Jennifer Haymore Read online

  Dev stripped her defenses and left her so open and vulnerable and raw that in the end, all she could do to protect herself was run.

  “Look at me.”

  Slowly, she turned to face him, raising her gaze to his.

  His expression softening, he moved toward her, reaching out to her. Fighting not to move into his arms, she squeezed her fists tight at her sides.

  He cupped her cheek and stroked his thumb over her cheekbone. His touch was warm, smooth, like melted chocolate. “Was that why you left? To become sovereign over your own body?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  His fingers tensed minutely. “You shunned me publicly. You made me a laughingstock.”

  Julia remembered the crowd of onlookers as she and Lord Clayton had strode away from him. She remembered how he had shouted at her, begged her to stop. “Julia!” he’d cried. “Don’t do this!”

  She closed her eyes, remembering the despair of that moment. How difficult it had been to see the expression of misery on his face and still walk away.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

  A month earlier, she’d made an effort to leave him during one of their liaisons, but his seduction had been so thorough that she’d abandoned her plan.

  Feeling weak and cowardly and at a loss as to how she could call it off between them, she’d ignored his summonses for the following weeks. She met and befriended Lord Clayton when he’d come to visit her uncle, and he’d invited them to the opera—to lift her spirits, he’d said, though she hadn’t told him why she was sad. At the time, she’d thought the gesture so kind.

  Then, she’d seen Devlin in the box across from Lord Clayton’s, and she hadn’t known what to think, what to do. She’d spent most of the performance gazing into her lap. Then, afterward, Dev had approached her, giving her no choice but to make things between them patently, publicly, clear.

  Her uncle, waiting in the carriage, had heard enough to deduce exactly what had happened. The atmosphere in the carriage was strained, but he held himself in check as long as the viscount was near. As soon as Lord Clayton left them, he raged at her. He called her a whore, a failure, an embarrassment to her family. Even then, Julia had thought it hypocritical, considering the number of mistresses that had circulated through his bedchamber over the years. But she knew all too well how different the expectations were of men and women.

  Then, her uncle had thrown her out. Wanting nothing more than to be as far away from London as possible, she’d gone to Algernon, told him everything and begged for the funds to cross the Channel.

  Now Devlin stood before her, close enough to touch. Every nerve in her body reached out to him, ached to move into his embrace, but her few remaining wits held her back.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  She looked down at the intricate swirls on the carpet and spoke in a voice below a whisper. “Someday I will not be.”

  “You will always be beautiful to me. It is not in your youth that I see your beauty. It is in you.”

  “I want to believe you.” She wanted to believe him so badly. But that festering lump of distrust within her wouldn’t be ignored.

  “What could I do to make you believe?”

  “Nothing,” she responded instantly, then she flinched, immediately regretting it. That one word had sounded so cruel.

  He released his hold on her cheek and stepped back. She looked up at him, and there it was. The broken shadow of pain that resided deep in his eyes. She moved with him, slipped her arms around his waist, and rested her forehead on his chest.

  Gently, he pushed her away. “Take your bath, Julia.”

  She blinked up at him, bewildered. His mouth was set in a tight line. Tension radiated from his body.

  He jerked his chin at the tub. “Go on. Take your bath.”

  Taking a shaky breath, she turned toward the tub and stepped in. The silky warm water caressed her skin. She sank into it and scrubbed her body with the soap he handed her. Dev watched silently, scrutinizing her every move, taking in the most private parts of her body and trailing paths of heat along her skin everywhere his gaze touched. When she sank her head into the water, he went behind the tub and with sure, gentle fingers, washed her hair.

  Without saying a word, he helped her out of the bath and used a thick towel to dry her. He lingered over her breasts and smoothed around her nipples as if they were made of the most delicate crystal. Julia had to bite her lip to keep from gasping as the gentle touches seemed to travel beneath her skin, making her core clench and her legs quiver. He dropped to his knees, swiping the towel over the flare of her hips, then over her thighs, nudging them apart before raising questioning eyes.

  Hesitantly, she widened her stance and with just the slightest hint of a smile curving his lips, he stroked the towel over the slick flesh between her legs. Sensation, hot and sharp, spiked through her. She gasped and her knees buckled, but with lightning reflexes, he grasped her waist so she wouldn’t fall.

  Trembling, she gripped his shoulders and watched him. His eyes narrowed with intensity and focused on his task. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths. He was aroused, but he made no move to try to claim her.

  “Dev,” she whispered as he dropped her chemise over her head. His touch had turned her body into an aching, needing, wanting thing. The fabric felt wrong against her skin, scratchy and uncomfortable. Only Dev could soothe her, Dev’s skin against her skin, the weight of his big body on her, covering her. He was the only remedy for her ache.

  He gathered her gown, stockings, shoes, and drawers in one hand and arched an eyebrow at her. “Yes?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am serving as a lady’s maid. A very poor one, I’m afraid.” The sincerity of his tone masked a rare hint of roguish humor.

