One Night Is Never Enough (21 page)

“Yes.” The word barely emerged. Return? In what state? But he had taken great care to stroke the hair only at her nape—an area she had pinned with an ornate bauble of paste. She quickly detached and reattached the pin, smoothing up the hair beneath as she did so.

She pressed a hand to her chest, willing it to cool, hoping the skin there didn’t appear as inflamed as it felt. “I was thinking maybe we should walk to the lake before we head back. See if the others found trouble,” she said.

An affair.

Something more
permanent.
Still taking place in the dark of night, in the shadows, but having a different set of rules and consequences.

She could hear Downing mutter something less than kind about his brother’s intelligence. The pair came closer, in range for them to finally see her.

“Excellent idea!” Miranda said.

Charlotte thought so. It would be a good five-minute walk in the night, after all. Plenty of time for her skin to cool before she pitched herself into the depths of the liquid for her stupidity. Or figured out a way to drown her erstwhile companion for starting their actions and leaving her heaving on stone.

An affair.

Something that bound him to her, and her to him, for a period of time. Something heady and euphoric. Something that was both in and out of her control.

She wanted him.
Needed
the feelings he produced. Craved them like a starving woman searching for food.

She pulled her lips into her mouth, running her tongue across them as she stood, the taste of him all over them. Experiencing excitement and terror at the swirling thoughts inside of her. Not wishing to think too much about how she was more like her reckless father than she wished.

Chapter 13

R
oman paced outside, the wet grass squishing beneath his boots. All of the windows were dark.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” One-eyed Bill muttered.

What
was
he doing?

“Of course I do.” He stopped and sent a charming grin the man’s way. Bill grimaced but looked mollified. When he had first met Bill, that grin would never have worked, but he had spent a lot of time honing it, and Bill had been properly reformed and enlightened since. Always useful to have people who thought you walked on water.

Andreas liked to knock him into the dark depths often enough.

“You are sure that is her window?”

“Saw her through it earlier before she drew the drapes.” But Bill looked shifty.

“One-eye, I swear if you have me entering some nitwit maid’s quarters, I’ll skin you alive.”

“No, it’s hers,” he said quickly.

Roman watched him silently, making Bill shift nervously, until Roman was satisfied it was the truth. Obviously, someone else had grabbed the man’s attention. Probably a maid who liked to pose in open windows, hoping to provide a show.

“Fine. Thank you. Go home and get some sleep for once.”

Bill scratched his neck. “Well, you see . . .”

Roman narrowed his eyes, and Bill scratched more vigorously.

“What with all of the dealings . . . it’s just that . . . well, and the irons . . . and the fire pits . . . and the trouble . . . and this particular consolidation . . .”

Roman motioned with his hand, trying to encourage him to speak faster. He was fond of the man, but his patience was limited at the moment, as close as he was.

“Well, it’s a lot of things, yes?” Bill finished, hope and dread in his expression.

“
Things
that happen every day.” She was twenty paces away, waiting to be stripped behind those drapes, and Bill wanted to
talk.

“Well, not quite at this rate of expectancy.” Bill nodded encouragingly, in a way that said he was hoping that if he could get Roman to think rationally, he wouldn’t have to keep speaking. “Usually we are more circumspect.”

Roman gave him another large, charming smile. Anything to get him to leave. “And these past few weeks we’ve been quick.” He patted the man on the shoulder. “Now go home.”

Bill shifted. “Well . . . quick . . . yes. . . .”

“Quick. Yes.” When Bill stayed where he was, Roman dropped the smile and narrowed his eyes again. “Things are moving
quickly.
And One-eye, I’m not in the mood for discussion,” he warned.

“Right. Well, see . . .” He rubbed his neck again. “Well, see . . . Merrick said. . . .”

Knowledge and rage collided together. Bill suddenly looked quite alarmed, hands held in front of him. “Now, Boss—”

“Andreas told you to watch after me?”

“Now, Boss, it’s not like that—”

“Do I look twelve, stupid, and virginal?”

