Page 22 of In a Rake’s Embrace (Sins & Sensibilities #3)

CHAPTER 22

A gatha perched on a wooden stool, a smile gracing her lips as she watched Thomas inhale the rich aroma of freshly baked bread. Six loaves lay before them, their golden crusts warm and inviting, each brushed with melted butter that made her mouth water. She felt a rush of pride; she had made these herself, wanting to thank him in her own way for everything he had done.

The four-day journey from London to her home in Devonshire had been an adventure and an agony of its own, each moment drawing her closer to Thomas. They’d shared days on the road, stopping only briefly at inns to catch a few hours of sleep. Each night, Thomas and Dr. Preston took a separate room while Agatha shared with Maggie. Yet, as darkness fell and the inn grew quiet, she would find herself slipping from her bed. Every night, she found Thomas leaning against the door in the hallway, waiting. His gaze, warm and mysterious, would deepen as she approached.

They stayed in the hallway, sometimes talkingand sometimes in silence until exhaustion claimed her. In those quiet hours, she would lean against his shoulder, her defenses nonexistent, and let herself bask in his strength and presence. Agatha had never felt more protected nor more vulnerable to him.

At last, they arrived in Devonshire. Carson was still gravely ill, his fever raging, but Dr. Preston immediately took charge, bringing a measure of calm and reassurance to everyone. It took two days of round-the-clock care, worry etched in every brow, but her brother’s fever finallybroke. Relief flooded through her, and now, that very morning, Carson had joined Maggie and Sarah outside, his laughter echoing as he played with a kite.

And here was Thomas, looking at her with that same warmth as he reached for a warm slice of bread, the butter melting into it. He took a bite, savoring the taste, and closed his eyes.

“This,” he said, “might be the best thing I’ve tasted in years.”

Liar , she tenderly whispered, imagining how lavish his menu must be as an earl.

Still, warmth spread through her chest. “Try this one next; it has raisins and honey.”

“Delicious,” he replied, taking abite.

She grinned, the lightness she felt impossible to contain. “Thomas, I will repay the monies you advance to buy food and—”

“I will take pleasure in turning you over my knees and pinkening your arse if you speak about repayment. You don’t owe me anything.” His tone was gentle but firm.

Her fierce pride stirred inside her chest. “Friends allow friends to repay generosity.”

“Is it important to you to repay me?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

He leaned in, his gaze steady and affectionate. “Very well. Repay me with loaves of bread whenever I want.”

“Thomas?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think we will remain friends after the auction? How likely will we ever cross each other’s paths again?”

He faltered into remarkable stillness, his expression turning almost cold and indifferent.

“Do not answer it,” she said, her chest tightening.

He nodded once, reaching for another slice of bread. His gaze on her face felt too piercing, yet she could not read what he thought. Agatha felt excessively silly for asking the question, even as the ache inside her chest deepened.

They sat in comfortable silence, children’s laughter drifting through the window. Agatha’s heart twisted with gratitude and that thumping ache.

“Agatha,” he murmured, his gaze softening, “If you do not object, I will visit you again here.”

The words settled over her like a warm blanket. The idea was laughable: a man of consequence like Thomas returning to this modest cottage to call upon one like her. It stung, though, knowing that his life would always remain worlds apart from hers. Even now, he and the physician stayed at the village inn, their small home too cramped to accommodate such esteemed guests.

“Everyone will be in an uproar over the delay in the auction,” he said, his tone even, controlled. “To capitalize on it, we should start our return journey to London today. I’ll arrange for Dr. Preston to stay another week to ensure little Carson fully recovers.”

Agatha reached across the table, her fingers grazing his hand. To her surprise, he didn’t pull away. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Thomas lowered his gaze to their joined hands, a look of contemplation crossing his face before he lifted his eyes to hers. His expression held an intensity that made her pulse race.

“Would you consider being my mistress?”

The question landed like a blow, so unexpected and shocking that she jerked her hand back, her heart pounding furiously.

“What … what would that mean?” she stammered, a painful warmth filling her cheeks.

“It would mean,” he said steadily, his gaze unwavering, “that you wouldn’t need to auction yourself. I would provide a comfortable home, with servants to tend to youandan allowance for your needs. I’d take you to London, Paris, Venice … wherever you want. And,” he added, his voice softening with the slightest hint of hunger, “I would take you to my bed whenever we both wanted. I’d try not to get you with child.”

A maelstrom of emotions crashed over Agatha, an unfamiliar ache tightening her chest as she struggled to control her expression. She hadn’t realized how foolishly she’d hoped for something more, even as she knew better. It was foolish, she knew, to feel hurt. A man of his stature could never offer her anything beyond a fleeting arrangement. Blinking against the sting of tears, she forced herself to meet his gaze.

“I gather there’s still a chance one might fall pregnant even if attempts are made to prevent it,” she said, her voice steady though her heart felt anything but.

“Yes,” he replied, his tone equally controlled.

“So, if I bore your child … they would be a bastard.”

His expression grew more remote. “I would see to your care and the child’s. You’d want for nothing.”

The weight of his offer, so practical and devoid of genuine commitment, settled heavily on her. She withdrew her hands, lifting her chin as she met his eyes. “I could never accept such a position,” she said quietly.

A flicker of disappointment crossed his face before he masked it with a jaded smile. “I thought as much,” he murmured. “Very well. I’ll draw up a bank draft—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice firmer than she felt. “You don’t owe me anything. And I won’t accept your charity, as I could never repay it.”

They sat in silence, and though the intimacy of the moment shattered,she held his gaze. Though he would never be hers, she would hold fast to her dignity and the choices she made, guiding her life on her own terms.

“Very well,” he said.

