Dark Regency: The Redemption Of A Rogue Part 13

"You're certain?" he demanded, even as he reached toward her and tilted her head toward the light. "Any nausea? Impaired vision?"

Pushing his hand away firmly, Abbi spoke resolutely. "Good night, my lord. Good night, Lord Wolverston."

Watching her go, Michael frowned, his lips firming into a hard line. He was still concerned about her injury, but there was something else that was weighing just as heavily on his mind. "Spencer, please refrain from flirting with my wife."

Spencer smiled beatifically. "Was I? How very interesting... I was under the impression that we were having civil discourse over dinner."

Michael turned toward him then, raising an eyebrow. "You never engage in civil discourse with anyone, Spencer. It's practically a declaration of your affections... Admittedly my experience of wives has been limited to those belonging to others, but I find myself less than inclined to turn a blind eye to someone attempting to seduce my own right before my eyes."

Spencer's smile broadened and he leaned back in his chair, grinning as he sipped his wine. "Do you know that I haven't seen you jealous of a woman since... Well, since Melisande. You haven't cared enough for any female to be possessive of one since we were boys. I find that fascinating."

It infuriated Michael, primarily because he knew it was true. "I don't give a b.l.o.o.d.y d.a.m.n what you find it."

Spencer nodded, still smiling as he leaned back in his chair with a look of supreme satisfaction. "Perhaps some a.s.surances, then? I have no designs on your wife, my friend. In truth, I feel that she would be less than welcoming of any advances as she can hardly take her eyes off you... This is quite unlike you, Michael."

Michael sank down into his chair. With his elbow propped on the table, he rested his head in his hand and with his other hand, pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache of his own. When it failed to provide noticeable improvement, he resorted to alcohol instead.Draining his wine in one gulp, he then stared dismally into his empty gla.s.s. "She's maddening. Willful. Stubborn. Reckless. It's as if she has no idea of the danger she's in."

Spencer's reply wasn't flippant or superior. For just a moment, the years of animosity between them faded to nothing and they were once again boyhood friends. "And you're terrified you'll fail her as you believe you failed Melisande?"

That comment had Michael's head coming up, ready to do battle. Just as quickly, he relented. Spencer wasn't a.s.signing blame. Melisande's death was perhaps the one thing that Spencer didn't blame him for. "Must we revisit ancient history?"

Spencer shrugged. "Not so ancient. It appears to be very present with you... daily. More so than I had realized. No one blamed you but you. No one was to blame for that tragedy except Alistair and Lady Eleanor. They have both paid dearly now-isn't it time you stopped?"

Uncomfortable with the topic of conversation and with his own rising emotions, Michael settled back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why the sudden concern for my conscience, Spencer? I'm stunned you'll admit I have one."

Spencer didn't take the bait. Rather than revert to form and keep their bickering alive, he said the most unexpected of things. "I've many things to ask your forgiveness for. I allowed myself to believe the worst of you when I should have known better, and for that I am sorry."

Michael reached for the bottle of wine, and finding it empty, placed it back on the table with a soft thud. "Contrition doesn't suit you."

Spencer shrugged, "I'm beginning to care less and less about what others think would suit me. I'm willing to admit that I've been a judgmental a.s.s, and for that... Can't you be willing to accept that you did little to dissuade me from believing the rumors of your profligate reputation?"

It was true enough. Once Spencer had decided that he was dissolute rake, Michael hadn't bothered to correct his views. He'd made it a point of honor to needle his friend and even exaggerate his exploits. "Fine. That still doesn't explain your present concern.... The state of my relationship with Abbigail is none of your affair."

Spencer leaned forward, steepling his hands beneath his chin. "You have a chance at happiness with her, Michael. Much the way Rhys is now happy with Emme... And I am envious. Not of your lovely wife, for she is completely yours, whether you realize it or not, but of that happiness. Envious as I am, I do not begrudge it, and would do all that I can to help you hold onto it."

"And what of Larissa? Do you mean to pursue your happiness with her?"

Spencer's eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you mean."

Michael rose from the table, retrieved a bottle of brandy from the sideboard and poured liberal amounts into two gla.s.ses. As he pa.s.sed one to Spencer, he met his friend's gaze. "I'm not accusing you of anything. I know just how capable you are of always playing the gentleman. I might not have put it together without Abbigail's insight, but I've noticed it before... the way you look at her."

