The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(24)

Vane gave a mocking snort. “Society does not look favourably on any of us. Your brother is in trade. A rogue ruined my sister years ago. And as for me … well …”

“But you’re the Marquess of Trevane. People will make allowances. At some point, you must take a wife of noble birth else the ancestral line will stop with you.”

After a quick bolt to the finish line, the wild activities next door came to an abrupt end.

“I am not the marrying kind, regardless of my title and position. When I’m dead, I’ll not give a fig who sleeps in my ancestors’ bed.”

“You never used to think that way.”

“Too much has happened,” he said, repeating her words. “I’m not the person you remember.”

“No, there is rather a lot more of you.” Something akin to admiration flashed in her eyes. She scanned the breadth of his shoulders, absently moistened her lips. “One thing is certain.”

“What is that?”

“Neither of us smile like we used to. We have turned into morbid cynics during our years apart. Life has lost all meaning.”

He was about to tell her that things would have been different had she not abandoned him, but pride kept him from opening his mouth.

A suffocating silence pressed heavily upon him.

He couldn’t bring himself to sit in the chair for it brought an intimacy to the moment, a level of civility, he was trying desperately to avoid.

“And so you escaped the smugglers,” he said to distract his thoughts, “and found work in Paris.” Fabian would want to know the details.

“Madame Bonnay died. Not long after, her husband was found dead in the woods. With both of them gone I had no choice but to escape, though I doubt I shall ever stop looking over my shoulder.”

“But you’ve not seen the smugglers since.”

“No. After that, I spent two years working as a maid but—” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. A few drops landed on her porcelain cheeks. She shook her head and sucked in a deep breath. “After leaving there, I moved to—” A choking sob escaped.

Vane saw a multitude of emotions pass across her face: grief and shame and sorrow. He closed the gap between them, took her hand and brought her to her feet.

“Sometimes it is better to cry than to bury the pain inside.” He was a hypocrite. Every negative emotion he’d ever felt lingered in the hollow cavern of his chest.

Tears came in a constant stream now. She seemed so small and helpless, not at all the wicked vixen he’d painted her out to be. The sight of it tore at his heart. He cupped her cheeks, wiped away the evidence of her misery with the pads of his thumbs.

“Oh, Ross, I cannot tell you how dreadful it has been.”

“Hush now.” Against his better judgement, he drew her into an embrace. Almost instantly her essence penetrated the fine fabric of his coat. The strange energy that had always bound them together flowed between them as though the last eight years had never existed. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

“I will never be safe. I have no home.” She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her forehead to his chest and cried until there were no more tears left to shed. It was the sound of someone devoid of all hope.

No matter how many women he’d taken in his arms, no matter how many he’d taken to his bed, no one touched him like Estelle did. Despite the gravity of her situation, despite all that had happened, the urge to hold her and never let go almost knocked him off his feet.

And then she looked up at him, all lost and forlorn, those wide doe-like eyes swollen and red.

He bent his head, brushed his lips once across hers and whispered, “I’m sorry for all you have been through.”

She looked into his eyes, yet it felt as if she’d found the secret door to his soul, opened it and stepped inside. When she came up on her tiptoes, he froze.

“I’m sorry, too.” For what, she did not say. But she closed her eyes and kissed him. One chaste peck led to another and another, each one more daring than the last. Her breathing grew short and shallow. Small hands skimmed his waist and drifted up over his chest to clutch the lapels of his coat. “Oh, Ross,” she gasped against his mouth. “I have been alone for so long.”

The comment resonated with him. Yes, he had kissed women but never truly tasted them. He had entered their willing bodies but never made love to any of them. A man could count a hundred lovers and still be lonely. He could lie next to a warm body at night and still be frozen to his core.

“Won’t you kiss me?” she whispered. “Just once, like you used to.”

He wanted to deny her and yet found he could not. She wanted the sweet, tender kiss of a young man but she would get the sinful kiss of a scoundrel.

Vane crushed her to his chest, covered her mouth and devoured those plump wet lips. She tasted as he remembered: of rightness, of hope, of something infinitely addictive. The carnal need for more, the need to satisfy the clawing hunger, led him to tease her lips apart and enter the only place in the world he’d ever wanted to be.

Estelle met him with equal enthusiasm, letting her tongue tangle with his. Her pretty moans conveyed delight in the erotic dance. Their desperation to explore, to sate their lustful urges was yet another thing they had in common. A whimper resonated in the back of her throat. One of pleasure, not pain.