Page 23 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Chapter Twelve

The moment she saw Bentley, her heart skipped a beat. He lounged with lazy confidence against the squab, boots propped on the opposite seat, studying Miss Nightshade’s book beneath the glow of the carriage lamp.

The marquess rapped on the window before yanking open the door as though he might pull it off its hinges. “It seems an agent’s work is never done. Your colleague is quite desperate to put her mind and hands to good use tonight.”

Bentley’s gaze found her instantly. His eyes lingered on her red gown, drinking her in like a man savouring a rare vintage. Yet whatever he thought, he kept behind a measured smile, saying only, “Villains grow careless at night. Most arrests are made in the early hours.”

The marquess gave a dry tut. “A word in private, if you can drag yourself from your book of constabulary duties.”

“Certainly.” Bentley alighted in one fluid motion. He caught Clara’s hand, his fingers warm as they closed around hers. Leaning close enough for his breath to stir her hair, he murmured, “I’m glad you came.”

“I never refuse a challenge.”

Steadying her as she stepped inside, he pressed Miss Nightshade’s notebook into her hand. “Something to read in my brief absence. I won’t be long.”

She settled into the seat and watched the men step into the shelter of a shop doorway.

Their heads bent close, voices too low for her to catch.

Their expressions told their own story. There was no anger in Bentley’s eyes, only intent focus.

At one point, the marquess gripped his friend’s shoulder in what looked like a gesture of solidarity.

The marquess returned to the carriage to bid Clara goodnight. He almost ruined her evening by adding, “Based on the article in The Satirist and the reaction of those here tonight, I think it’s wise to write to your brother in Chippenham and inform him of the situation.”

Her heart sank faster than a brick in a well.

“If you think it’s necessary.” She refrained from grabbing his hand and begging him to wait a week or two. But a quick mental calculation said she had two, maybe three days before Daniel returned to town.

“Hopefully you’ll be closer to catching the culprit by then,” the marquess said with mocking amusement. “Provided you keep your wits on the matter at hand. One scandal is plenty for the time being.”

He closed the carriage door firmly, then remained on the pavement outside the King’s Theatre, arms folded across his chest as he watched Bentley’s carriage disappear from view.

Any worry she had about her brother’s impending arrival vanished the moment Bentley chuckled and said, “Perhaps you should arrest me. I feel like a thief in the night, stealing you away.”

Heat bloomed in her chest. “If only I had a pair of wrist shackles hidden beneath my skirts. It seems you’ve got away with robbery.”

His eyes held a dangerous glimmer in the muted light. “Should I insist on looking? No man wants to be caught unawares.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether touching my undergarments is on your list.”

He relaxed back, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip. “It’s more an encyclopaedia than a list. An extensive catalogue of all the wicked things I would do to you, Clara, given half the chance.”

He was different tonight: mischievous, daring.

And she, caught in the pull of it, made a confession of her own. “Strange you say that. I altered my list while listening to the opera.”

“No camel ride through Astley’s Amphitheatre?” he teased.

“No.”

He arched a curious brow. “What could be more thrilling to a woman than feeling like a princess of Arabia?”

Tell him! Time is precious.

How else will you cram a lifetime of memories into three days?

“The feel of your hand caressing my bare skin.”

His breath hissed through his teeth. “Don’t tease me, Clara.” He set his strong hands on his thighs as if rubbing the solid muscles were a prelude to sin. “Not when I’m in this devil of a mood. Not when I’ve kept my desire on a tight leash for years.”

For years?

The confession fed her need to feel like every other woman. Feminine, a source of divine energy she’d seen men crave. But it wasn’t about being an object of desire. It was about believing she could be wanted for who she truly was, scars and all.

“Is that why you came?” she asked, though she was a heartbeat away from falling into his lap. “To claim one more kiss?”

“One kiss will never be enough, Clara.”

“What will be enough?” Her pulse drummed a frantic beat in her veins as she imagined a passion so intense she could barely breathe. “Whatever it is, we have three days to indulge ourselves before Daniel arrives. Tell me, what page have you marked in your catalogue of sinful endeavours?”

He grinned. “I’m confident a woman with your imagination can guess, though this is not the conversation I expected to have with you tonight. There’s something different about you.”

“There’s something different about you,” she countered. “What’s so important it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“The same thing that made you leave the theatre before the second act.”

