Page 40 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
He groaned, his grip fierce on her hips. “That’s it, love. Let me feel you. I’m so deep.”
The intensity of his words sent another tremor through her. Before the last shudder faded, he flipped her onto her back, pressing her into the mattress and covering her with his weight. His mouth claimed hers in a frantic kiss.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” he rasped against her lips.
He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head as he slid into her with aching slowness. His lips brushed her brow, then her mouth, each touch reverent.
“You’re exquisite.” He spoke like he believed it, the conviction in his voice casting light into every shadow. “Do you hear me? Let no one tell you otherwise.”
This was more than desire. It was the quiet wonder of knowing she had found her match.
A man who saw her flaws and cherished her for them.
Love burned fiercely, though she had never spoken of it.
He deserved to know, but not while they were lost to passion.
She held his gaze, willing him to see the truth there.
“Own me, Bentley.”
“You’re mine, Clara. Every part of you. Never forget that.”
He began to move inside her, slow at first, then deeper, stronger, each thrust carrying his vow. Together they found the rhythm, their bodies moving as one, tender and wild all at once. His fingers interlaced with hers, holding fast as if to tether her to him forever.
He angled his hips, finding a depth and friction that sent sensation spiralling. It built swiftly, until it broke over her in a rush that tore a cry from her lips.
With a hoarse groan he withdrew at the final moment, spilling hot against her skin, as though even that carried part of his soul.
They collapsed together, limbs entwined, lips brushing. Her heart still raced, yet certainty blazed within her. For the first time in her life she felt whole. Tomorrow she would tell him. Tomorrow she would bare her soul. Tomorrow he would know he was loved.
A faint knock disturbed the silence.
Bentley rubbed his eyes, the fog of sleep slow to lift. His gaze went first to Clara. She lay tangled in the sheets, her hair spilling like ebony silk across the pillow, lips parted in peaceful slumber. The sight held him for a breath, rousing something fierce and tender in equal measure.
The sound came again, soft, insistent.
He rose quietly, muscles taut, senses sharpening, and snatched his shirt to cover his nakedness.
“Rutland,” came Rothley’s masculine whisper.
What the devil? Rothley would only come if disaster loomed.
“Wait.” Bentley pulled on his shirt and trousers, tugged on his boots. He raked a hand through his hair, cast one last glance at Clara. The bed was a sanctuary he was loath to leave, but he set his hand on the latch.
Rothley’s grave expression quickened Bentley’s pulse. He had dressed in haste, his shirt open at the throat, waistcoat missing.
“What is it?” Bentley stepped into the corridor, closing the chamber door softly behind him. “Is it the boy? Has Mrs Peverill come to take Alfie back to the seminary?”
“No. He’s snoring like a warthog on the trundle bed.”
The news brought no relief. The sombre note in Rothley’s tone unsettled him. Bentley hadn’t seen his friend looking this solemn since the day Justin vanished from Cambridge a decade ago.
“Does this concern Justin, or why you’ve taken to scouring the shadows as if the accursed are at your heels?”
“No.”
“Then why drag me from the comfort of my bed?”
Rothley stepped closer, lowering his head. “Because this night may be remembered as your worst, not your best. Take it from a man who’s won more than his share at the tables. The odds are stacked against you.”
“Stop speaking in riddles. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Dalton is downstairs.”
Bentley froze. The name hit like a musket shot, shattering what calm remained. He’d hoped to ask for Clara’s hand, not stand trial and defend his actions. If Dalton wanted the truth, he would have it.
It wasn’t his friend’s judgement that troubled him. It was Clara. Would she feel trapped, forced into marriage by scandal rather than love?
That fear cut deeper than the threat of any duel.
“Does he know about Clara? Is that why he’s here?”
“Daventry told him where to find us,” Rothley said grimly. “He came to offer assistance. I only knew Dalton was here when he knocked on the bedchamber door. The innkeeper said you’d hired another room and winked as though you were conducting a sordid liaison.”
“Damnation,” he muttered. One way or another, the reckoning could not be delayed. “Is Elsa with him?”
“Of course. She went to check on Clara and found her gone. The only reason Dalton didn’t storm into your chamber was to avoid alarming his sister.”
Bentley exhaled slowly. The thought of Clara waking to her brother’s fury made his stomach knot. He needed to address the problem before she rose and found him gone.
“Then let’s get it over with.”
He followed Rothley downstairs into the private parlour.
The shabby room was cloaked in shadow, lit only by the faint glow of a single candle and the amber glint of brandy in the glass on the oak table.
Dalton sat there, dark and still. He looked like a fallen angel at the best of times, but tonight his eyes were blacker than the devil’s soul.
