Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood Series, Book 2) (5 page)

"I hate to inconvenience you further. But would you mind if I took a bath?"

"What, here?" Surely she didn't expect him to traipse up and down the stairs carrying buckets of water.

"No," she said removing a few items of clothing from the drawers. "Later, when I come home with you."

Such innocent words spoke of a deep intimacy. Panic flared. He felt out of his depth, floundering amidst a sea of turbulent emotions. He'd never taken a lady to his home. Since his tenth birthday: the day his mother left and disappeared without a trace, he swore never to allow another woman into his place of sanctuary — let alone bathe in his blasted tub.

Damn, he only had male staff.

"I'm sure it won't be a problem," he said stiffly, trying to banish the image of her lounging naked in the copper vessel. Reining in his errant thoughts, he stepped closer while she piled some items into his arms. "You'll need a brush," he said, "and don't forget the diary. We can study it together. I'm rather curious to see what she's written about me."

The lady gasped. "The diary. I almost forgot." Scurrying over to the dressing table, she dropped to her knees and ducked underneath. Even in the dark, she offered him a splendid view, ripe and round, as she grumbled and mumbled to herself before shuffling out. "I thought it best to hide it," she said clutching the box under her arm as she brushed the dust from her dress.

Elliot didn't ask any questions. He was desperate to get home. He needed something to soothe the raging fire in his belly. Hopefully, the smooth red liquid would slide easily down his throat, to calm, to coat the restless feeling consuming him.

When they reached Portman Square, Elliot helped her inside with her things. After a brief conversation with Whithers, whose mouth hung open for so long Elliot feared it would never close properly again, they retired to the study while a room was prepared.

"Do you mind if I sit?" she said gesturing to the chair next to the fire.

"Please, make yourself at home." It was only for a night, he told himself, as the words left his lips. In an hour, she would be tucked up in bed and by the time he ventured down tomorrow evening, she would be ready to depart.

He watched her warm her hands by the fire, saw her flinch as the heat aggravated the grazed skin. "Let me put something on those cuts. It will take down the swelling, soften the skin so it won't feel as tight."

"That would be wonderful." She examined the marks as she sat down. "I keep trying to forget about it, but it's still a little sore."

Elliot took a glass and poured a small amount of brandy into the bottom. Walking over to his desk, he opened the drawer, removed a handkerchief and a flask of laudanum and pretended to add a few drops.

Swirling the amber liquid in the glass, he came to sit opposite her. "Give me your hand." He felt oddly nervous, as though he'd only recently progressed from the school room and just being in the presence of a woman was a stimulating enough experience in itself.

Mrs. Denton's gaze drifted over his face, and she glanced down at his open palm before placing her hand tentatively in his.

A host of overwhelming sensations flooded his body. He could feel the pulse of her heart beating against his skin. He could feel a strange tingling sensation that made him feel weightless, somewhat dizzy. His gaze met hers and he noticed her bottom lip trembling.

God, he'd had many women, taken his pleasure in every way possible. Nothing compared to the craving he felt deep in his chest when he looked at her. He shook his head and tried to focus.

"Look away," he said, aware of the slight change in the pitch of his voice. "It will hurt less."

She nodded and turned to look at the flames.

Elliot put the handkerchief to his mouth, wetting a corner before patting the broken skin.

She sucked in a breath as he continued with his delicate ministrations, touching it to his mouth, dabbing the skin. All the while, watching her. All the while, aching for something he could not explain.

"What happened to your husband?" He did not mean to pry into her private affairs, but he needed to find some way to distract his mind.

"Henry fell off his horse and broke his neck."

There was something cold and detached about her reply and her hand remained steady in his. It told him all he needed to know but still he said, "It must have been awful for you."

"Only awful because a man lost his life being reckless." She sighed deeply and turned to look at him. "Sorry. I should not have said that."

Her gaze held his for a moment, and he saw pain reflected there, perhaps even disappointment.

Placing her hand gently in her lap, he reached for her other hand, and she turned away as he began to dab at the dried specks of blood.

"What I mean to say is we were only married for a few months."

Elliot could feel her sadness surrounding him, pressing down on his shoulders like a heavy weight. Sadness for what, he thought? She had more or less admitted to feeling nothing for the man whose name she bore.

Driven by a compulsion to discover more, he asked, "There was no love between you?"

"Love?" she echoed giving a cynical snort. "No, there was no love, only resentment." She turned to face him again. "Have you ever been in love?"

The question hit him like a blow to the chest. As a man who avoided intimacy, it was far too intrusive. But he had set this scene, provoking her to open her heart and so she deserved to hear his answer.

"No. I have never been in love. I do not believe there is such a thing." Indeed, his mother had taught him that. Although spending time with Alexander and Evelyn has caused him to doubt his own philosophy. "All human actions are motivated by selfishness in one form or another. The great poets would have us invest in the idea that love is an exotic destination, the reward for surviving a long and perilous voyage. I'm more inclined to agree with the notion that it is a form of manipulation. Where the weak minded become slaves to their passion and dress it all up as something far more profound."

"I'm not sure I agree," she said glancing down at his hand wrapped around hers. "Although experience tells me you may be right, I would prefer to think of love as a feeling of deep affection. To be cherished, to be accepted for who you are, must surely be the greatest gift imaginable."

"I have heard fanciful tales of such things, yet in all my thirty years I have only ever witnessed it once."

Rather than appear discouraged, she simply smiled. "Then there is hope, is there not?"

