Page 30 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Clara met his gaze, steady and unrepentant. “And miss the chance to be daring? Never. This adventure may have to last me a lifetime.”

The carriage drew up outside Porretta’s Bathhouse, tucked discreetly between the gentlemen’s clubs on St James’s Street.

Fluted columns and a grand stone pediment lent the entrance the solemn beauty of a Roman temple.

To Bentley, it felt more like a shrine to temptation than a place for bathing, a sanctum to honour the woman he could no longer resist.

Inside the carriage, Clara was somewhat subdued. Though she did her best to appear composed and even laughed at his amusing jokes, he’d sensed the tension mounting with every passing mile.

“Shall we pick Roman names for tonight’s escapade?” he said, though what he wanted most was for them to stop pretending.

Her smile proved fleeting. “And which will you claim? Caesar? Marcus Aurelius?”

“Something less lofty. Emperors rarely live long.” And he hoped to survive long enough to put their troubles to bed. “What about you? Will you be Cleopatra? Will you have the most powerful man in Rome at your feet?”

She gave a small shrug, neither denying nor encouraging him.

“You’re in control tonight, Clara.” He spoke with calm reassurance, not the desperation of a man who longed to hold her close and pretend no one else existed. “We can take a tour, paddle our feet in a mineral pool. I could order supper from White’s and have it sent over with a bottle of burgundy.”

She met his gaze, the proud tilt of her chin making him smile. “You mean we don’t need to take off our clothes, kiss and frolic in the water?”

She spoke plainly, but never once mentioned love or marriage. She had called their earlier romp perfect. Did she not realise that’s what he saw when he looked at her?

“I don’t want you to do anything you’ll come to regret.” Some memories were hard to erase. One failure could eclipse a hundred triumphs. “I want you to be sure, not sorry.”

“Are you having doubts yourself?” she asked. “After all, you’ve always longed to be free of obligation. I don’t want to be another chain.”

He did laugh then. “I’m a slave to your wants and desires. I always have been. I thought you knew that.”

“Not always.” She glanced at the window as the first plump raindrop struck the pane. “Until a month ago, you had a mistress.”

“Until a month ago, you’d spent two years avoiding me.” He leaned forward. “Do you know why I ended that brief acquaintance, Clara?”

“Because you were supposed to marry Miss Woodall?”

“Because I walked into the study, saw you for the first time in two years, and realised everything but the joy I felt in that moment was a lie.”

Hell, he would sooner wound his mother than wound her. Sooner betray a friend than deny himself these precious hours alone.

He was in love, yet afraid to say the words aloud.

What they shared felt as fragile as it was beautiful.

“Tell me how to make you smile, Clara. Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”

She looked at him as though he’d asked her to recite Newton’s theories. “I don’t know what I need. Desire and need are not the same thing.”

And yet he felt both of those things when he looked at her. Perhaps she only saw him as the man who conjured new adventures. “Shall I take you home?”

“No!” Her breath caught, the raw plea a beacon in the darkness. “When I’m with you, everything feels less … broken.”

“Then if you can’t tell me what you need, Clara, tell me what you desire.”

She struggled to form a word, but when she did, it was worth the wait. “You. I desire you, Bentley. Kissing you tops every adventure. I’m just afraid because this no longer feels like a game.”

His chest tightened. God, she had no idea what she did to him. He wanted her lips, her trust, her surrender. He wanted everything she had to give.

“I’m not sure when it stopped being a game, either.” He reached for her hand, his thumb brushing the edge of hers. “Do you want to make love in a private chamber at Porretta’s? Be honest with me.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never been inside, but I suspect it will feel too impersonal.” Giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, she added, “What do you want? Do you want to make love in a private bathing chamber?”

He laughed. “I’m afraid what I want will sound rather tame compared to the exploits on your list.”

“Tell me.”

He envisioned turning from his washstand to find her sprawled naked in his bed, candlelight tracing the curve of her bare shoulders and casting shadows on her bare breasts.

“If I had my way, I’d take you home and make love to you in my grand four-poster.

” Her scent would cling to his sheets for days.

At night, it would be easy to believe she was still there, sleeping peacefully beside him.

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Because this has always been about your dreams, Clara.”

“Then let’s make tonight about yours.” Strength returned to her voice, though her words were soft, warm, unguarded. “Take me home, Bentley.”

For a heartbeat, he forgot everything: the case, the danger, the promises weighing on his shoulders. There was only Clara, boldly offering to make his dreams her priority.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Home it is,” he said, knocking twice on the carriage roof.

During the drive to Bruton Street, they discussed the investigation.

“If I’m not the scapegoat, then there’s another possibility,” she said, the familiar talk settling her nerves, just as he’d hoped. “My name is a clue, left to direct us to the villain behind the murders.”

“A clue left by whom?”

“Someone at the seance.”

“Then we should visit the Rosefield Seminary ourselves and discover why it’s relevant.” He forced himself to sound interested, though his mind was already in Bruton Street, with the chamber door locked and the world kept at bay.

Hockton was somewhat surprised to see him, probably because Bentley had been avoiding home for the last few days.

“I’m sure you remember Miss Dalton,” Bentley said, handing the butler Clara’s gloves and cloak. “She’s working with me on the case of the murdered medium.”

Ever polite, Hockton bowed as he took her apparel. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Dalton.” Then his gaze fell on the velvet eye patch, and he turned the colour of roasted beetroot. “When I said see you , I meant it’s good to make your acquaintance again.”

Clara rested a hand on the servant’s sleeve. “I’m partially blind, Hockton. It’s not a secret. You don’t need to walk like you’re treading on broken glass. Now, I don’t suppose there’s any of that delicious seed cake I had last time.”