“No, it’s not like that, but with Cornelius stirring up trouble—”

“If you don’t leave right now,” Roman kept his voice low, for once not trying to cover the roughness in the syllables, “I will not be responsible for the
trouble
that happens to either of you.”

Bill backed away slowly. “Uh, I’ll . . . I’ll be at the tavern around the corner.” The man beat a hasty retreat before Roman could answer.

Roman kept his eyes narrowed as the shadows sucked in the form of the larger man. He took a deep breath when he was sure Bill was gone, and pushed away the darker emotions that whispered that Roman was not thinking straight, that his actions in the past weeks entitled all of those around him to be wary.

But he’d deal with that later. The twist of fate and press of circumstances demanded his attention now.

He turned back to his inspection of the house, more specifically the one window he was most interested in, letting the thought of her push away thoughts of anything else.

The shadowed drape shuddered as if someone had momentarily touched it.

A slow smile curved, pleasure sliding through him as it always did when he thought of her, and he darted through the shadows of the yard and reached for the first branch of the tree, a tree situated perfectly in line with her sill. Like some fate had deliberately planted the gnarled thing there just for his future use.

He swung himself up easily, ascending each branch in turn until he reached the desired one. He crouched low, eyes already well accustomed to the dark, automatically looking for the easiest way in.

A dark swatch at the bottom started a coil curling within him.

The window was cracked.

Beautiful. She had not only left the window unbolted but cracked as well. God, he was going to enjoy this.

His fingers curled under the wooden pane and lifted, sliding it up slowly enough so that he could feel the notches where the wood might stick. Soundlessly raising it.

He reached forward and drew the drape aside with one hand. A snap sounded. Like the cock of a gun. He tensed, knife sliding easily into his other palm.

Then a pinpoint of light flared, enough for him to see the flint in her hand, the candle on the table. Dressed only in a thin nightgown, her hair plaited down her back.

The knife disappeared back into his sleeve, and he smiled as he slipped easily inside.

“Good evening, Charlotte,” he murmured, voice as smooth as he had practiced for all of these years. Never quite ridding himself of the echo of the streets, but that was fine. He watched the slight shiver rake her. There was use in that too.

She looked beautiful, standing in the faint golden light. Not so much from the way her physical features melded perfectly together but in the way she was looking at him, her body positioning—half of her leaning toward him, the other half tight and anxious. Wanting and unsure.

He walked a few quick steps toward her before he slowed and stopped, deliberately gazing around the room. What was wrong with him? It was as if he
were
twelve and virginal. Eager and stupid.

He made a show of coolly inspecting her space, a loose smile on his face, kicking himself.

Her bedroom was . . . neat. Tidy. Unsurprising, really, but something made him pause and look again. There were very few personal objects in the space. For a moment he wondered if this
was
a guest room.

His gaze caught on the dressing table. A white king stood regally next to the cheval glass. A sentinel. He walked over and touched the crown, lifting the piece by its little ivory notches.

“An interesting decoration.”

She bolted his way—slipping across the floor on bare feet—and snatched it from him, carefully placing it back on the table, squaring it next to the mirror again. Then as if suddenly realizing what she was doing, she crossed her arms, shoulders hunching up for a moment. The most uncertain reaction he had ever seen her make.

She gave a little shiver that seemed to start in her shoulders and vibrate down to her feet, and his hands automatically reached forward and drew up and down her arms to warm her. She tensed at the contact but relaxed as he continued the gentle, though vigorous, massage.

Small amounts of patience paid big dividends with her. He had felt it in his bones the first time he had spoken to her, and the observation had never failed him. Besides, touching her loosened something within him, a coil that he hadn’t even been aware of before she’d entered his existence.

He gradually drew her closer until she was pressed against him, his arms wrapped around her. She sighed softly into his shoulder.

With someone else he would say, “Better?” in a roguish way. But the word stuck to the back of his tongue, and he just kept his arms around her instead. The faint golden shadows embracing them.

“I wasn’t sure you would come,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“No?” The question came out much more seriously than he’d intended.

“I wasn’t sure I hadn’t simply dreamed the whole thing.”

He raised a brow though she couldn’t see it.