Since the night he'd been turned by a devil, hope was a word obliterated from his vocabulary.

"There," he said letting go of her hand, desperate to put an end to the conversation. "It will still be sore but will heal much more quickly. You should notice a difference come morning."

She glanced down and examined both arms. "It feels better already. You must tell me how to make the tincture."

He stood and walked over to the drinks tray, swallowing the brandy in one mouthful when she wasn't looking. With desperate eyes, he pulled the stopper from the decanter of blood, knowing how the smallest taste would calm him.

"Would you care for some refreshment?"

"Thank you. I'll have a small measure of whatever you're having."

Groaning inwardly, he replaced the stopper and poured them both a glass of brandy.

Picking up the diary from the small table next to her, she began flicking through to the relevant page. "Here it is. The comment about her appointment to meet with you."

"Would you mind if I looked at it?" he said swapping the diary for the glass of brandy.

He took it over to the desk, angled the candle in an attempt to study the script.

She came to stand at his side and peered over his shoulder. "You see." She pointed to his name, her arm brushing against his. "It looks like Markham."

With all the will in the world, he couldn't concentrate while she was standing in such close proximity. She was a widow ripe for the plucking. As she turned the page and mumbled something about the way his name was written, all he could think of was her spread out over the wooden surface, his hands grabbing her waist as he positioned himself between long luscious legs.

"You're staring at it blankly," she said. "Can you not see what I mean? I don't know why I've never noticed it before. Perhaps because I have only ever studied it in the daylight."

"Sorry, what have you not noticed before?"

She tutted. "The dot."

"The dot?" he repeated.

"You've not been listening to a word I have said. The next page is blank, but if you examine it under the light, you can see the indentations. It isn't Markham. It is Mark dot ham."

Elliot turned the page to study it himself. "I see what you mean. So you think she met with someone called Mark?"

"I'm not sure," she said with a sigh. "Your name is mentioned, which is why I assumed it was you. But there is no other mention of a Mark."

Curious to know what Miss Rosemond had written, he flicked back through the pages. "Where are the notes she made about me?"

She snatched the diary from him. "It is rude to read someone's private thoughts. I only did so because I feared the worst." She studied his face for a moment, sighed and then conceded. "Under the circumstances, I suppose you deserve to know what she wrote, but I shall read it to you."

"Very well."

Finding the relevant page, she began. "Lord Markham was as arrogant as ever, but I see the way he looks at me with those lustful eyes. Given time, I believe I have what it takes to win him over. The only qualities he admires amount to—" She stopped abruptly.

"Go on."

"The rest doesn't really matter."

"It matters to me. Go on."

"The … the only qualities he admires amount to nothing more than a m-moist mouth and a warm body. Although I believe the latter is somewhat negotiable."

Disdain bubbled away in his gut, and he stormed over to the drinks table. The blood slithered into the glass without making a sound. He swallowed it down, closed his eyes and savoured the taste. Truth be told, he felt ashamed. Something he'd never felt, something he never expected he would.

Mrs. Denton walked over to him. "It is just one person's opinion."

"Is it? I wouldn't be so sure."

What troubled him most was why he wanted Grace Denton to think better of him. Why did the idea of finding something more than the shallow, insipid women he was used to, cause hope to unfurl like the first fresh flower of spring?

A knock on the door disturbed his reverie, and he glanced up to see Whithers.

"The guest room is ready, my lord, and a bath has been drawn."

"Thank you, Whithers. You may leave the tub in the room tonight and dispense with it in the morning."

Whithers coughed into his fist. "And Lord Hartford is here."

What the hell did Leo want? At this hour, he was usually nestled comfortably between soft thighs.

Mrs. Denton stepped forward. "Invite your guest in, my lord. I'm tired and shall retreat to my room."

It was for the best. The more time he spent in her company, the more he lost all grip on reality, the more his mind was plagued by whimsical fantasies.

"Give us a minute, Whithers, and then you may show Lord Hartford in." As Whithers retreated, he turned to his delectable guest. "I'm a late riser, so we will confer later in the afternoon. Whithers will provide anything you need in the meantime."

She smiled, but the beautiful image faded as Leo's voice boomed through the hall. "Is he in here?" The gentleman strode in like a true Turkish prince. "As you left the party so early, I thought I'd bring it to you. The ladies are waiting in my carriage and—" He stopped abruptly, his wide eyes focusing on Grace Denton.

"Forgive me," Leo said offering a gracious bow. "I did not expect you to have company."

Elliot turned to Mrs. Denton. "Whithers will show you up to your room."

She inclined her head. "Thank you, my lord."

Ignoring Leo's frown, he watched her walk from the room.

"You have brought a woman into your home?" Leo whispered. "I thought you said women like Caroline Rosemond were not worth the effort."

Faced with the dilemma of telling Leo the truth, Elliot said, "Can you do something for me?"

Leo appeared surprised by the question. "Of course. You do not need to ask."

"If I write a note, will you take it to Alexander? I need Evelyn's help."

"Certainly. I take it you're not coming with me. The delights waiting in my carriage are no match for the skill of a seasoned courtesan."

Elliot glanced up at the ceiling, imagining a bathing scene unfolding. "What I have here is something far superior than even I can comprehend."

Chapter 5

Grace squinted against the brightness of the morning sun as she peered out through the heavy drapes. There were people already milling about outside. A milkmaid cried her wares in the square as she swung her pails on a yoke. A sweeper continued the fruitless task of clearing the street, a carriage disturbing his ministrations as it rattled by.