“I’m afraid not, miss. Might I tempt you with Madeira cake? Cook baked one fresh this morning.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Bentley set his hat on the console table. “We’ll take two slices in the study. And open a bottle of Chateau Lafite from the case Lord Rothley sent.”

“Very good, my lord. I’ll have Nancy light the fire.”

“There’s no need. It’s rather warm tonight.”

Hockton moved to the study, drawing the curtains and lighting the lamps as they followed. When the butler closed the door behind him, the air shifted.

Bentley watched Clara slowly circle the room, her gaze roaming the flock wallpaper and leather-bound books as if all his secrets lived there.

Time faltered. Nothing existed but her. Every breath carried her scent. Every glance stoked the heat coiled in his veins.

He couldn’t look away.

She felt it too. Her fingertips grazed the polished edge of his desk as if tracing lines on his skin. “Do you recall the last time I stood here?”

“As easily as I can recite my own name.”

“I tried to dissuade Daniel from calling because I didn’t want to see you.

” She touched the inkwell, his papers and books, hearing his silent plea to leave her mark on everything, claim every space as hers.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this. Yet I fear you’re going to ask me to remove my mask tonight. ”

“I don’t want any barriers between us.” And the patch hid more than her maimed eye. “You can be yourself with me.”

A light laugh escaped her. “That night, when you saw my green feathered eye patch, you said I looked like a forest sprite come to cause mischief.”

“You were. You put me under your spell and turned my life upside down.” He’d lived and breathed her every hour since.

“I could release you,” she teased. “Set you free.”

“Never.”

She moved towards him, the sway of her hips betraying her thoughts. “Never,” she echoed softly as her gaze held his and her palm came to rest against his chest. “That’s a very long time.”

Her words hung in the charged silence, tightening the air between them. Bentley dipped his head, and her mouth met his before either could draw breath. The kiss was slow, intoxicating, their sighs spilling into the space where the world ceased to exist.

“I need you in my bed, Clara.” He caught a lock of her hair, letting it slip like silk through his fingers. “Write to the countess. Make an excuse. Stay here tonight. Sleep beside me. Let me be your wildest adventure.”

She didn’t answer in words. Instead, her hand swept around his neck, pulling him down to her. The sudden heat of her mouth, the raw honesty of the kiss, undid him more than any declaration could. She released him only moments before the door opened and Hockton returned with the wine.

Bentley forced himself to step back, every muscle taut, praying the butler wouldn’t notice the strain in his trousers. They waited in silence as Hockton set the tray on the desk and reached for the bottle.

“I’ll see to the wine,” Bentley said, rougher than intended. “You may retire for the evening.”

“Before you go, Hockton, could you send a note to The Burnished Jade in Aldgate?” Clara moved to write a message before folding the paper carefully, though didn’t bother to seal it. “Make sure the Countess of Berridge receives this tonight.”

Hockton took the note, bowed and withdrew, leaving Bentley alone with Clara and the pounding of his own pulse.

Her gaze rested on the bottle of claret. “Well, shall we take our cake and wine upstairs?”

Bentley couldn’t resist teasing her. “Planning to tempt me with cake first? I should warn you, I’ve no patience for torture.”

She tilted her head, amused. “Isn’t food supposed to be the way to a man’s heart? I thought I’d start with cake and see where it leads.”

“You already have my heart,” came his veiled confession. “And right now, you’re the only thing I want to devour.”

Her soft laugh lingered as Bentley picked up the tray laden with cake and wine and led her into the quiet hall. They climbed the stairs slowly, anticipation winding tighter with every step, until they reached the one room he had never dared imagine sharing with her.

“In case you’re in any doubt,” he said, gesturing for her to open the door, “you’re the only woman ever to enter my private chamber.”

“The only woman to stay the night?” she teased.

“The only woman to stay the night,” he confirmed.

She opened the door and stepped inside. Two lit lamps cast a muted glow across the vast four-poster bed, leaving the rest of the room steeped in shadow.

She drew a nervous breath. “The room smells of you, of the musky sandalwood cologne you favour, and the natural scent I’ve always found so strangely compelling.”

So she had thought about him long before he escorted her to the seance.

The knowledge stirred something primal as he set the tray on the table near the hearth and closed the door.

When they left this chamber, they would be lovers.

And, as God was his witness, they’d be married before the month was out.

“Is my private space as you imagined?” he asked.

Clara’s gaze roamed over the carved bedposts and the heavy curtains drawn against the night. “Dark wood hints at the secret side of your character, the one willing to take risks.”

“And yet I’m only reckless with you.”

“Red is the colour of passion,” she said, her fingers brushing the burgundy bedhangings. “Velvet is teasing on the senses.”

“Somewhere deep inside, I always knew you’d come.”

“Ever the self-assured viscount.”

“You’re the only person who makes me nervous.”

Her gaze swept over him, the look alone enough to stoke the fire in his blood. “Pour the wine, Bentley.”

Despite being a confident man of thirty, his hand shook as he filled the crystal glasses. “Well, is this a room fit for The Crimson Contessa?” he asked, handing her the wine.

Their fingers brushed as she accepted the glass, a caress not an accident.

“The moniker is just a game. With you, I know exactly who I am.”

Every muscle in his body tightened, desire rising too fast to hide. “Drink the wine, Clara.”

She held his gaze as she obeyed, taking a measured sip. Her tongue skimmed her lower lip, catching the last trace of claret and the final thread of his restraint. “I sense the time for talking is over.”

He downed his wine in one swallow, set both glasses aside and reached for her. “Tell me what you desire. Don’t be afraid. Remember, this doesn’t need to go beyond a kiss unless you want it to.” He settled his hand on her hip, his thumb tracing languid circles against the silk.

“I know. But adventurers don’t stop until they achieve their goal, and I’ve always dreamed of conquering you, Bentley.”