Duty and responsibility be damned. He was just a man, reveling in heat, tasting the velvet sweetness of his woman, fitting his rising cock into her welcoming curves.
He buried his face into the arch of her throat, touched his tongue to the beat of her racing pulse.
He wanted to bare her creamy skin.
He wanted to tug her over to that cot, toss up her skirts and make them both mad with desire.
He wanted to take her home to Greystone and never let her go.
But he could not.
So he lifted his head.
Without words, she protested.
But he slid his hands to her shoulders and kissed her temple. “We should go.”
They held each other up a moment. When he was finally sure he could walk without staggering or snatching her back, he huffed out a breath and stepped away.
Silently, they watched each other over across a stretch of floor that might as well have been an ocean.
At last, she nodded. Neither spoke as they retraced their steps. She waved goodbye to the Madame and her assistant. He helped her into the curricle.
They drove, swaddled inside a thick silence.
“I’m engaged to take dinner with my family and a guest this evening,” she said as they pulled up before her brother’s house. “Later we will be attending the Montbarrow’s party. Several young ladies who might be flattered by your attentions will be there. Miss Nichols will be glad to introduce you to them. But if you find you have . . . something you’d rather say to me . . .” She faltered, took a deep breath, then continued. “I will make sure to be in Lady Montbarrow’s parlor on the second floor, at the top of the stairs, at half past ten.”
He nodded.
A footman emerged to help her down. She stood on the pavement, watching him gravely. “Will you come? I hope you will come.”
“Then I will,” he said roughly.
She turned and preceded the servant into the house.
Tensford drove away, knowing that she’d taken the best part of him with her.
Chapter 8
We are a civilized lot, ladies and gentlemen, and when we make a mistake, we must be prepared to admit the truth of it, and to make amends . . .
--Whispers from Lady X
Sterne had already dressed for the evening, so his valet was free to attend to Tensford. He might have enjoyed the process, having forgotten what a luxury it was to allow someone else to press his clothes, shave him and tie him into an elegant, complicated cravat, but he was far too distracted.
It was an impossible decision.
How could he choose his own happiness over the duty he owed to his estate, his people? It was not the way a gentleman behaved.
Feeling like a fraud, he walked stiff-legged down the stairs. It felt wrong, somehow, that his shining outside did not reflect the bleak, bleeding despair he felt on the inside.
Laughter drifted from the parlor. It was to be a dinner party, the valet had told him. Tensford wished fervently that he hadn’t agreed to attend. He was torn, and too, he was troubled by a nagging feeling, a thought that he’d forgotten something, or missed something important. He wanted only to hide and brood, and somehow decide if he could make that appointment with Lady Hope at Montbarrow’s tonight.
How could he?
How could he not?
With a shake of his head, he bade the footman not to open the parlor doors. Not just yet. He stood a moment, looking around, letting the peace of the place sink in.
Barrett’s uncle’s house was small, but quite . . . splendid. The colors were warm and the lighting soft and inviting. The rug appeared worn, but everything looked scrubbed and polished and well cared for. Lady Hope’s earlier words echoed in his head. We are fortunate, all of us who know the comfort of good smells, a warm welcome and a full belly.
He nodded and the footman opened the door. Tensford stepped into the parlor, and relaxed a little. It was that sort of atmosphere. The swish of silk and satin was the same, the gleam of jewels and smiles were as one would find at a ton gathering. But the crowd was small, and seemed intimate. Conversations flowed with familiar ease. There was nothing frantic or artificial about the feeling in the room.
“There you are.” Sterne handed him a drink. “Let me show you around and introduce you to a few people.”
In normal circumstances Tensford would have been thrilled to be there. More than a few people there had interest in the sciences, naturally. Lady Hargrove was there. She was kind, as was most everyone else. Yet Tensford could scarcely concentrate. He could not think past the ache in his chest and that niggle in his brain.
Then Barrett was back. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go pay respects to my aunt and uncle.”
Mr. John Sterne was friendly, as always, and his wife welcoming.
“Barrett says you intend to sell that fossilized sea urchin of yours, the one embedded in the round stone.”
“I am considering it, sir.”
“A fine piece. Unique. I’d be interested, of course. Give you a fair price, too. But you have a fine mind for the science yourself, Tensford. Why not keep the piece and let it be the start of your own collection?”
“I would like to. I’ll think about your advice, sir.”
“I know what you are thinking,” Barrett said after his aunt and uncle moved on. “You’re thinking you’ll keep that piece if you marry the Irish merchant’s daughter.”
“I might as well get something above the forty thousand, for that will all go to Greystone.”
“She’s the worst prospect yet.”
“She’s the