Spencer rose, draining the gla.s.s, and pointedly not addressing the statement. "I should seek my bed. And if you are a wise man, you will seek yours and your wife's favor."

Watching Spencer walk from the room, Michael quickly finished the remainder of his drink. The issue of Larissa was hardly finished. The lovely redhead was still fragile and finding her footing in the world, but when she did, Spencer was in for trouble of the kind only a willful woman could bring about in a man's life. As for seeking his bed and his wife's favor, it was good advice and he would follow it.

Climbing the stairs, he moved toward the master chamber at the end of the hall and the welcoming light visible beneath the door. At least she wouldn't be feigning sleep.

Entering the chamber, he saw that she was in bed, wearing both her night rail and a thick wrapper in deference to the chill. She held a book in her hands, and as he walked in, she glared at him atop it.

"You behaved like a wretched, spoiled boy tonight," she accused.

"True enough," he admitted as he began removing his neckcloth. "I find that I am less than pleased to see you hanging on my friend's every word. I believe the appropriate term for what I am experiencing is called jealousy... As I have not experienced that emotion since I was, in fact, a wretched and spoiled boy, it's a fair a.s.sessment."

Clearly disarmed by his admission, she closed her book, resting it on her lap. Her brows furrowed as she frowned at him. "I simply cannot make sense of you."

He smiled, removing his jacket and then his boots. Clad only in his breeches and shirt, he moved toward the bed and his wife. "That is a fate we share, Abbigail. I struggle to make sense of you on a daily basis... and fail."

Her shoulders went back, her chin coming up in warning. She was spoiling for a fight. "I cannot see why. I am perfectly logical."

That was a debate he wasn't about to be drawn into again. Taking the book from her, he placed it on the small stand beside the bed. "Can we not save our arguments for daylight hours?"

Her eyebrows raised in suspicion, she asked, "And what would you reserve our night time hours for, my lord?"

Michael leaned forward, pressing his lips against the satiny skin of her neck, just above the pulse that beat there. It quickened beneath the heat of his mouth and regardless of her ire, he knew she was not unaffected. "For efforts that will leave us too exhausted to pursue our daylight arguments."

A sigh escaped Abbi's parted lips as she leaned back against the pillows. "You could charm the devil."

"The devil doesn't need charming, just you... And the rewards," he said, parting the laces of her night rail until his fingertips grazed her bare skin, "Are much sweeter."

Abbi's eyes closed, her back arching as she moved into his touch. Michael smiled, leaning forward to press his mouth to the skin he'd just bared. Pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along her rib cage, over the swells of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Tempting as her pert nipples were, he was in no hurry.

Perhaps jealousy was his motivation. He could admit, at least to himself that it probably was. But he wanted her weak, breathless, pleading, and shuddering beneath him. He wanted her undone by pa.s.sion, and he wanted to be the one who wrought her downfall.

Slow, languorous strokes of his fingers over her skin; each one dipping lower, parting the fabric of her clothing further; elicited soft sounds of pleasure. Her hands moved up, clutching at his shoulders through the linen of his shirt. As his hands moved over the soft mound of her belly, drifting toward the dark thatch of curls nestled at the apex of her thighs, she parted her legs, eagerly welcoming him.

Rather than slip his hand between her parted thighs and partake of the warmth she offered, he instead stroked the tensed muscles of her legs. Moving past her knees, he altered the pressure slightly, dragging his hands back up to her hips, his fingers pressing deeply into her flesh.

Abbi groaned. "Michael, why are you tormenting me this way?"

He kissed her then, his lips moving over hers firmly, tracing her lips with his teeth and tongue. When their lips parted, he smiled down at her. "Not torment, my dear wife, there is a method to the madness... the longer I delay your pleasure, the greater it will be for us both."

Abbi's skin burned where he touched her. Each stroke of his skilled fingers upon her flesh only fanned the flames. Impatient to feel him against her, inside her, she tugged at the fine linen of his shirt, her hands delving inside, moving over warm skin and firm muscle. As his fingers burned a tender path along her inner thighs, her nails scored his shoulders, tugging him closer, demanding more.

He was frustrating, infuriating, maddening and in all those things, still she burned for him. With only the slightest touch or a single, knowing glance, he could set her body ablaze.

