Tempting Fate Read online

  This would be good as new in two weeks or less.

  The entire time, he’d expected his arousal to abate. The pain should have deflated it, the tedium of the stitching and, yes, the sight of his own blood.

  But nothing would, it seemed. He’d been in some state of arousal since they’d kissed. Even while killing her enemies. Even while hating and berating himself.

  All his cock seemed to do was consistently pulse with increasingly incessant demand.

  He looked at his torso in the mirror, etched with tattoos and bound with gauze, at the tiny plaster below his hairline.

  God, he was such a fool. To have imagined a sexual response in her eyes? In what sort of dream did he exist?

  He’d never had a woman so close to him before. Never felt the soft curves of a female body pressed against his. Never thought of the erotic cleft between breasts as a place for his cock to find pleasure.

  A surge of agonizing lust weakened his knees.

  Unable to stop himself, he released the placket of his trousers and licked his palm before gripping himself. Biting his lip against the pleasure/pain of flesh too long denied, he worked his hand over his cock.

  Arching his neck, he leaned his hip against the counter, and closed his eyes.

  The rough skin of his hand was a hollow solace, incomparable to her softness. The grip of his palm, the only pleasure familiar to him, was often quick and efficient.

  Something to alleviate pressure.

  This time, he caressed his own skin as he imagined she might do. Running from base to tip with long, slow strokes. He knew the images pouring down behind the backs of his eyelids were degrading to her innocent loveliness.

  But now he knew the warmth of her touch, the curiosity of her tongue, the slick magic found in the depths of her delectable mouth. How would those perfect, Cupid’s-bow lips look stretched to wrap around the head of his…

  The sharp jolt of a climax sliced through him, this one gathering from nowhere and striking like a blade in the dark.

  His limbs locked, his hand quickening its pace as now, in his mind’s eye, those breasts were exposed. Pink-tipped and lovely.

  He gasped and wrenched as pleasure pulled liquid warmth from his body, imagining anointing her flesh with it.

  Of her accepting the slick leavings of his lust in her mouth, on her breasts.

  Fuck. He was an animal for wishing such things upon her.

  And yet, he’d return the favor. He would do anything for her. To her. He’d debase himself to a ridiculous degree if she asked him.

  Or better yet, commanded him.

  Christ. Nothing would please him more.

  And nothing could be further from a possibility than making love to Felicity Goode.

  Chapter 9

  A week later

  Felicity used the sound of the water pump to cover that of her tears.

  She’d kept them at bay until Titus left after unwittingly dropping a fragmenting explosive into the middle of her already shattered nerves.

  By habit, she searched for Gareth in the garden beyond the endless beads of rain sluicing down the glass enclosure on all sides. He’d made himself scarce the moment her brother-in-law had appeared in the courtyard to deliver his news in the glasshouse.

  No doubt, her personal guard meant to give her some privacy with her family, but it appeared that he’d quite vanished.

  Because he never shirked his duty, she knew he was nearby.

  And yet at a distance.

  Almost a week had gone since the ball, and she’d never felt more alone in her life. The morning after their kiss— after she’d fainted quite literally on him— she’d awoken to check and see if his wound was all right.

  If they were all right.

  And it seemed while Gareth’s rib was sutured and healing nicely, that evening had driven something between them. Though he was civil and responsive to her needs and suggestions, Gareth had become like a fortress against a siege, cold and impenetrable.

  Infuriatingly polite.

  He’d gone back to calling her Miss Goode, which felt like a slap in the face every time. At the four subsequent events they’d attended, he’d found a way to avoid touching her. Even stepping by to allow the footmen to hand her down from carriages or take her cloak.

  Their every interaction had been monosyllabic at best.

  She hated it.

  Filling her brass watering can, Felicity hauled it with shaking limbs to her rosemary. It wasn’t lost on her, the irony that she watered plants by hand when the deluge outside might have done just as well.

  It didn’t matter. So many things wilted in the chill and wind. They were not meant to withstand the unrelenting weather. All they needed was a bit of shelter from the cold to thrive.

  A tending hand and an observant gardener to coax their shy blooms from hiding.

  Who would look after them if anything were to happen to her?

  The only other person who knew a whit about their care was Mrs. Winterton… and she… she…

  Oh, God.

  The can slipped from her grip and fell to the stone footpath with a rancorous crash, spilling water in every direction.

  Overcome and overwrought, Felicity buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Gareth was there within seconds, his hands on her shoulders, her wrists, pulling them from her face to search for a wound. “Are you hurt?”

  There he was. For just a moment, those icy grey eyes had melted with concern. His gaze touched every single part of her face, her hands front and back, the corpse of the overturned watering can. “What the bloody hell happened?”

  All she wanted to do was to step into the circle of his arms, to press her cheek against the strength of his chest and release the storm of tears that’d been gathering for so long. Because she knew what it felt like now, the warmth and muscle that resided there.

  How would it be to find shelter beneath such a buttress of fortitude? To cast her burdens on his Sisyphean shoulders, for surely they were capable of bearing her weight if only to give her a moment to breathe.

  She wouldn’t do it. Not when he so distinctly drew a line in the sand between them.