She rose gracefully. “I’ll spend a bit of time with Carson and Sarah. I’ll be ready to depart for London within the hour.”

Without waiting for a response, Agatha turned and walked away, her heart aching with every step. She was keenly aware of his gaze lingering on her as she left. The longing that pulsed inside her felt almost unbearable, yet she forced herself to keep moving, holding her head high even as her heart ached.

Thomas calmly climbed the stairs to the fourth floor of Aphrodite . They had barely returned that morning. Madam Rebecca had been a whirl of anxious energy; pacing and muttering that the delay might disrupt all their plans. Still, her face lit up when she saw the turnout downstairs—a crowd of gentlemen with more wealth than they could spend in a lifetime and intrigue in their eyes.

He had told himself he would not attend, but instead of descending his carriage at White’s, he was here. Agatha had requested to see him in her private room. Thomas opened the door and stepped inside, immediately struck by the delicate outline of her silhouette behind the screen. She moved with a soft grace, her shape blurred yet alluring against the dim light.

“You wanted to see me, Agatha.”

“Thomas,” her voice was quiet, a note of uncertainty tinged with excitement. “I … I’ve been readying myself for a few hours now.”

He could see the outline of her hand smoothing over her bodyand hear the small intake of breath before she continued: “I bathed in rose-scented water … Bea helped me, and she massaged me with lavender oil.”

Thomas stood motionless, his throat tightening. He could almost smell the lingering hint of roses and lavender in the air, and the combination seemed to weave a spell around him. Her nervousness was palpable, almost tangible, and he remained silent, letting her speak, sensing her vulnerability like an ache in his own chest.

He almost offered her money again, then recalled the fierce pride and will that had peeked from her gaze in that small cottage.

“Why did you ask to see me?”

The screen shifted as she stepped around it, revealing herself in a simple cotton robe that dwarfed her slight frame. Her hair was loosely gathered, framing her face in gentle tendrils. She looked so lovely, so unguarded, that it stole his breath.

Her eyes met his, wide and filled with a longing that she seemed to barely contain. Agatha reached out, her hand trembling slightly, as she offered him a small silk sachet. A delicate fragrance filled the air as he took it from her. His fingers brushed hers, and he felt a jolt of warmth—something beyond mere attraction—a raw, inexplicable tenderness.

“What is this?”

She smiled, her cheeks tinging with color. “I … I made this for you. As a thank you—for everything. Your help, your friendship. It is a perfumed sachet. I picked a fragrance … that reminded me of you. I embroidered your initials on it.”

Thomas swallowed, struggling to find words, but they stuck in his throat. The overwhelming surge of emotions almost made him want to laugh, tease her, drag her into his arms, and kiss her. Yet he couldn’t be anything but silent, feeling the sachet warm in his hand, its scent faintly mingling with her own.

“Thank you.”

She smiled; it was radiant andenchanting.

He slipped the sachet into his pocket, feeling its weight settle there, far heavier than its size suggested.

The silence stretched between them, and he could not break his gaze from hers, his resolve weakening with each beat of his heart.

Bloody hell.

“Are you ready?” Thomas asked, his hand folded behind his back as he carefully composed his expression into an indifferent mask.

Agatha lowered her gaze briefly, and he detected the faint tremor as it worked through her slender frame. “Yes.”

His gut twisted, that unfamiliar emotion pressing against the barrier he’d long perfected. “I will not be staying.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes almost wide and pleading, and Thomas felt something tighten further, painfully. He did not want to watch the man who would win her take her away. “Agatha—”

“Stay, please,” she whispered, her voice so soft it was barely audible. “If only for the first few minutes. I’m certain I’ll bumble the moment I step out there. If you were there … if I could look up to the balcony and see you … I wouldn’t be so anxious.”

He couldn’t refuse her. “I’ll stay, but only for a few minutes,” he said, the words taut, a promise he didn’t wish to make but found himself compelled to.

She smiled. “Thomas?”

“Yes.”

“Will … will I ever see you again? I know I asked before, but I wish only for your honest answer.”

He hesitated. “I’m leaving town for Bath. When I return, you’ll likely no longer be here.”

The words felt almost brittle, and though he kept his tone curt, something pained lingered in his chest.

“I see,” she murmured. “Thomas … I will … miss you.”

Damn it all to hell . Her words burned into him. I will miss you, too, Agatha . Yet he didn’t say it aloud. Instead, he dipped his head, cupping her face gently as he pressed his lips to hers in a brief kiss.

“Farewell, Agatha. I hope you find success this evening.”

“Thank you, Thomas, and thank you for all your lessons. Tonight would not have been possible without your help.”

He turned abruptly, leaving her chamber.

“Oh, God,” she whispered just as he shut the door behind him, her voice a soft echo in his mind.

Thomas forced himself down the stairs, his footsteps echoing louder than his own racing pulse.

What the hell was wrong with him? He pressed his hand to his chest, startled by the ache that had taken root there. He wanted to turn back, to tell her how she lingered in his thoughts, her laughter and quick wit like a lure. Agatha Woodville was a woman he was certain would haunt him—not just in the coming weeks, but perhaps for years.

Perhaps, he thought with dark resolve, if he had her, truly had her, even for one night, he could put her from his mind. Perhaps if he made love to her in every wicked way he’d imagined, she would no longer hold this grip on him.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to move back up those stairs.

Snarling under his breath, he forced the thought away and made his way to the first floor. The grand gambling room had been transformed, the usual smoke-filled air now charged with an air of mystery and anticipation. Heavy drapes cloaked the room in shadow, lit only by candelabras casting an amber glow. He took his place on the upper balcony, out of sight but able to see her clearly.

Only a few minutes, and then he would leave.