprised by his admission that day in Hyde Park.

Her grandfather had smiled, told him he was a good boy, and then asked him to never come near his granddaughter again.

She deserves better. I am sure you can understand that.

Sadly enough, he could.

No, Spinton would be a good husband to Octavia. More importantly, they belonged to the same world. Spinton would never bring lowlifes or criminal types into their house.

Spinton probably wouldn’t play at foolish games with her either. Spinton wouldn’t make an ass of himself just to see Octavia smile. And Spinton wouldn’t have to watch her marry another man, knowing someone else was going to kiss those lips, stroke that skin…

And she had the nerve to tell him he was living a lie. That they both were. He had little doubt that her life was nothing more than a series of scenes and acts, but
his
was real. Black Sally’s grave was proof of that.

Although Octavia had been correct when she said that their friendship had been real. The most treasured friend of
his life, she was. She always would be. A part of him would always adore her, always want her. But he could never, ever make the mistake of having her. If he made love to her again, he would never want to let her go. And he had to let her go. It was what was best, for both of them. She wasn’t safe in his world, and he would die of boredom in hers.

Still, it might be worth it to have her in his bed again.

“Frig it all!” Tossing back the covers, North swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood. He wasn’t accomplishing anything lying in bed daydreaming about his first lover. That had to be why he was feeling this way. Octavia was his first, just as he had been hers; that was why he felt this strange possessiveness where she was concerned. There was nothing else to explain it.

The door to his bedroom burst open just as he was reaching for his dressing gown. Wynthrope strode in as though he owned the place, a cup and saucer in one hand.

“Good morning, brother—dear God, tell me
that
is not for me.”

Scowling, North pulled on his gown and tried to ignore the very pointed stare his brother leveled at his groin. “How did you ever guess?”

Wyn merely grinned. “I brought you coffee to get your blood flowing, but I see you are quite awake as it is.”

North inhaled the scent of freshly brewed coffee deep into his lungs. He was in no mood for Wyn’s teasing. “Just drop it, Wyn.”

“You first.”

Turning his back on his brother with a grunt of frustration, North willed his erection to wilt before his brother made anymore of a mockery out of him than he already had. “Isn’t it a little early for you to be out and about?”

There was the sound of Wynthrope setting the coffee cup on the nightstand. “Yes, but seeing as how I was done sleep
ing, I thought I would get up and come see my dear brother.”

Either flippant or caustic, that was Wyn. There were very few in-betweens.

“Mrs. Bunting gave me this to give to you. Good thing she did not decide to deliver it herself. You might very well have given the old girl a seizure.”

North turned. Wyn held out his hand. In it was a note. From the spidery handwriting on the outside, he could tell it was from Francis. He broke the seal.

His brother watched with what appeared to be perfect boredom. “I take it is from one of your associates?”

North nodded. “Francis. I gave him one of the notes Octavia’s admirer sent. The paper had a watermark on it. He has found the shop that makes it.”

“Well, let’s have breakfast and head over there.”

North stared at his brother. “You want to come with me?”

A frown marred Wynthrope’s otherwise cool countenance. “Yes, why not?”

Shrugging, North collected the cooled cup of coffee and took a drink. “Nothing, just that you’ve never had an interest in my work before.”

“That is not true.”

He took another swallow of the hot brew. “I hardly think the one time you were directly involved in the case I was investigating counts.”

“It should. I consider that one your most important investigations to date.”

Wynthrope might sound blasé, but North knew better. His brother had never forgiven himself for being duped into a life of crime, nor had he forgiven himself for the fact that North left Bow Street rather than turn him in. North, however, was just glad he had been the one to uncover Wyn’s involvement and that he managed to get him out of harm’s way before he could be arrested.

Wouldn’t Harker like to get his hands on that bit of information? It was one more reason for North to tread carefully where the villain was concerned. Normally no one would believe a man of Harker’s reputation, but if Harker whispered in the right ears…

There was no point in worrying about that now. “There must be some other reason you want to have breakfast and accompany me on business. What is it?”

Wyn rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Do I have to have a reason?”

“You never do anything without a reason.”

The Ryland lopsided smile became a smirk on Wyn’s lips. “Feed me and I shall tell you.”

“Fine.” He was used to his brother’s secrecy. “Just let me dress.” Setting the cup on its saucer, North turned toward his wardrobe.

“Please do, we cannot have you frightening innocent bystanders with your
turgid
display of virility.”

He didn’t so much as glance at his brother. “Get out.”

