Rule's Bride (19 page)

The word
divorce
slipped into her head.

She didn't want to end their marriage. She wanted Rule to love her.

As she was in love with him.

The realization hit her with the force of a Boston wind. She hadn't understood how deeply she had fallen until tonight…until she had seen him with the brunette.

Her heart twisted hard. Dear God, how could she have let it happen?

But in truth, she had been fascinated by Rule Dewar since she was a girl of sixteen.

A
light rain had begun to fall, shrouding the streets in a hazy mist. As the carriage rolled toward home, Violet and Rule rode in silence, the tension thick inside the coach. When they reached the town house, he helped her down and led her up the front porch stairs into the house.

“I'm feeling a little tired,” Violet told him, needing to put some distance between them, needing time to think. “I'm going straight to bed.”

A muscle tightened in Rule's jaw, making the tiny indentation in his chin more pronounced. “Very well. I have some paperwork to do. Don't wait up for me.” Turning, he strode off down the hall to his study.

Clearly, he would not be coming to her bed tonight, which suited Violet just fine.

She wanted to ask him straight out about the brunette, wanted to know if Lady Fremont was the reason for his surly mood, but her pride wouldn't let her. She refused to let him know how much she cared, how much it hurt to think of him with another woman.

Mary was waiting when she reached her bedroom. “Let me help ye, milady.”

“Thank you, Mary. I am feeling rather exhausted tonight.” A gust of wind rattled the windows and she could hear the rain beating hard against the panes.

“Don't ye worry. I'll have ye in bed in a jiff.” Violet thanked God for Mary, who was always so kind and helpful. Several weeks back, Rule had asked if she wanted to choose a maid schooled in managing a lady's toilette, but Violet was perfectly content with Mary.

“Let's get this off ye.” Mary helped her out of her gown and caged crinoline. Violet was preparing to remove the rest of her garments, standing in front of the mirror in corset, drawers, garters and stockings, when the door burst open and Rule strode into the bedroom.

“That will be all for tonight, Mary.”

The maid's eyes widened at the hard look on his face. “Yes, milord.” Scurrying out of the bedroom, she quickly closed the door.

Piqued at Rule's high-handedness, Violet turned a cool stare in his direction and for the first time noticed his dishevelment. His coat, waistcoat and cravat had been removed. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up, exposing the muscles in his forearms. His black hair was mussed as if he had run his fingers through it.

His eyes moved over her, burning into her like the blue tip of a flame. They settled on the swell of her breast and though she was still angry at him, her nipples peaked inside her corset.

He crossed his arms over the width of his very solid chest. “So what did your dear friend
Jeffrey
have to say?”

“Jeff—Jeffrey?” There was a squeak in her voice she couldn't quite contain.

His mouth curved harshly. “I gather you two had quite a discussion out on the terrace.”

Good grief, she should have known he would find out! Instead of guilt, she thought of the brunette and felt a rush of satisfaction.

“Jeffrey is concerned for my welfare. He wanted to know if I was happy.”

Rule moved toward her, stopped right in front of her. “Is that so? Surely that wasn't all. What else did he want?”

She knew she shouldn't tell him, but some evil little demon inside her couldn't resist. “He wanted me to return with him to Boston.”

Rule's jaw hardened and a rude sound came from his throat. “You're my wife, Violet. You aren't going anywhere with
Jeffrey.
”

She gasped as his big hands settled on her shoulders and he dragged her hard against him, then his mouth crushed down over hers. For a fleeting instant, she thought of the countess, but his tongue slid into her mouth and desire struck her so hard it made her weak.

“You're mine,” he whispered, kissing the side of her neck. His teeth nipped an earlobe. “Mine.” His elegant fingers worked the hooks on the front of her corset and her breasts spilled into his hands. Rule squeezed, bent his head and suckled them ruthlessly.

All rational thought disappeared. Scorching need took its place, desire so strong nothing mattered but the touch of his hands, his mouth against her naked flesh. She wanted him, wanted the pleasure only he could give her.