  It was for the best, surely.

  “What did Conleith say to make you cry?” he demanded, scowling toward the arch with a very dark sort of wrath.

  “E-Emmaline… Mrs. W-Winterton. She’s taken a turn for the worse. She’s in so much pain, Titus had to sedate her. He’s worried that if she can’t keep down any water, her organs might fail.”

  His expression changed from one of frantic fury to troubled bemusement. “You said she was well when you visited her yesterday.”

  Nodding, she gathered up her apron to wipe at the eyes that wouldn’t stop leaking. “She was! Though a bit pale and worn, she sat up as we had an entire conversation.”

  Gently, without interrupting her, Gareth pulled her gardening apron from her fingers and pressed a clean handkerchief to them.

  Grateful, she wiped at her nose, and did her best to beat back the storm of fear and emotion threatening to engulf her. “Emmaline was feeling strong and said she would be ready to come home soon. She stood to embrace me before I left the hospital and whispered into my ear that I was her closest friend. She promised to always love and protect me. And now…” Anguish welled up in her eyes and overflowed in a new onslaught of grief. “What if that was the last time I ever see my friend? All because I failed to protect her.”

  Collapsing against him, she did what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t, and wet his shirtfront with her tears.

  His hands rested on her spine. Not an embrace, but a semblance of comfort. Strong, surprisingly lithe fingers smoothed up and down her back in a gentle caress that was as hesitant as it was reassuring.

  “What could you have possibly done to protect Mrs. Winterton?” His voice sounded impossibly deeper when pressed against the chest that produced it. It vibrated through her with a consoling rumble.

  “Titus is convi
nced her ailment isn’t stemming from poorly prepared food. He… he suspects she was poisoned.”

  He made a pensive sound. “Does Mrs. Winterton have enemies? Could she have ingested something on her mysterious family journey that day?”

  She shook her head, burrowing deeper against him. His shirt was damp with rain and smelled of loamy earth and spices and… whatever delicious musk radiated from his skin.

  Why was she noticing things like that at a time like this?

  “Not likely. I distinctly remember her saying she was famished. That she didn’t have a bit to eat that day until—”

  Recognition lanced her at the selfsame moment every part of him went rigid. They each pulled away long enough to look at each other and reveal their thoughts. “The fish stew.”

  She put a hand to her head. “I gave her my portion, and you didn’t partake more than a bite because you are not fond of fish.” Felicity noted the rain had bunched his forelocks into gathers of hair that still dripped water below his eyes to run down the crags and planes of his brutally compelling features. “Did you feel at all ill?”

  He shook his head. “My life’s left me with an iron stomach and most toxins take a larger dose to fell a man my size than a slight lady such as Mrs. Winterton or…”

  His gaze skittered away.

  “Or me,” she breathed. “They were trying to poison me. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer, but his hands stilled on her back before bunching into the fabric.

  “I need to get my estate in order,” she realized. “What if something truly happens to me? There are those in my household to worry about.”

  “Yes,” he clipped, “Someone in your employ is likely trying to kill you.”

  She went very still as his words sank in and struck a chord so painful, she couldn’t even fathom it.

  Jerking out of his grip, she whirled away. “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s the only possibility at this point. That letter was left in your private solarium. The poison in your food. Even the fact that you were accosted at a specific time of night.” His massive hand clamped on her shoulder and turned her around. “Your assailant knew where you were going to be, because someone in your household provided them that information.”

  Both her hands covered her mouth in sheer horror. Every part of her rejected the very notion. However, his logic was sound. “What should I do?”

  “You should let every last one go.”

  That brought her brows down and she released her mouth to frown at him. “I can’t just… I mean… some of these people have been in the house longer than I’ve been alive. It’s their home. I refuse to punish them all for the transgression of one. Not without surety of their guilt. Don’t ask that of me.”

  He scowled in kind, but ultimately relented. “What about a sabbatical? You could fabricate a reason to at least get them all out of the house for a time, whilst we conduct an investigation. Maybe pick one or two of your most trusted to remain. Mrs. Pickering, perhaps.”

  She nodded, feeling dazed. “Yes. And Mr. Bartholomew. Unless they were part of— oh, Lord. That isn’t worth thinking about. What is happening?”

  A band of steel surrounded her lungs and threatened to squeeze the life out of her. Heart racing and vision blurring, she worried the starch would abandon her knees.

  “Felicity.” His hands bracketed her shoulders, his grip careful but firm. “Felicity, listen to me.”

  She looked up at him, compelled by the gravitas in his voice. “Do not panic. I will keep you safe. I will watch who is left. Do you believe that?”

  She did. Without question. “It’s just… I wish I didn’t need you to.” She gripped his forearms and captured his gaze, needing to unburden herself. To explain. To apologize. To ward off the self-recrimination that’d become a part of her everyday conversation since back before she could remember.