“Sit.” Dalton kicked out a wooden chair, the legs scraping harshly across the boards.
In the corner, Elsa sat quietly in a leather wing chair, hands folded in her lap, her watchful gaze a stark contrast to her husband’s simmering fury.
Bentley lowered himself into the chair, the wood as hard as Dalton’s stare. His gaze swept over Bentley’s rumpled shirt, open collar and tousled hair. The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow.
“Were you in bed with my sister?” Dalton’s menacing voice cut through the gloom.
Bentley’s pulse hammered. “I’m in love with her.
I believe she feels the same, though she’s not ready to admit it.
” It was undoubtedly love. That beautiful yet elusive thing that drove sensible men to recklessness.
“I’m so in love with her, nothing else seemed to matter.
” Not friendships. Not oaths made in his name. Not the consequences of his actions.
“Were you in bed with my sister?” Dalton repeated.
“Yes.” The word left him without hesitation, the truth his only defence.
Dalton’s fist struck the table, rattling the glass and slopping brandy across the oak. “Damn the devil. I told you about her list so you would protect her, not ruin her for any other man.”
The thought of Clara with another man chilled his blood, but anger flared. “What was I supposed to do? Leave her to climb towers alone? You know she meant to strip off her clothes and swim in the Serpentine.”
“On the list, it said paddle her feet.”
Bentley snorted. “Then clearly you don’t know your sister.” Before Dalton could lunge across the table and deliver a right hook, he pressed on. “She has an unquenchable thirst for life. She needs a companion who fuels her passions yet keeps her grounded.”
“Do not presume to tell me what my sister needs.”
“Why? Because you feel guilty for leaving her alone in London? I’ve been her constant chaperone since you left.”
“You dare put this on me?” Dalton spat.
Bentley drew a breath, conceding the point. “No. I alone am to blame for letting our feelings overrule our better judgement.”
That first kiss atop the tower had been his undoing. The moment their mouths met, he knew he’d found his destiny. Every stolen glance, every reckless step since had only bound him tighter in her spell.
“Did you not think to wait until my return?” Dalton reached for his glass and downed the brandy like it had wronged him, too. “What about your loyalty to me? We’ve been friends for a bloody decade.”
Bentley sat forward. He was aware of Elsa’s gaze on him, calm where Dalton seethed. “Let me ask you this. What do you think my intentions were?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “From the moment Clara spoke in a poor Italian accent and claimed to be The Crimson Contessa, I planned to marry her.”
Elsa gave a small chuckle. “I believe Clara was on a quest to tease you. To flirt and dance while keeping her identity a secret.”
“Why? I’ve known her since she was fifteen.”
“You knew the woman before the accident,” Elsa said, sadness deepening her tone. “Not the woman who wears her scar as if it were a punishment. Clara hides behind a variety of masks.”
“Not with me.”
“Yet you’re still unsure of her feelings,” Elsa stressed.
He couldn’t argue, not after Clara declared she might take a position as an agent of the Order. “She’s afraid, that’s all. Afraid of losing her independence, of being a burden. I need time to prove that won’t be the case.”
“Time is the one thing you don’t have.” Elsa crossed the room and smoothed her hand over her husband’s rigid shoulders, drawing his attention. “Shall I fetch Clara? She’s of age and entitled to have her say.”
“Not yet.” Dalton rose, his jaw set grimly. “If our friendship is to survive, Rutland must be held to account. I demand satisfaction. One shot each, and honour will be restored.”
Bentley’s stomach tightened, though he understood. Dalton would aim high, draw blood perhaps, but spare his life. Still, a duel was the price of Clara’s hand, the cost of regaining her family’s trust, and he would pay it gladly. Better a bullet than a lifetime without her.
But Elsa disagreed.
“No, Daniel!” She tugged her husband’s arm, urging him to reconsider. “If anything happens to Bentley, Clara will never forgive you. You’ll lose her love forever.”
“Gentlemen have rules,” Dalton insisted, though an edge of reluctance crept into his tone. “Rutland was raised on a diet of etiquette and expectation. He knows what’s required.”
Bentley pushed to his feet and squared his shoulders. “I’ll answer for my actions, as any man should.”
Dalton gave a curt nod, the decision made. “I’ll fetch pistols. We’ll settle this in the yard.”
Elsa gasped, but neither man looked her way.
The air between them thrummed with inevitability, as if fate had already dealt the hand.
Bentley’s thoughts turned to the curse and the shadow that had haunted his family for decades.
Perhaps it was folly to believe he could ever escape it.
Indeed, when the door closed behind Dalton, the echo lingered like a death knell.