“I told myself to stay away,” he said between fiery kisses, “that I was still too angry. But I wanted you too damned much.”

His words thrilled her. He wanted her, not the countess.
Her head fell back, giving him access to her throat, and his lips traveled there, burning a path over her skin. She felt his hands in her hair, dislodging the pins, his fingers raking through the heavy copper curls, spreading them around her bare shoulders.

“God, you're beautiful.” His mouth returned to her breasts and he suckled and laved the fullness, tugged on her nipples until she moaned in helpless abandon.

“I…want you,” she whispered, wishing she could deny the words, knowing they were true. Her hands trembled as she caught the hem of his white lawn shirt and tugged it free of his trousers, slid her fingers underneath to stroke the hard ridges of muscle across his flat stomach. Rule jerked the shirt off over his head and tossed it away, kissed her deeply again.

His hands cupped her bottom and he lifted her, wrapped her legs around his waist. Finding the split in her drawers, he positioned himself at the entrance to her passage and drove himself home.

Violet whimpered. She was wet and ready and on fire.

“This is what I needed,” Rule said, carrying her backward until her shoulders came up against the wall. “God, I want you so much.” Holding her in place, he began to thrust inside her, deep driving strokes that sent ripples of pleasure through her body. Hard, penetrating thrusts that set her on fire.

The heavy surge and drag of his shaft had her gripping his powerful shoulders, but Violet wanted more. Fingering a flat copper nipple, she bent her head and took the nubbin between her teeth, bit down, and Rule groaned.

Deeper, harder, faster.

Violet clung to him, opened to him, let him give her what she needed.

The pleasure built, a blissful coil of tension that grew to the point of pain. In an instant, she broke free, soaring, soaring, swamped by sweet sensation, crying out his name.

Rule didn't stop. Not until he had brought her to the peak again did he follow her to release.

For long seconds they remained as they were, Violet clinging to Rule's neck, her head slumped on his shoulder.

“Tell me you don't want him,” Rule softly demanded. “Say it's me you want and not him.”

She looked up at him, surprised at the need she heard in his voice. “I don't want Jeffrey. I want you, Rule.” She didn't say the rest. She didn't trust him to know the way she felt, to know how much she loved him.

She was easy prey as it was.

Rule set her on her feet. The rain had lessened but still she could hear it beating against the panes. Wordlessly, he unfastened the rest of the hooks on her corset and helped her remove the balance of her clothes. She thought he would stay, but he didn't.

As she slipped on a white cotton nightgown, he picked up his discarded shirt and walked to the door that joined their two rooms.

“I'll see you in the morning,” he said, his blue eyes dark and turbulent.

Violet made no reply. Her own feelings were in turmoil. She was in love with Rule but aside from their mutual passion, she had no idea what he felt for her.

And there was still the unresolved matter of Rule and the beautiful countess. When the time was right, she would confront him, find out the truth.

As Violet slid between the sheets, she listened to the steady patter of the rain and wished for the hundredth time she had never left Boston.

 

It was Saturday. The storm had strengthened, grown into a pounding, relentless torrent that suited Rule's mood. He wasn't sure what had happened last night, only that he had been wildly out of control with Violet and he didn't like it.

He released a slow breath. With the storm hanging over the city, he had decided they should work in the house today—he in his study, Violet down the hall in a small drawing room at the back of the house she had appropriated for her use.

He was working on the business proposals he had been studying for the past several weeks, trying to find the best opportunities in which to invest, still not completely satisfied with any of the proposals he had received.

Rising from his desk, he walked over to the fire in the corner, turned his back and let the warmth of the blaze seep into his clothes.

A knock at the door drew his attention. “What is it?” he asked Hatfield, who stood in the opening.

“A note just arrived, my lord.” Hat walked over and handed him the message, turned and left the study.

Rule opened and read the note, a little surprised to see Charles Whitney's name scrolled at the bottom.

It was already half past eleven. With so little warning, it seemed a bit of an odd request. But while he was in London, Whitney was staying at the Albert in Oxford Street, a hotel not far away. Rule reread the note, wadded it up and tossed it into the fire.

