The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(88)

“Thank God,” he said. “You don’t want to know what I would have had to do if you hadn’t agreed.”

She didn’t say anything, just slid the marble into her skirt-pocket.

“So.” He swallowed. “I suppose we should try to get some sleep.”

She set one hand on his chest. “Do you really think that after you told me that, I am going to let you walk away from me?”

He swallowed. His throat felt dry. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Impose.” Her lip curled. “That marble is an imposition. But you tell me you love me, that you’ll do anything to keep me safe, and you expect me to turn around and go to my bed alone? What kind of rake are you?”

“The kind of rake who loves you.”

She turned the marble around in her palm, watching it roll in the moon. She didn’t say anything—didn’t respond to that declaration, didn’t take his hand. She simply stared at the marble, as if wondering what to do with it.

“Sebastian,” she finally said, still not looking at him, “if you were to have intercourse with me and you absolutely did not want to get me with child, what would you do?”

A shot of heat went through him. He wanted to grab her to him. But she still wasn’t looking at him.

“I’d use a sheath.” His voice rasped in his throat. “They’re not completely effective, so I’d also pull out before the moment of crisis. Even that has risks. They’re not large, but…” He groped for sanity. “Violet, I don’t want…” But he did want. He wanted with an intense hunger. “If you didn’t wish to—you said…”

And now she did look up at him. He wasn’t sure what he saw in her eyes. Sadness. Hunger. She smiled at him, a long, slow, tremulous smile that seemed to wrap around the very core of his being.

“I’ve been afraid,” she said in a low voice. “So afraid. Afraid that because that one act was a slap in the face from my husband, that it could not be an act of love from you. That it would always be beyond me.”

“Violet.” His whole being had caught on fire. He wanted to draw her to him, to kiss her, but if he did, he didn’t know that he could stop.

“Take me to your bed,” she whispered, “and prove all my fears wrong.”

Chapter Twenty-four

“I DIDN’T ASK TO SHOULDER THE BLAME to get your gratitude,” Sebastian was saying as they made their way back to his house.

In the dark of the night, little brambles caught at Violet’s skirts, tugging her backward as if even the shrubbery wanted her to know that this was a terrible idea.

“I did it because—”

Violet turned to him. They’d come to the edge of the trees that separated their estates; up a wide, grassy hill she could see his home. She held up a hand and laid it against his lips.

“Sebastian,” she said.

He halted. “I’m trying. Violet, I don’t want to cause you harm, not in any way.”

“I can’t live my life without any risk,” she said. “I tried. A life without risk is one where I tell myself I’m not worthy of taking a chance. It’s a life without hope for the future.”

Tomorrow, he’d remember that she’d said those words. He’d put quite another cast on them. But for tonight…

“If things go as planned”—and planned by whom, Violet deliberately did not say—“I might not see you, not for a long while.”

“Surely that’s overly dramatic. At most they’ll ask me to enter a plea; the trial itself will come somewhat later, and in the meantime…”

“Telling me that we have one night or three makes no difference. It’s still not enough. Not enough for me.” She took a deep breath. She hadn’t felt so vulnerable in the lecture hall when she was about to change the world. “Sebastian, I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

He’d asked her to let him shoulder the blame in the name of their friendship, in the name of everything that lay between them. She reached up to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. He was tall, his flesh warm under her palms, and he bent to her.

He’d never asked her for a kiss. He’d never asked to take her to bed. The only thing he’d ever requested of her was that she let him keep her safe. She wouldn’t tell him that she loved him—not when she was on the verge of denying him the one thing he’d begged of her.

“Tomorrow—” he began. She set her fingers on his lips.

“No talk of tomorrow. I want tonight.”

He let out a heated breath and pulled her to him. “God, Violet. I should say no. I should—”

“You should take me to bed.”

He didn’t, though. He took hold of her elbows and pulled her to him. His lips found hers and they kissed in the dark. She was hungry, and yet nothing satisfied her. He tasted absurdly of coffee and cream: rich, bitter, sweetened with a generous helping of sugar. Like coffee, his kiss didn’t steal her senses. It enlivened them, made her aware of the crackle of little twigs under their feet, the cool night breeze that tickled her neck.

She was all too aware of his hands, sliding slowly down her spine, cupping her bu**ocks and pressing her to him. Through her gown—thank God she’d changed to something informal, something that needed no crinoline—his hips found hers.