Wicked Surrender (Regency Sinners)(17)

And now she was gone, fled after he had fallen asleep as dawn began to lighten the sky outside the window. No doubt she had sought the aid of the accommodating and slightly besotted Mr. Rogers and was even now traveling to God knows where as if the black hounds of hell themselves were chasing after her.

She could be on her way back to London, although somehow Dante doubted it.

Dante had apprehended her last night before she could leave, but she must have had some destination in mind when she readied her carriage. Perhaps she was going there?

He realized he no longer cared that he had not even begun to question her as to whether or not she was a spy for Napoleon. Nor, if he was completely honest, did he care whether or not she was guilty. What concerned him the most was that Bella had left him, run from him, as if he were the devil himself.

What a fucking mess he and his long suppressed desire for Bella had made of things.



Despite a rather disturbed night’s sleep, Bella felt surprising refreshed as she sipped her first cup of tea of the morning. Invigorated, even. She was, after all, a widow aged four and twenty. Even so, she would be lying if she did not admit that the intensity of Dante’s lovemaking had initially shocked her sensibilities. But her body had never felt as satiated as it had last night. It still did this morning, parts of her aching that she had not known could ache.

Dante had been sleeping soundly—and giving not a single snore—as she quietly slipped from the bed to carry her overnight bag through to the adjoining room so that she did not disturb him from his slumbers. Dante’s restlessness during the night told her he had not slept well, and so she had remained as quiet as possible as she first washed and then dressed in clean undergarments and a traveling gown of russet red.

He was still asleep when Bella glanced back into the bedchamber, and she could not resist lingering for a few minutes longer so that she might admire and appreciate his muscular form without having to suffer his usual mask of cool condescension or arrogance.

His chest was bared where the bedcovers had slipped down to his waist, dark hair tousled against the pillows, and the stubble had grown thicker on his jaw. Bella’s cheeks had warmed as she recalled how the rasp of that beard had added to her pleasure when Dante’s mouth was between her thighs.

She squirmed a little on her chair even now, hours later, her cheeks blushing a fiery red merely thinking of all that had transpired between her and Dante during the night. She was prevented from dwelling on them any longer by the door opening behind her.

“Good morning,” a cheery female voice greeted warmly. “Lady Aston, is it not?”

Bella turned to look at the woman who had just entered the parlor. Her face was vaguely familiar.

Bella’s brow cleared as she finally recalled who the other woman was. “Lady Monroe. And Sir James.” She stood up as that gentleman now entered the room behind his wife. “Would you care to join me?” she invited with a gesture at the breakfast table she occupied in the downstairs parlor of the inn.

She could not claim a close acquaintance with the other couple. The Monroes resided in Sir James’s native Scotland most of the year. But she knew them well enough to be nodding acquaintances if they should meet at a social event. It would certainly be rude on Bella’s part not to offer to share her breakfast table with them when they had obviously stayed overnight at the inn too.

“How lovely to meet someone we know.” Margo Monroe dropped down into the seat opposite Bella’s, a beautiful and vivacious blonde-haired lady. “Did you spend the night here too?”

“Er— Yes, yes, I did.” Bella resumed her seat so as to allow Sir James to be seated too, her thoughts racing as she wondered how best to explain her presence here.

As a widow, it was perfectly acceptable for her to travel alone, accompanied by her maid. Except she was not traveling alone, nor was she accompanied by her maid. If Dante remained upstairs in the bedchamber, she might still manage to finish her breakfast and escape the Monroes’ company without awkwardness, but if Dante did not remain upstairs—

As if she had tempted fate, the parlor door once again opened behind her, and Bella knew, by the widening of Margo Monroe’s eyes as she glanced at the newcomer over Bella’s shoulder, that Dante had just entered the room. Only he had the effect of causing even a happily married woman to blush coyly in his presence.

Dante paused in the doorway to take in the domesticated scene in front of him.

Bella was seated at the breakfast table, just as Mr. Rogers had assured him she was. Much to Dante’s relief; he had feared she had taken advantage of him sleeping and left the inn completely, forcing him to hunt her down.

Seated with her was a couple whom he recognized but could not quite place for the moment.

Bella rose gracefully to her feet to cross the room to where he stood in the doorway. “Come and say hello to Sir James and Lady Monroe.” Her gaze did not lift high enough to meet Dante’s as she linked her arm through the crook of his. “Sir James, Lady Margo, I am sure you remember my cousin, Dante St. Just, the Duke of Huntley.”

The other couple had risen to their feet, the red-haired Sir James nodding acknowledgment.

Lady Margo gave a deep curtsey. “Your Grace. I admit I did not know the two of you were related,” she added, her expression one of avid curiosity as she straightened.

Dante was surprised at hearing Bella make that claim. It was, at best, a tenuous connection, made even more so now that the dowager duchess was dead. But the fact Bella was touching him voluntarily, for whatever reason, was enough to cause Dante to smile a cool greeting at the other couple.