Moisture gathered between her thighs, her body aching for the release that he could offer. Still, he didn't touch her as she longed for him to. He teased, his hands dancing over her skin, but stopping just short of the places where she ached the most.

"Michael, if you don't-."

She didn't finish the statement. His hands bracketed her wrists, pinning them to the bed, and he was atop her, his weight pressing down, the hardness of his body imprinting upon her. Her breath seized in her lungs as she stared up into his midnight eyes. There was no hint of playfulness, only heat.

"Independent as you are, my dear wife, in this particular arena, it is to both our benefit for you to bow to my expertise," he said, his voice low and almost menacing.

Abbi shivered in response. "I'm not very good at being patient."

He moved, his hips flexing against her. The hard length of him nudged between her thighs, creating a delicious friction that left her gasping. He repeated the gesture and she wished fervently that he was naked, that there were no barriers between them.

"More," she urged. "Let me feel you."

He groaned. "You're making it very difficult for me to say no to you."

Abbi smiled and, with a boldness that mere weeks ago would have shocked her, she wrapped her legs around him, lifting her hips against him in an entreating invitation. "Then don't. Give me what we both want."

"Minx," he whispered.

Abbi sighed in relief as he moved, unb.u.t.toning his breeches. Then he was stroking her, his fingers gliding sensuously over the damp folds between her thighs, before parting them to touch her. A broken sob escaped her as his fingertips traced tight circles around the small, swollen nub nestled between her thighs. The tension built, her muscles quivering, her belly tightening in antic.i.p.ation of the pleasure.

She sobbed his name. Both of her wrists were captured in one of his large hands. With nothing to cling to, no way to alleviate the burning need, she trembled beneath him. His breath fanned over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His tongue followed, tracing a delicate pattern over her skin. He moved lower, capturing one furled nipple between his lips. If the hand that moved between her parted thighs was masterful, then the touch of his mouth was the most gentle of caresses in comparison.

Her breath caught her lungs refusing to work as every muscle coiled tightly in her body. Arching into his touch, seeking the release that seemed just beyond her grasp, Abbi gasped soundlessly.

It happened suddenly. The deluge of pleasure, the rippling waves of her release washing through her, carrying her over the edge. Her eyes fluttered closed and soft sob escaped her, the relief so intense, so earth shattering, it was as if the entire world had fallen away. Nothing existed at that moment beyond the two of them, beyond the points of contact between their bodies. His hands on her flesh, the weight of his body on hers, and the exquisite sensations that he had wrung from her were the entirety of her existence.

Abbi hadn't recovered her breath, much less her senses, when his mouth moved from her breast. He traced a fiery path over her chest and neck until once again he was claiming her lips in a drugging kiss. His hands coasted over her thighs, sliding behind her knees and lifting her legs to wrap around him. Languid with her own pleasure, Abbi sighed into his mouth.

At the first touch of his rigid flesh nudging at her damp folds, her pleasure spiked anew. He moved deeper, spearing inside her, and she felt the now familiar tension coiling inside her again. His hips flexed against her and he surged into her with one long, slow stroke. That movement was then repeated, a slow and easy rhythm established. It left her straining against him. Still, there was no hurry from him, no mad rush towards the pinnacle. He was patience personified as he stoked the fire between them.

"Look at me, Abbi," he urged. His movements were controlled, his body held fiercely in check. But his voice was not. It was raw with emotion, with a need that went far beyond the physical.

Meeting his gaze, Abbi was stunned by the wealth of emotion in his eyes. Connected to him physically and, with their gazes locked, emotionally, Abbi was caught up in the storm of pa.s.sion. The moment was so beautiful, and yet so intimidating. She didn't want to be so connected to him, she didn't want to give him the power to hurt her any more than she already had. Yet, she felt herself falling into his gaze, falling into him. It was inevitable to fall in love with a man like Michael. It was just as inevitable that he would ultimately break her heart.

Pushing those thoughts aside, forcing them from her mind, she let the storm take her. The sensations sweeping through her body, the all-consuming fire that burned between them, swept her away and she eagerly let it.

Michael couldn't put into words the fear that had consumed him, the dread that had filled him when he found her stumbling from the woods. The very idea of something happening to her, of something taking her from him was too much. So instead of telling her, he tried to show her, to use the pa.s.sion that always flared between them to convey just how much she'd come to mean to him.

