Page 46 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
He searched the crowd but found no sign of Clara, though the thrum of anticipation in his blood told him she was there.
The bowing ceased. Dancers broke apart, eyes shifting to him as the violinists raised their instruments. A new melody rose, bold, seductive, each note deliberate, as if the night itself had shifted its course.
Then she appeared. The Crimson Contessa. Rubies flared at her ears, her ebony hair a dark cascade about her shoulders. She wore no mask. Bentley’s breath caught as her gaze found him, her hand lifting in a summons he could not resist.
He set the lantern on the grass and joined her.
“Someone special told me this was a place for lovers,” she said in a sultry voice, her fingers seeking his. “Though I should warn you. I’m a poor dancer and may step on your toes.”
“Perhaps you’ve had poor partners in the past.” He slid his arm around her waist. Nothing else in his life had ever felt so right. “I may be the exception.”
“I expect so. You’re exceptional in every regard.”
“Only with you.”
She smiled. “We seem to bring out the best in each other.”
He drew her close, moving in time with the music. “Dancing is like making love. We’re always in tune.” He bent his head, brushing her lips in a gentle caress. The devouring he would save until later.
“Trust you to tease me when I can feel the press of your thighs against mine.” She smoothed her hand over his shoulder, her fingers tracing the muscle as though she longed to claim every inch of him. “Though there isn’t a moment in the day I don’t want you.”
“You’re on my mind constantly, too.” The memory of her drove him to take himself in hand hours earlier. “Now there’s no case to solve, the separation will kill me.”
“We’ll have to invent ways to spend time alone.” Her hand crept from his shoulder to his nape, her fingers stirring the hair in maddening circles. “We could start a new list. One more daring than the last.”
The thought fed his hunger for her, yet he would not skulk about the park at midnight. Besides, only a wedding would satisfy him and appease her brother.
“What would be on this new list?” He wanted to know her thoughts before he continued. Would they ever be anything more than lovers?
Her wicked smile made him hard in an instant. “I thought we could make love on the desk in your study. And in the garden at night, when the roses gracing your arbour are in full bloom.”
“Anywhere else?” He sensed this was leading somewhere. Her illicit confessions left him so aroused, they’d end up making love in the hackney.
Her tongue grazed her top lip. “So many places. Your dining table, surrounded by glowing lanterns. That plush Persian rug before the fireplace. I could ride you hard there. And that grand poster bed where you had me the first time.”
He coughed at her boldness. Did she want his heart to give out? “Anywhere that isn’t my home in Bruton Street?”
“Well, there’s your country seat in Kent, though I’ve never visited. Ask me again once we’re married. I shall make a new list then.”
He jolted, unsure he had heard correctly. “Married?”
“How else are we to indulge our desires? You are the love of my life.” She stopped dancing, cupped his cheek and whispered, “Marry me, Bentley. I can’t promise I won’t test your patience, but I promise life will never be dull.”
He stood very still, the music and dancers fading until there was only her, waiting for his answer.
“You do love me?” she asked, a hint of worry in her voice.
“To the depths of my soul.”
“Then why do you look so shocked?”
His chest tightened with all he had never dared hope for. His mouth found hers, the kiss unhurried, tender as a vow. “I’m not shocked,” he murmured, his fingers gripping the curve of her waist, never wanting to let go. “I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”
George Street, Mayfair
The Dowager Viscountess of Rutland’s Residence
“I’m glad your mother had a change of heart.” Rothley sipped his wine, nodding towards the dowager viscountess, who stood with Clara, introducing her to friends. “And I see no sign of Mrs Woodall.”
“She’s the last person I’d invite to my wedding.” Bentley gazed at his wife, radiant as she charmed the company, his heart tightening with pride. Clara had forgiven where others would condemn, and she had embraced his mother with the same generosity of spirit.
“You read the new article in The Satirist ?” Rothley said. “They weren’t shy about naming the gang of conspirators who set fire to the factory in Smithfield.”
Sarah Woodall had been among those named. The violence, coupled with a vicious attack on Lord Henshaw by the same group, had ruined the family name.
“Yes. It proved the curse was nonsense. Mrs Woodall has had her share of misfortune, too.” His mother had apologised to Clara, admitting anyone could see they were in love. The past, she said, had been a shackle around her neck, clouding her judgement for decades.
“How readily people clutch at curses when the truth doesn’t suit them,” Rothley said, raising his glass in salute. “Miss Nightshade was wrong about you being miserable. I’ve never seen you look so happy.”