  She wanted to strip off her chemise and beg him to take her again. She wanted to go down to her knees and take him into her mouth. She should want neither after what he had done to her…and yet she now knew without a doubt that there was more to this than him simply kidnapping her so he could possess her body.

  Against her will, her hand had already tugged her chemise up to her hip. She forcibly relaxed her fingers and the chemise dropped back to her knees. “Not so very poor,” she told him.

  “I will return you to your room.” He held the door open and she walked past him and through it, burning with the desire to have him once more, drowning in uncertainty. He was a man who knew what he wanted and took it. Always, without fail. What was he playing at?

  Entering the room behind her, he laid her clothing over the chair back. “Your dinner will be up shortly. Is there anything else I can get you?”

  He meant to leave her here, alone. Without taking her to bed. Shock muted her for a long moment. Finally she murmured, “No, nothing else, thank you.”

  He stared at her in a most unnerving way. She stood in the center of the room, gazing at him. The hair prickled on the back of her neck.

  She was a fool. Here she was again, sinking into the fairytale. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember that last afternoon in the inn.

  Very nice, he had said just before walking away, leaving her naked and alone. I left a little something for you on the table.

  It was better this way. Making love with him would only make it worse, wouldn’t it?

  “Goodnight, Julia.” Devlin slipped out the door, closing and locking it behind him.

  She didn’t know what Dev was doing—what he wanted. But she did know one thing: He was a danger to her. Now more than ever.

  She turned to the window.

  * * *

  Dev had paced his drawing room so much today he feared he had worn a trail on the carpet. He poured himself a glass of brandy and tossed it back in one burning gulp. He poured another and set about pacing again.

  Ayers had explained everything to him.

  After a difficult year on the Continent, struggling to make ends meet by sewing for vari
ous dressmakers, she had returned to England to work in Ayers’s fashionable tailoring shop. He had told Dev she was an extraordinarily skillful and creative seamstress.

  He grunted, sank into his armchair and stared into the fire. He had promised her cousin that he’d do right by her, but he had botched things so terribly, he didn’t know how to fix them, how she would ever forgive him for what he’d done.

  Today he had tried to show her that he cared for her, that he could be gentle and kind without throwing her into bed. He’d tried to apologize to her through action, but it had been awkward. He was nothing but a clumsy oaf. He didn’t know how to treat her when he was not bedding her, and his discomfort had clearly shone through. All throughout their encounter, she had looked upon him with wariness and distrust.

  How could he regain her trust?

  Ayers had told him she became too attached to him. She’d loved him desperately and believed he saw her only as his mistress, so she had escaped to France to avoid the inevitable heartbreak. Then, despite the advances of Clayton and others, she had remained chaste.

  How could he have been so stupid? He had thought only of himself, not of her soft nature, of her reputation, her dreams and aspirations. He had thought she understood how much she affected him, how deeply he had fallen. They had spent so much intimate time together—happy and companionable, sometimes rough, sometimes gentle, always affectionate. But he had never once told her with words how strongly he felt. He had merely lived in the joy of the present and thought she had, too.

  Of course she believed he did not love her. What reason had he ever given her to think otherwise?

  He finished the brandy, rose, and stalked to the sideboard. This time he grabbed the entire decanter instead of pouring himself another glass as he remembered how he’d treated her last night.

  Goddamn it all. His head ached with guilt. He was a churl. She deserved so much better than him.

  And yet he could not let her go. His need for her had nearly killed him this afternoon when she had pushed herself, naked, into his arms. It had nearly driven him mad as he had watched her bathe, watched her rub the soap over her body, so sweetly seductive yet seemingly unaware of how she affected him.

  No, he couldn’t let her get away from him again. But how could he convince her that he wanted her forever? How could he make her believe in him, trust him?

  The brandy wrapped itself around his nerves, smoothing them, gently opening the path toward a solution. He tilted his head back and let his eyelids drop, leaving the drink to its subtle work.

  The answer came to him all at once. He rose, set the decanter on the side table and felt his lips twist into a smile. He knew what he had to give her. It was so easy. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner?

  He dashed up to his dressing room and yanked open his armoire, searching its depths until he found a small box he hadn’t touched for many years. It opened with a screech of rusted hinges. He rummaged around inside and before long he found what he was looking for. He tested it in his hand, feeling its weight before stuffing it into his pocket.

  He sprinted to her room, turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

  A blast of cold evening air greeted him. Moonlight streamed through the open window.

  Julia was gone.

  Chapter Five

  In her tiny apartment above her cousin’s tailoring shop, Julia set the kettle over the fire. It was Sunday, so the shop was closed and Algernon wouldn’t be in today. She planned to call on him later to let him know that she was safe. She was also blazing with curiosity as to what he had discussed with Dev, what Dev could have possibly told him to make him abandon his rescue.

  She didn’t understand the internal workings of Dev’s mind or why he had kidnapped her and threatened to keep her in his house, but she wouldn’t survive another intimate encounter with the man. He hadn’t found her yet, but it seemed inevitable. She wasn’t safe here. All she could do was to appeal to her cousin for help. Again.