Thrusting into the welcoming heat of her body, forging the bonds between them, it was as much a claiming as their wedding had been. She was his. It was both simple and infinitely complicated. He hadn't the words to express it. Or perhaps he didn't have the courage to voice those words.

Somehow, she'd gotten past his many defenses and had reached a part of him he'd thought gone forever. Not being able to say it, to confess something that would make him so incredibly vulnerable, didn't change one thing. He needed her to know, and he craved some confirmation that it was the same for her. He needed her to need him, to crave him in return.

As she strained against him, her body tightening, coiling with pleasure, he staved off his own. Through sheer force of will, he held it bay, drawing out the climb for them both. When she was finally quivering beneath him, her belly and thighs trembled as she gave in to the ecstasy. Only then did he allow himself to follow her over that precipice, to lose himself in the welcoming heat of her body.

Shuddering against her, holding her closer, tighter than necessary, he whispered. "I need to keep you safe. I need you to let me do that... please."

She said nothing in response, but pressed her face against his chest and clung to him.

Rupert walked into the local tavern. No one blinked. It wasn't an unusual occurrence for him to have a pint with the Squire. He didn't speak to the villagers and likewise, they avoided him. It was a mutually agreeable circ.u.mstance.

Taking a seat at the table in the back, he signaled the tavern-keep for a pint of ale. When it was deposited in front of him, he waited until the man had once again walked away before addressing his companion.

"I've had a change of heart, Blevins," he said.

"What about?" the man asked, taking a long draw from his own tankard.

"Ellersleigh needs to die... Painfully. Horribly."

Blevins' bushy eyebrows shot up. "You said it was too risky because he's a peer!

"So am I! It wasn't a request, Squire. It was a decree. Ellersleigh will die."

"After your failed attempt in London, this will raise questions."

Rupert nodded. "So, it will. The attempt in London was generic enough. One black coach in a sea of others... It never would have happened at all if Lavinia hadn't lost her temper with that b.l.o.o.d.y shopkeeper."

The Squire sighed. "Lavinia does not lose her temper. She does occasionally find it. She's a violent streak in her, your wife. She enjoys meting it out as much as she enjoys taking it."

Rupert smiled. "So she does. She's a rare bird... don't think I've forgotten your little display the other day. It's one thing to be rough with her, it's another to threaten permanent damage. Do not do that again."

The warning held little threat as Blevins knew precisely how incapacitated he was by his illness. If not for the mixture of opium and herbs that he inhaled, now on an almost daily basis, he would no longer be able to function at all.

"Certainly, my lord," the Squire said, though there was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

"Find someone to take him out, Blevins. I want him gone."

"Lady Whitby will not be pleased."

Rupert nodded, a smile curving his lips. "No. She won't, and that is precisely the point... I've been placating Lavinia for far too long. It's made her complacent. My darling wife is addicted to sensation. She craves it like a drunkard needs spirits. Good, bad, pleasurable, excruciating... It matters little to her what she feels so long as she does. She wants Ellersleigh, but I've decided to deny her in this instance. Her grief and disappointment will serve her well."

Blevins shook his head. "You'll have to find someone else. I'll not do it... Too risky."

Rupert sneered at him. "Of course not. I wouldn't dream of asking you to dirty your hands... lest it be with small girls who can't fight back. Not so risky then, is it? Holding them down, beating them, raping them while they scream for help?"

Blevins' face purpled with rage. "You did the same, when you could!"

"And I will again... as soon I get the chalice!"

Blevins slammed his tankard down on the table. "You've said that about a dozen different objects that we've broken every law of the land to possess and not one of them has worked!"

"They have worked," Rupert insisted. "If not, I'd have been reduced to dust in the churchyard by now. But this one is different... I know it is. So help me get him out of the way and then we'll make Abigail forfeit our prize!"

"What is it your after, then?" the Squire demanded.

"A name... someone who might be willing to take care of this little problem for us. And once it's done, we'll have a grand party with the merry widow."

"You think we'll get the chalice from her, do you?"

Rupert chuckled. The sound was so cold and merciless that several people in the tavern rose from their seats and beat a hasty exit. "Oh, I think by the time we're done with her, she'll give us anything we ask for."

Chapter Sixteen.