“There’s hope for us all,” Bentley said, clinking glasses with his friend. “I noticed Miss Woolf is wearing something other than grey. Blue is rather becoming.”
Rothley cast her a brief glance before looking away. “Yes … like a blue flower blooming in a graveyard. Hope where one doesn’t expect to find it.”
“She’s in your thoughts a lot lately.”
“No doubt it will pass. I’m joining the Chance brothers for a night of gaming at their club. Beating them offers the perfect distraction.”
Bentley wished his friend had more faith. Not all women were deceitful and disloyal. But his thoughts soon turned to the secret outing Clara had planned for them. He glanced at the mantel clock. Two more hours, and they could make their excuses and depart.
“Mercer has closed the case,” Bentley said, changing the subject. “Mrs Morven’s brother did die on the steamer to America. And items found at her house confirmed she was the sister who fled Cheltenham all those years ago.”
“What about Silas Scarth?”
“Exonerated. Mercer advised him to take meaningful work and stop listening to spirits.”
“That’s easier said than done,” Rothley replied. He had spent a decade battling his own ghosts. “I suppose he could always take up a new profession as a parrot trainer.”
“Miss Woolf is now the proud owner of a pair of African greys. Apparently, she wanted the parrots for protection.”
“Protection?” Rothley’s irritation broke through. “From whom?”
“She refused to say.”
Silence ensued, though Bentley could almost hear the dark turn of Rothley’s thoughts. Thankfully, their friend Gentry chose that moment to approach.
“Your wife has a talent for persuasion, Rutland. Sofia and I are helping her arrange an outing tonight. A perfect adventure for daring newlyweds.”
“How many adventures does one man need?” Rothley complained.
Bentley thought of their secret picnic last night and smiled. “Enough to last a lifetime.”
Gentry reached into his coat pocket and handed Rothley a note. “A patient of mine lives out in World’s End, Chelsea. She told me she has a new neighbour. A lady who doesn’t mind living beside a graveyard and who has a taste for morbid poetry.”
Rothley snatched the note as though it might vanish before his eyes. A smug grin curved his lips. “If it’s true, that makes us even, since I allowed you to marry in my chapel. My housekeeper is still wandering about in a romantic daze, and insists on mentioning every wedding in the parish.”
“Mrs Boswell wants you to be happy,” Gentry said.
“She’s taken to scattering volumes of Hemans and Moore about the place, as though a love poem might cure cynicism.”
“And here I thought she knew you well.”
The men laughed, and the teasing soon turned on Rothley. Five years, they reminded him, since he’d let a woman share his bed. He bore the ribbing with his usual cool detachment, though the faint curl of his mouth betrayed amusement more than offence.
Bentley was called away to speak to departing guests, and the hours slipped by in a blur of conversation, farewells and handshakes.
Clara drew him aside, her fingers brushing his, mischief in her smile. “Mrs Gentry is taking me home to change. I’ll see you in an hour, my love, and it cannot come soon enough.”
Bentley caught her hand, bringing it briefly to his lips. “An hour will feel like an eternity. I’m waiting with bated breath. Tell me, will I need a lantern?”
She laughed. “Not tonight. Tonight I need you to myself.”
With that, she slipped away to join Sofia Gentry, leaving him restless with anticipation. He turned then, seeking a quiet moment with his mother.
“Well, Clara’s first introduction was a resounding success.
” His mother took another sip of champagne, her mood lighter than he’d seen in years.
“After a few minutes, one scarcely notices her injury. Agnes was the same, always strong in the face of adversity.” She paused, a solemn sigh escaping.
“I only wish she could have been here to see her daughter marry the most caring son in England.”
Bentley swallowed past a lump in his throat. “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy, Mother. If tonight has given you even a measure of peace, then it’s more than I could hope for.”
Her eyes softened, a weary smile curving her lips. “It has. More than you know. I’m sorry for being blind to your suffering all these years. The thought of losing you, too, was more than I could bear.”
Bentley covered her hand with his. “If you ever need answers, I can arrange a meeting with Silas Scarth. He has a rare gift and can commune with spirits.”
She hesitated, then clasped his hand tightly. “No. You were right. We mustn’t dwell on what cannot be undone. We must look to the future.”
Bentley’s chest eased. For the first time in years, the past no longer bound him, and his thoughts raced to the future and a night spent alone with his wife.