“Perhaps I’m dreaming now.” She gave a lifeless laugh. “I must be since there is a man in my room, and my mother is naught but a floor above and a room over.”

He didn’t ask after her father. Roman knew where the man spent most nights. Dividing his hours between the tables and his mistress’s bed.

“You opened the window,” he couldn’t help but point out.

He expected a defensive, sarcastic response such as, “You would just have broken in anyway.”

But she said nothing before pulling back a space, eyes meeting his in the faint light. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Why?” He internally kicked himself for asking. He didn’t need an answer to that question, dammit. She was the one who wanted to know why, why, why. He simply coaxed and
took
what he wanted. And here she was on a candlelit tray. Who cared
why
?

“Because I don’t want to feel broken. Because . . .” She pulled her lips in, as if remembering the taste of something unforgettable. “Because you make me feel alive. Because . . . because I want you to burn me from the inside again like you so easily do.”

Fine. He cared a lot about why, then. And for someone with such an abundance of pride, she delivered raw statements like flowing water gushing from an undammed creek. Handing him pieces of her soul so easily when it was obvious that with others she normally kept a tight grip.

He was rock hard. God, he wanted to crawl right into her and never leave.

He touched her face, tilting her chin, gently slipping his mouth over hers. She gave a breathy little sigh, reaching up to touch his cheeks, his chin, her lips opening beneath his, allowing him to deepen the contact. He felt like he was drowning.

He pulled back, unnerved.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, head tilted back, a half-drunk look in her eyes. Not drunk from liquor, though. Her lower body automatically molded to his as she looked up at him. He could feel the heat of her, burning, pressing against him, making him list five different manners of filthy things he could do to her in the next five seconds flat.

Her eyes pinned him, though, and he swallowed, unsettled.

“Me neither,” he whispered back, taking her lips in his. Trying to drown the words, the admission. He stepped her back and laid her on the bed, her golden plait coiling like a tether. He lay down next to her, resting his head on one hand and touching the silk rope with the other. “Sad to keep it chained like this.”

She swallowed. “I do it every night. It keeps it tamed.”

“Oh?” He pulled the end so that it curled across her chest, examining it in the faint candlelight. “I think we should rectify that, don’t you?”

He didn’t wait for her response but rose to his knees, crouching next to her, and started to unlace the strands. The back of his hand brushed the tip of her breast, and her stomach clenched beneath the thin gown.

He slowly unwound the strands. Separating each section and letting the loosened silk fall to brush her exposed skin—at her neck, her wrists.

He smiled at the increased rise and fall of her chest and leaned down to run his lips along her throat, up the underside of her chin. Her hands were suddenly on his cheeks and she was pulling him up and into a kiss. Demanding. Hot. And this was why she was going to be
his
.

He disengaged himself reluctantly and chuckled in her ear. “You don’t want to go slow, Charlotte?” His hand drew down and circled around her backside, fingers wrapping just a bit farther around, the thin material no barrier at all.

He looked back to see her gazing at him, lips pulling into her mouth again, tasting
him
. And the thought that he might
truly
crawl into her and never leave took him. But there was a thread of uncertainty in the depths of her eyes. That damn tendril of guilt coiled once more.

Here he was planning to rob her of her virginity, after all. Something that some considered a badge of honor on the marriage bed. The loss of which happened far more often than the social elders liked to admit, no matter that they themselves had been young once. Young and foolish, thinking that a warm touch meant love or affection. Or simply wanting the experience, desiring the relief.

He batted away the guilt. He’d make it up to Charlotte. Just like with Andreas, he always did.

He lifted her braid once more and continued uncoiling it, pausing only to pull her to a seated position. He straddled her, keeping most of his weight balanced on his knees, but there was enough pressure there for her to feel him. Her arms were back, supporting her, pressing her, lifting breasts against his chest with every breath.

He pulled his fingers through the freed strands, embracing her as he smoothed them down her back, his rougher cheek brushing her smooth one. He reached down and gripped the bottom of her nightgown, slowly inching it upward, making her arch against him, using her hands to balance and prop herself up, making him rise a little with every pressed arch, like she was a mare, and he the rider adjusting her saddle in motion.