The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(22)

“I shall make sure she reports to you directly.”

Ross cast her a sidelong glance. Perhaps he expected to see fear or shock marring her brow. When it came to the perverse appetites of men, nothing surprised her anymore.

Without protest, she followed Ross upstairs. Amidst all the hustle and bustle, no one paid them any heed. Doors opened and slammed. People barged past, shouting for their companions to hurry, fearing they might miss the mail coach.

Ross stopped outside a door and examined the brass disc attached to the key. “Number twelve. How apt.”

She took a moment to recollect the number’s relevance. “You speak of the day I left Prescott Hall.”

He thrust the key into the lock but did not look at her. “I speak of the day and the month.”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“Trust me. I wish I could forget.”

A whiff of stale sweat hit her as soon as she entered the room. Dust clung to every surface and clawed at the back of her throat. Ross closed the door, and she heard the clunk of a key turning.

Was it not enough that they were alone?

Now he had barred the exit to prevent her escape.

Nerves pushed to the fore. Estelle swung around to face him. “Now that you have me here what is it you want?”

He stepped closer, towered over her, so large and commanding. His gaze flicked briefly to the double bed. “What do you think I want?”

Desire unfurled deep in her core. Would she allow him to take what should have rightfully been his? The answer swept through her — yes. To love Ross Sandford, to hear him pant her name in the throes of passion … it was the dream of a lost and lonely woman.

But she had suffered enough humiliation and so squared her shoulders and said, “You want to know about the past?”

“I want to know everything.” Ross removed his hat and threw it on top of the chest of drawers. “But you can start by telling me how the hell you survived the shipwreck when more than a hundred people lost their lives.”

“It’s a long story.” One she did not care to repeat.

In a sudden move that made her gasp, Ross clutched her hands. His touch sent her heart skipping up to her throat. He pulled her towards the bed. How she wished she could erase the last eight years, wished that they could slip between the sheets, that she could show him what he’d meant to her then, what he still meant to her now.

But everything had changed.

They were not the same people. No longer a perfect fit.

“We have the room for two hours.” Ross forced her to sit on the bed. He dragged the chair from the corner and sat opposite her, their knees almost touching. “I think that’s plenty of time for you to tell your tale, don’t you?”





Chapter Seven





The old adage that passions cool with time was a fallacy.

Vane sat on the chair in the shabby room, his eyes fixed firmly on Estelle. The task proved difficult when his traitorous body urged him to look at the bed, called for him to consider the possibility of slaking his desire for this woman and have done with it.

“Very well.” She lifted her chin defiantly, unfastened the ribbons on her straw bonnet and placed it next to her on the bed. “Where shall I begin?”

She could begin by undressing, straddling him on the chair and begging for his forgiveness. “Were you on The Torrens when it sank?”

Estelle pursed her lips and nodded. “When the storm hit, I thought the world was ending. I’ve never seen waves like it. Mountain high. Of biblical proportions.” She put her hand on her stomach and winced. “The wind was so strong it blew men ten feet into the air. The ship careened to one side, the sea swamping the deck. Don’t ask me how I survived, although many times I wish I had not.”

Her eyes filled with tears and Vane felt like the worst of rogues for making her relive what was clearly a painful memory. Still, she owed those who loved her an explanation.

“And what of your lover? Did he survive?” The words sliced through the air like the crack of a whip — harsh and unforgiving.

He knew the answer of course.

Mr Peterson’s bloated body washed ashore and was claimed by relatives. Vane had spent a week pacing the beach looking for Estelle while Fabian scoured the beaches in France.

Little did she know that Vane had boarded one fishing vessel after another, had sat amongst the stench of festering fish guts watching every ripple in the water, praying for a miracle. The men had laughed and joked, shared family stories, while he had sat silently, filled with despair.

“My lover?” Estelle’s voice brought him back into the room, though the ache in his chest remained. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“There is no point denying what I know is true.” Why else would she leave him if not to elope with another man? “You boarded the vessel with Mr Peterson. People saw you dining together in a dockside tavern.”

A groan resonated from her throat. She shook her head, her frown disappearing only to be replaced by an arrogant grin.

“And so because a gentleman offered me sanctuary that means we were conducting a liaison? Maudette never left my side, not for a second.” Estelle closed her eyes briefly and whispered, “Poor Maudette. She did not deserve such a fate.”

“What do you mean Peterson offered you sanctuary?”