Wynthrope chuckled—a sound that made North smile in return—and left the room.

Fifteen minutes later, washed and dressed in buff breeches, dark gray coat, and black hessians, North met his brother downstairs in his office. Wyn was seated at the table, drinking a cup of coffee and staring out the window at the sunny morning.

“What an interesting neighborhood you live in, brother. I just saw some nob relieved of his purse.”

Served the “nob” right if he came into the Garden carrying a lot of blunt. “I like it.”

Wyn sipped his coffee. “You would.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” North demanded, pouring himself a cup from the silver pot. He needed at least two cups just to feel alive some mornings.

Wyn lifted his dark blue gaze. He was almost completely devoid of expression. “Only that from here you have no place to go but up.”

North smiled. “I could go down.”

“No.” Wyn turned his attention back to the window. “I do not think so.”

“Don’t you start in on me as well.” Seating himself on the opposite side of the table, North shot a glance at the view that seemed to so captivate his brother. “There is nothing wrong with my life.”

This time there was plenty of expression on Wynthrope’s face. He was not impressed. “Of course not, if one considers living among the same criminals you hunt a good way to live.”

North took no offense. His brother had a point. “Not everyone that lives here is a criminal. And do not forget that I grew up here. This is my home.”

“Then why does it seem more like a mausoleum?”

He looked around. A mausoleum? “It does not.”

“Let me give you some advice.” Turning in his chair, Wyn lazily crossed one leg over the other. “Those numerous sheets draped in almost every room of this house? They actually have furniture underneath them. If you take the covers off, you can use the furniture to do things on, like eat, sit, or screw.”

North rolled his eyes. “Charming, Wyn.” But his brother’s words cut deeper than he would ever know.

Mrs. Bunting appeared in the doorway with a cart. “Here’s your breakfast, Mr. Sheffield. Mr. Ryland, I made poached eggs just for you.”

Wynthrope flashed a charming—and surprisingly genuine—grin. “Bunting, my darling, I adore you.”

The older woman blushed a charming pink. “You and your sweet talk.”

North rolled his eyes. His brother was the only man alive who could use food as an implement of flirtation. Wyn’s charm was his holland covers, covering everything he didn’t want to face, just like the furniture in North’s house.

Wyn didn’t understand—or perhaps he did—that taking the covers off would be North’s final commitment to staying in Covent Garden and giving up his childhood dreams of leaving it all behind. And that didn’t mean leaving it behind for society either. It meant letting go of the past completely. As much as he didn’t want to give up the house, he wasn’t quite ready to give up those dreams, or his past.

Perhaps when all this was over with Octavia, he’d take the covers off. Perhaps.

Halfway through their meal, North looked up from his sausage and eggs to find his brother watching him.

Wyn’s gaze narrowed. “You did not shave.”

How very astute. Was he just now noticing? “No, I did not.”

A frown appeared. “And you plan to go out in public?”

North let just the right amount of sarcasm creep into his voice. “I do.” Even though he had allowed Octavia’s investigation to take most of his time, he wasn’t about to let up on his pursuit of Harker. He was going to talk to some of his informants throughout the day—uncover Harker’s latest movements, discover if anyone else felt like telling what they knew. Then he’d meet with Francis and hear what he had found out about the paper Octavia’s admirer used. That watermark should tell them something.

“You do not give a fig what you look like, do you?”

“Not a one.” And it was true. He didn’t care what he looked like. No, that was untrue. Sometimes he cared when Octavia was around. He wanted her to like how he looked. Oddly enough, she never seemed to care either.

Wynthrope shook his head. “So, what’s this I hear about
you and Lady Octavia Vaux-Daventry being seen together about town?”

He should have known this was coming. Wynthrope was the only one of his brothers who knew the whole story about himself and Octavia. Even in their youth he and Wyn had been close; the few months separating their births only added to it.

“It is true.”

There was real interest—and surprising concern—in his gaze. “You are not swiving her, are you?”

In addition to charm, Wynthrope was also gifted with the ability to be remarkably crass.

North set down his fork and knife. “What makes you think that is any business of yours?”

“I am your brother.” He said as though it were explanation enough. Usually, it was.

“You are nosy.”

“That too.” Wyn’s expression changed. It hardened. “I do not want to see you hurt again.”

“I was not hurt.”
Liar.

“No?” Wynthrope arched a dark brow. “It must have been an imbalance of the spleen that made you prone to melancholy and bouts of ungentlemanly weeping.”