He could use an excuse to get out of the house, away from troubling thoughts of his wife.

When the time came to leave, he called for Hat to have his carriage brought round, then went in search of Violet. She was seated on the sofa in front of the fire, a set of ledgers open on the cushion in front of her. He tried not to think of last night, of how good it had felt to be inside her, how at that very moment, he wanted to shove the ledgers aside, ease her down on the sofa, lift her skirts and take her again.

Noticing his presence in the room, she came to her feet. “What is it?”

“I'm going out for a while. I should be back in a couple of hours.”

“In this weather?”

He shrugged. The weather was the least of his worries. “A note arrived earlier from Whitney. He has a couple of questions he wants to ask.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“There's no need for that. And I could use a bit of fresh air.”

“I see.”

At the slight lift of her chin, he frowned. “You don't mind, do you?”

“Why should I mind?”

Rule made no reply. He rarely understood the workings of a woman's mind. Turning, he walked out of the cozy drawing room, eager to be out of the house.

 

Rule stepped down from his carriage in front of the Albert Hotel.

“I shouldn't be long,” he told Bellows.

The burly man pulled the brim of his hat down lower
against the unrelenting rain, nodded and climbed back up on the driver's seat.

Rule made his way up the red-carpeted steps into the lobby, all dark wood and mullioned glass windows, and headed for the wide sweeping staircase. A sign at the top of the stairs indicated rooms 100 through 130 to the left so he headed in that direction.

When he arrived at Whitney's suite, he reached up to knock and was surprised to discover the door was unlatched and standing a few inches open. Rule pushed the door open wider and stuck his head inside.

“Whitney? It's Dewar. Are you in here?”

When no answer came, Rule stepped into the room, beginning to worry. The minute he walked into the sitting room, he froze. Lying in a pool of blood on the floor in front of the sofa, Charles Whitney stared lifelessly at the ceiling. Blood oozed from a vicious hole in his chest and spread out over his coat.

Rule hurried toward him, knelt and pressed his fingers against the man's neck, hoping to find a pulse. No pulse thrummed beneath his hand, confirming Whitney was dead.

His chest tightened. He liked Charles Whitney.

Rule glanced around. Next to the body lay a small, five-barrel pistol he recognized as one manufactured by Griffin. A single shot was missing from one of the chambers. On the sofa lay a bloody pillow with a fire-singed hole in the center, that had apparently been used to muffle the sound of the shot.

“Step away from the body,” a man's hard voice commanded, coming from the open door. “Make no move toward the weapon.”

Rule slowly turned toward the sound of the voice, saw several uniformed policemen standing in the hotel room
doorway, all of their attention fixed on him. Rule carefully lifted his hands, outstretched so the police could see he was unarmed.

“My name is Dewar,” he said. “I found him this way when I walked into the room.”

“How did you get in?” one of them asked, short and bulldog-faced, with a mop of thick brown hair.

“The door was open.”

The man approached him cautiously. “That your gun?”

“No.” He didn't say it was made by Griffin. He was doing his best to keep the men from jumping to wrong conclusions.

“Ye know him?” a second man asked, this one thin and wiry with small round eyes and a narrow mustache.

“His name is Charles Whitney. We were involved in a business deal together. He sent me a note asking me to meet him here to discuss some of the terms.”

The first man glanced down at Rule's hand and he realized Whitney's blood covered his fingers.

“I think you had best come with us, Mr. Dewar,” he said.

“I had nothing to do with this. I told you, he was dead when I walked into the room.”

“Come along now,” said the policeman with the thin mustache, tapping his long wooden truncheon against the palm of his hand. “Ye don't want to give us any trouble or it won't go easy for ye.”

The policeman still standing in the doorway stood at attention, clearly ready for trouble.

“How did you happen to come here?” Rule asked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the blood from his hand.

“A fellow came up to me and Officer Pettigru on the
street,” the first policeman told him. “Said there was trouble at the hotel. Looks like the man was right.”