Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(77)

She was already scrambling to leave him.

He rose.

“That’s quite all right,” she said hurriedly. “I can get out by myself.”

He stretched his lips into a thin smile. “I have no doubt that you can, but I intend to walk you to your door.”

“Oh, but…” Her protest died when she saw his face. “Oh.”

After that she descended quietly.

He took her arm as soon as he made the street, not confident that she wouldn’t simply flee ahead. They walked to her door silently, and by the time they made it, he was in a rage, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. She turned as soon as they were abreast of the home, intending, it seemed, to enter without even bidding him good night.

Something snapped. He muttered a curse before hauling her around and slamming his mouth down on hers. This was what he wanted; this was what tamed the beast within him: her soft lips, the quiet sound of her moan as he licked across them. There was a desperate, animal need within him, one he couldn’t fully identify. One he couldn’t understand rationally. It was tearing him apart from within, this need. It wanted her—something from her—though he didn’t know quite what. He only knew that if this terrible need was not assuaged, he very much feared he might lose something within himself. It was a confusing thought, and as he raised his head, he saw that her face revealed her confusion as well. Perhaps she, too, was in the grip of something terrible that she could not define. She opened her mouth as if wanting to say something.

But in the end, she turned away without saying anything.

“Temperance,” he pleaded, for what he wasn’t sure.

She stopped, her back to him. “I… I can’t. Good night.”

And she rapped on the door to her home.

Christ’s bloody body! He turned away, kicking at the uneven paving stones. They couldn’t go on like this. One of them would break, and he wasn’t sure which would be worse: him or her.

The return carriage ride was long and wearisome. By the time he made his own town house, the clocks had already chimed the midnight hour. He gave his hat, cloak, and stick to the butler and was already walking toward the stairs when the man cleared his throat.

“My lord, you have a visitor.”

Lazarus turned and stared at his butler.

The butler bowed. “Lady Caire is in the library.”

Lazarus strode to the library, some nameless trepidation making his heart beat quickly. He opened the door and saw her at once. She lounged on a settee, her shimmering lake-blue skirts spread about her, her head slumped onto her shoulder. She’d fallen asleep waiting for him.

He approached the settee on the balls of his feet, oddly hesitant to wake her. When was the last time he’d examined her unobserved? Years, perhaps, or more likely decades. She was beautiful; she always had been and she always would be. The bones of her face were fine and aristocratic, but he noticed now a slight softening of her jawline, a tiny drooping of her upper eyelids. He bent closer to look for other changes and inhaled the scent of oranges. Her scent. She’d always worn it, and it brought back memories of the nursery. Of her coming to visit when he ate his tea when he was seven or eight. Of her kissing his cheek before she left.

She stirred and he hurriedly stepped back.

“Lazarus.” She opened those sharp blue eyes. “I’d ask you where you’ve been if I did not fear to hear the answer.”

“Madam.” He propped a shoulder on the mantel. “To what do I owe this visit?”

She smiled, arch and flirtatious, but he thought he saw her lips tremble. “Can’t a mother drop in on her son?”

“I’m tired. If you’ve only come to play, you’ll excuse me if I seek my bed instead.” He turned toward the door, but her voice stopped him.

“Lazarus. Please.”

He looked at her. The smile was gone now, and her lips did definitely tremble.

She inhaled as if bracing herself. “Have you any wine?”

He stared at her another moment and then sighed. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour or his own weariness, but he could use a drink as well, though not of wine. He crossed to the decanter and poured them each a glass of brandy.

“I seem to remember you preferring this instead.” He handed her a glass.

“Do you?” She took the glass with both hands, looking startled. “How did you know?”

He shrugged, taking a seat across from her. “I think I saw you one night in Father’s study.”

She raised her eyebrows but did not comment. For a moment, they both sipped their brandy in silence.

Finally she cleared her throat. “You took that woman to Lady Stanwicke’s ball.”

He gazed at her over his glass. Her tone had been very neutral. “Her name is Temperance Dews. She runs a foundling home in St. Giles.”

“A foundling home?” She glanced up quickly. “For children?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” She was gazing at her glass now with pursed lips.

“What did you come for, Mother?” he asked softly.

He expected her usual dramatic outrage. Perhaps some cutting sarcasm. Instead she was silent for a time.

Then she said, “I loved her, you know.”

And he knew that she was talking about Annelise, dead a quarter of a century.