It was lust. Pure, reckless lust. And she no longer cared if it consumed them both.

She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “The prospect of seeing you appealed more than hearing an angel sing about a mother’s grief.”

His eyes closed briefly, and he sighed. “Let’s hope grief isn’t the theme of the evening. Tonight, I told my mother she’s clinging to the past and shutting everyone out. She found the truth harder to hear than I’d hoped.”

When Clara wasn’t feeling the pulse of passion in the air, she could feel the depth of his despair. “Shutting you out?”

“I’m not Marcus. It’s such a terrible inconvenience, you see.”

She resisted the urge to lay a comforting hand on his knee. “I’m not sure what’s worse. Having everyone stare or not being seen at all.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

Her thoughts always turned dark when her mood was low. She didn’t want to think about her father, and so said the only thing certain to keep the ghosts at bay.

“I want to be your mistress. It tops my list of daring adventures. I’ll fill the role temporarily until I’m forced to leave town.

” She coughed to loosen her vocal cords.

“I’m afraid I lack a widow’s expertise, but you taught me to play piquet when I was nineteen.

I’m sure you can teach me how to give and receive pleasure. ”

He stared at her dumbfounded, his mouth opening and closing like a fish desperate for air.

“Well? Do you accept my proposal?”

He dragged a hand down his face and shook his head. “By God, you’re a devil in silk, come to drive me to the depths of insanity.”

“Don’t you want to make love to me?” she pressed. He could keep on his stockings; she’d wear her eye patch. She’d heard everyone had their quirks and foibles.

He laughed, the sound half wild. “You know damn well I do. But I won’t take your virginity, Clara, not unless?—”

“I’m not marrying you, Bentley. I’m not marrying anyone.”

When the flames of desire died, there’d be nothing left but bitterness.

She would rather guard her freedom than risk making vows that might turn into regret.

The poets claimed no wound hurt more than unrequited love.

She’d rather not suffer the pain of Bentley’s indifference every morning during breakfast.

He pressed his fingers to his eyes and groaned.

“You must have listed lovemaking in your catalogue of Wicked Things to Do to Clara Dalton . At least have the courage of your convictions.”

He leaned forward, heat blazing in his gaze. “Do you really want to know what I think about, Clara?”

“Yes.” Desperately so.

“I think about putting my mouth in places I shouldn’t. Slipping my fingers inside you until you shatter. Grinding against you until I’m close to losing my mind. There. Plain enough for you, Miss Dalton?”

Desire coiled through her like a lit fuse, but she arched a brow as though discussing nothing more scandalous than her favourite scone. “Excellent. When do we begin?”

“How about now?” He nodded towards the valise on the floor. “I bought gentlemen’s clothes. Thought we’d get drunk in a dockside tavern. It was fourth on your list, or have you swapped it with a romp in a Turkish bathhouse?”

She smiled. “No, but a romp in a bathhouse sounds better than dipping my feet in the Serpentine. We can do that tomorrow.”

“During a respite from hunting a murderer?”

“Indeed.” Her heart felt lighter than it had in days, years, even. All her fears and doubts disappeared when she frolicked with Bentley Sommersby. “When compiling my list, I never expected life could be this thrilling.”

“I must admit, until now, mine has been rather mundane.” He reached for the blinds and yanked them down, plunging them into darkness. “Allow me to help you out of those clothes.”

The firmness of his tone warmed her blood. Perhaps she should have asked if he’d found anything useful in Miss Nightshade’s book, but he captured her ankle and slipped off her silk slipper.

“Should I seek permission before removing your stockings? Or are you determined to grant me every liberty?”

“Why bother asking when you already have my permission?”

No other man had ever looked at her calves, let alone smoothed his hands over her thighs and tugged on the ribbons holding her stockings. The soft glide of his fingers sparked every nerve to life.

“I’m so damned hard already,” he said, his voice strained as he drew down her stockings. Yet the devious glint in his eyes said he wasn’t finished. “That little pearl of yours is hard, too, I’ll wager.”

“Hard, hot, and pulsing,” she said frankly, deciding there was no place for coyness between them. “I’d touch myself if I were alone. Is that something you’d want your mistress to do?”

“Bloody hell, Clara!”

“What? Isn’t honesty important between lovers?”

“Yes, but at least learn the art of subtlety, unless you mean to put me in an early grave.”