Wicked Surrender (Regency Sinners)(34)
Dante had disappeared off into the bowels of the house almost as soon as they arrived and was no doubt even now caught up in the arrangements that needed to be made following the death of the dowager.
Huntley Park seemed strangely…empty and far less formidable without the forceful and critical presence of Agatha St. Just in it.
It was apparent to Bella when she came back downstairs for afternoon tea and saw the same old-fashioned décor and furnishings in the drawing room that Dante had not chosen to live here after his uncle’s death, but had instead chosen to leave the dowager in residence. Not surprising when his memories of this house and the people living in it were no happier than Bella’s own.
“God, how I hate this place!” Dante confirmed tersely as he strode into the drawing room. “I think a brandy for both of us might be more in order than tea.” He moved to where a decanter and glasses sat on the side dresser.
Bella’s brows rose as she watched him pour the amber liquid into two of the glasses. “Did you not imbibe enough of that yesterday evening?”
His eyes narrowed. “I was not drunk when I made love to you, if that is what you are implying— Fuck it!” he rasped his impatience as Bella felt the color drain from her cheeks. “I apologize.” He made a stiff bow.
Her brows rose. “Exactly what is it you are apologizing for? Kidnapping me? Your ridiculous accusations of treason? Holding me captive against my will? Forcing me to share a bed with you at the inn? The—the roughness of your lovemaking last night?” Heat returned to her previously pale cheeks. “Or the crudeness of your language just now?”
Dante threw some of the brandy to the back of his throat before answering her. “All of the above,” he acknowledged grimly as he carried the second glass of brandy over to where Bella sat on the chaise near the window. “You are very pale. Drink some of this before you swoon as you did last night.”
“I did not—” Bella broke off her heated protest to draw in several deep and controlled breaths. She took the brandy glass from his hand and drank several tentative and reviving sips before continuing. “I have no idea what happened last night, but I will not be accused of swooning like some ninny-headed miss,” she dismissed crossly.
Dante had no idea what happened last night either. He only knew that making love to Bella had ruined him for all other women. The two of them had connected on some level of sensuality, of emotion, he had never experienced before. Nor did he believe he would ever feel it again with another woman.
He forced the anger from his disposition, aware that it was being back in this house, and not Bella, which was responsible for his present dark mood. “I apologize again. For everything,” he added softly. “Including my previous accusations.”
Her eyes widened in her obvious surprise. “You no longer believe me to be a French spy?”
No, he did not. Dante had no evidence to back up that belief, nothing but Bella’s denial, but he would gamble his life on her being completely innocent of any wrongdoing. There was a deep-rooted honesty about Bella which was as undeniable as it was unshakeable.
He hoped, for Devil’s sake, that Alys Newcomb proved to be as innocent.
“I have already sent word to London, via Devil, as to your innocence in the matter,” he confirmed evenly, very aware that his own sins toward Bella were of a much more serious nature and might never be forgiven.
“On what evidence?”
His mouth thinned. “My knowledge of your character.”
Bella was relieved she was no longer under suspicion, but it surprised her that Dante had come to this conclusion without proof of her innocence. “My character?” she repeated doubtfully.
Dante’s smile was rueful. “You are far too blunt and opinionated to ever resort to such subterfuge as treason. If you had a quarrel with the English Crown, then I am sure you would tell Prinny that to his face rather than betray England behind his back.”
“That is true,” she drawled.
Dante studied her for several minutes before speaking again, softly. “What are we going to do, Bella?”
She eyed him warily. “In regard to what?”
Us, Dante wanted to say, but that wariness in Bella’s expression and the sudden defensive rigidity of her body were not conducive to his holding out much hope of their ever being an us.
Bella was perfectly correct to have accused him of treating her abominably, both in the past and these past few days. That she responded to him physically was no reason to suppose she might ever learn to love him as she had once claimed to do.
Dante knew he could never settle for anything less.
He wanted Bella’s love more than he had ever wanted anything in his life before.
He wanted Bella’s respect more fiercely than he had ever wanted or needed anything in his life before.
Bella, unfortunately, had made it abundantly clear, in that she could not even bear for him to touch her, that, once free of Huntley Park, she never wished to see or hear from him ever again.
Which meant Dante had only the next few days, while they arranged to place the dowager beside her husband in the family crypt, to convince Bella he was not the monster she must now think him.
Chapter 12
“I had no idea the dowager kept journals, did you?” Bella prompted as they ate the main course of their dinner the following evening.