  “How is this happening to me? I’ve always done the right thing. I’ve always done the safe thing. I’ve been afraid of letting myself misbehave because then my life would truly have no meaning. I would have no use to anyone. My parents, my peers, my sisters. I convinced myself I’m capable of taking on this immense responsibility left to me by my father, but I’m discovering that the more threatened I feel, the less capable I am, and I… I detest that about myself. I really do. I can’t even help you stitch a wound without fainting. I can’t face people for longer than a few hours before I want to collapse. I’m weak and ineffectual and—”

  “Stop.”

  She blinked up at him, stunned by his none-too-gentle tone and the firm shake he gave her.

  “Listen to me, Felicity Goode,” he said in a voice she’d not yet heard from him. One that could have commanded legions. “You are capable of things I’ve never before seen in this world. You’ve taught me something as I’ve watched you. That strength— real strength— is quiet. And that nothing is so powerful as gentility. To remain soft in a hard world, that takes immense courage. Courage few people possess. Trust me on this, Felicity, and please do not tear yourself apart over what you should not change. Do not let anyone make you feel weak for caring.”

  His words brought a very different sort of tears to her eyes, and she stared up at him with a longing she couldn’t at all identify. When he was near, when he touched her… she didn’t feel so hollow. She could believe that she possessed courage.

  He made her brave.

  “Can we forget what happened the night of the ball?” she blurted, silently pleading with him to melt the fortress of ice between them. “I don’t want there to be this uncomfortable distance. I miss the ease of what we had before.”

  Severity and relief sat strangely on features such as his. “I do as well,” he admitted.

  “Then let us chalk it up to a strange and dangerous evening. One we needn’t think on further.”

  “That seems best.”

  “Thank you.” She threw her arms around his middle, careful not to press against his wound.

  He did not return her embrace, but she understood her uncharacteristic surge of affection was neither appropriate nor expected. Pulling away, she bent to retrieve her watering can. “After I finish this, will you stand with me while I break the news to the staff?”

  “Whatever you need.” He glanced around at the flowers and ferns, whose leaves and blossoms reached from their pots as if in hopes of touching him like adoring devotees. “May I help with your plants?”

  “No one has ever offered to assist me before.” She handed him the watering pot and retrieved a much smaller misting tool.

  He lifted a shoulder and pivoted, almost upsetting a ficus. “If you are in need of assistance, you can always call upon me. Even if it’s something you worry I might find menial.”

  Touched, she turned away so he wouldn’t see the glow in her heart shining out through her eyes.

  She’d lied to him, of course. There was no forgetting what they’d done at the ball.

  Just like the sight of a giant like him tending to her beloved flora…

  That kiss would stay with her forever.

  Chapter 10

  It surprised Felicity just how quickly her house emptied beneath Gareth’s watchful eye. By the time the sun went down, only Pickering and Bartholomew were left, and Gareth had gone below stairs to the kitchens to supervise a delivery of food and preparation for their evening meal.

  The four of them ate together in a small nook off the kitchens with a lovely view of the courtyard and garden.

  Felicity quite enjoyed the pelt of rain on the windows and a simple dish of roasted squab and charred asparagus. She’d always been quite fond of Mrs. Pickering, and the woman made her feel better as they spoke of Emmaline and darker things.

  The housekeeper even toiled to pull Gareth into the conversation, asking about his childhood and such.

  Though he was polite, he didn’t seem inclined to divulge.

  Felicity had the sense his was not a childhood worth
remembering.

  The chime at the door interrupted their evening card game, which Felicity had a sneaking suspicion Gareth was letting them win.

  He stalked Mr. Bartholomew to the door like a menacing shadow, his body tensed and ready for just about anything the night could bring to their landing.

  Anything, but two screaming twins and a harried nursery maid.

  “Effie? What’s happened?” Felicity rushed down the corridor toward their entry, where the maid wouldn’t even relinquish her coat.

  “Me mam’s gone missing,” she sniffed, rainwater dripping from her cap. “She gets lost sometimes, see. Sir and Lady Morley left these little bitties in my care while they gone off to some to do wots thrown by the police and politicians and it is most of the household’s ‘alf day. I can’t take ‘em to the doc and Lady Nora on account of her bedrest and he’s cutting out some other woman’s little ‘un. I thought maybe since you had a household full of staff—”

  “Of course, you were right to bring them here.” Felicity plucked little Charlotte from the double-slotted pram and thrust her into Gareth’s arms before she turned back to gather up little Caroline. “Go see to your mother, Effie; we’ll be fine until their parents return.”

  Effie, a bosomy, wiry-haired woman who might have been thirty-five or fifty, eyed Gareth with a suspicious sniff. “You sure everything is all right here?” she asked.

  Felicity had been torn about what she should divulge to her sister and Morley since they’d returned only two days prior from the Continent. She was supposed to see them for a family dinner on Saturday, and decided to introduce the family to Gareth— and her predicament—all at once.

  It wouldn’t do to have Effie take information of a frightening-looking gentleman back to the Morleys.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Pickering rushed forward and handed Effie some warm bread and provisions to take into the cold.

  Gareth, still gripping the wriggling, squalling child beneath both armpits, offered her to the housekeeper, who simply chucked the infant under her chins. “Their teeth are still coming in, poor mites. We’ve two boiled bottles and a wee bit of goat’s milk for them to suckle.”