Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(78)

“If one of them saw the emerald on you,” he said slowly, staring into the darkness about the bed, “and then searched your room looking for it, then the murderer might have been at Pelham. Might’ve eaten at my table.” The mere thought filled him with hot rage.

She stroked his chest as if to soothe him. “Then it could be any of the men?”

He considered. “Watts is younger than I.”

“Surely it isn’t he, then.”

He nodded. “That leaves Oddershaw, Noakes, Barclay, and Scarborough.” Scarborough, who had been a friend of his parents’.

For a moment they were quiet, contemplating the possibilities.

Then he stirred. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

He shook his head, for a moment unable to speak. Finally, he cleared his throat and said huskily, “For believing me. For telling me all this, even when I was initially foul to you. For being here.”

She didn’t answer, but her hand moved on his chest until it lay exactly over his heart.

And there it stayed.

MAXIMUS OPENED HIS eyes the next morning to the warm scent of Artemis in his arms. For the first time in a very long while he’d neither dreamed nor woken in the night, and he felt, in body and soul… content.

He leaned forward to nuzzle his lips against the nape of the sleeping woman he held. She was so warm, so soft, in sleep, with none of the prickling edges of the maiden warrior she showed when awake and alert. He loved that maiden warrior—the woman who looked him in the eye and told him they were equals—but this sweet, vulnerable lady made his heart ache. Like this he could imagine that she would yield to him, come softly into his arms, and agree to all that he said.

The mere thought made him huff a breath of laughter against her hair.

She stirred, making a small moaning sound. “What time is it?”

He glanced at the window—bright with the sharp, new light of day—and made an estimate. “Not more than seven of the clock.”

She exclaimed and tried to move away from him.

He hugged her tighter.

“Maximus,” she said, her voice gruff with sleep. “I have to leave at once. The servants will be up.”

He bent and licked her neck. “Let them be up.”

She stilled, her face turned away so he couldn’t see her expression. “They’ll see me. We’ll be discovered.”

He pulled back a little to try and see her face, but her hair had fallen over it, making her look like a naiad in mourning. “Does it matter?”

She turned then to lie on her back, looking up at him. Her dark brown locks fanned out around her serious face, and a bold nipple peaked from beneath the sheets. He noticed that she had a triangle of tiny moles just below her right collarbone.

Her dark gray eyes were lovely looking up from his pillow. “Then you don’t care if everyone knows?”

He bent to taste those moles.

“Maximus.”

He swallowed and raised his head. “I’ll buy you a house.”

She lowered her eyes so that he could no longer see their gray depths, but didn’t speak.

His contentment was leaching away, an urgent need to make her agree taking its place. Something very like fear was freezing his heart. “Either here in London or in the country, though if you’re in the country I won’t be able to see you as often.”

From without the room he could hear the padding of servants.

He ducked his head, trying to catch her gaze. “Or I can buy both for you.”

Silence. He could feel himself beginning to sweat. Many a parliamentarian could learn something of the art of negotiation from her.

He’d never wavered in Parliament, but he wavered here in his own bed with her. “Artemis…”

Her eyes flicked up, entirely dry and completely free from emotion. “Very well.”

It should have been a moment of triumph—he’d snared his goddess—but instead he felt an odd sense of sorrow, even loss. Suddenly he knew: he’d never have her, not truly.

Not like this.

Perhaps that was what made his kiss so harsh, almost desperate.

But her lips parted beneath his as easily as if she were a biddable wench, merely here for his own pleasure. Her very passivity made him more frantic, for he knew it wasn’t real. He rolled onto her, his body caging hers as if he could cage her heart as well. This woman. His woman. He’d make it all up to her, give her anything she’d wish for, if only she’d never leave him.

Behind them, the door to his bedroom opened.

“Get out,” he growled to whichever servant had dared disturb him.

There was a squeak and the door was hastily shut.

Below him, Artemis cocked an eyebrow. “That was ill done.”

He scowled. “Would you like her to witness our coupling?”

“Don’t be crude.” She pushed against his chest and he reluctantly gave way—only because he knew he was behaving like a churlish knave. She rose gloriously nude from the bed. “Besides, they’ll all know soon enough, won’t they? That I’m your mistress?”

He snorted, hitting the bed with one arm as he sprawled.

She raised a delicate eyebrow. “That is what you want, isn’t it?”

“I can’t have what I want.”