  Sighing, she took the boiling water off the fire and poured it over a few tea leaves. Tea was dear, but Algernon had given her some for Christmas and she felt like indulging today. Grasping her cup in both of her sore hands, she sank into her only chair, an old Queen Anne with a velvet cushion—a relic from Algernon’s attic.

  A door creaked downstairs.

  Julia froze with her teacup halfway to her mouth and then set it down, reminding herself to breathe. That couldn’t be Dev. He didn’t have a key. It had to be Algernon coming to work on the books or to finish a design for an important client.

  She stood, brushed off her skirts, stiffened her spine, and went down to greet her cousin.

  As she neared the bottom of the stairway, a large, dark figure turned into the back corridor. He reeled to a halt in the doorway, looking up at her. She stopped in her tracks, three steps up from the bottom.

  Devlin.

  Julia’s heart lodged firmly in her throat. She could hardly breathe.

  He swept off his hat and dragged a hand through his tousled black hair. “Julia.”

  “How did you get in?” she whispered.

  “Your cousin loaned me this.” He raised the key in his hand. At the horrified look that must have shown on her face, he added, “It was quite by choice. I did not have to pummel him to get it.”

  What on earth had he told Algernon? She shook off her disbelief and clasped her arms around herself, fighting a bone-deep shudder, fighting the urge to turn and run. But there was nowhere to go.

  “You must leave, Devlin.”

  “Not until we talk.”

  “I cannot be with you. I—I can’t stay trapped in that room. I am sorry.” How odd that she was apologizing for choosing not to be his captive.

  “No. I am the one who is sorry. For all of it.” He swept his hand in a grand, encompassing gesture. “But most of all”—he swallowed hard and his voice dropped to a rasping whisper—“I am sorry for using you, Julia. I didn’t know that was what I was doing…but now I see that’s what it was. I’m sorry.”

  She clutched the banister. “Please. You must leave.”

  Please, please leave. Last night, he had left her hot and throbbing for him, and now the honesty of the pained expression on his face opened a deep, aching void in her heart.

  “I cannot let you go,” he said softly. “I won’t.”

  “Please, Dev.” She stared at her feet, too afraid to look at him, to see the intensity in his eyes and that dark shadow behind it.

  “I need you with me.”

  “No—”

  “I can’t live without you.”

  “Of course you can,” she breathed.

  “I was wrong. So wrong.”

  Her head snapped up.

  “I was stupid to have believed Clayton’s lies,” he continued. “I understand everything now.” He set his hat on the side table opposite the foot of the stairs and moved toward her, his hands open, his palms facing upward in a gesture of supplication. “I was wrong. What I said to you, what I did. I will never tire of you, Julia. I’ll never let you go. I love you.”

  She gripped the banister so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Love?” She mouthed the word, for she could not say it aloud.

  “When you left me, I thought—” His voice broke, turned ragged. “I thought all you wanted was the money, that I hadn’t offered you enough and you dismissed me, believing other men would offer you more.”

  She swallowed hard. She’d already told him that wasn’t so.

  His shoulders slumped. “The reports of your exploits in Paris seemed to confirm my theory about why you’d left. I didn’t think I’d survive your leaving me…and then those rumors—they destroyed me. And when you returned, and I found you in that salon and walking between two men, I thought the worst.” He closed his eyes. “For the past year, I’ve raged at you for what I believed you’d done. It’s so much easier to be angry than to feel…” His voice dwindled.

  “Hurt?” she supplied after a moment of s
ilence. Neither she nor he had moved. He stood below the bottom step looking up at her. A part of her wanted to go to him, to pull him close and tell him to forget everything and just hold her. But there was still too much left unsaid. Too much uncertainty.

  He hesitated, then said gruffly, “Yes. Or…heartbreak.”

  Understanding dawned, a slow-burning flame building in that chasm within her. She was the one who’d thought her heart would be broken. She’d protected herself by running away, and in the process, she hadn’t even considered that he might have been affected by her departure. She’d believed he’d simply find another mistress.

  She tilted her head at Dev, remembering his actions, trying to delve beneath all that surface fury and rage she’d witnessed that night at the opera and then three nights ago, when he’d taken her from Algernon.

  She’d hurt him. She’d left him without explanation, climbed into a notorious bachelor’s carriage and escaped to Paris.

  Viscount Clayton hadn’t helped matters when he’d returned to England to spread his vicious lies. And when Dev had seen her on Thomas’s and Algernon’s arms, tripping down the street, half-drunk…

  She was the cause of that shadow in his eyes. She’d wounded him, and he’d protected those wounds with a shield of fury.

  Still, none of that explained the way he’d treated her before she’d left him.

  “When we were together before,” she whispered, “you didn’t think of me as a whore?”

  “God, no.”

  “As your mistress?”

  “No.” He winced. “I didn’t think of you as my mistress, although I realize now that was what you technically were, if a sorely undercompensated one.”

  She raised her hands in a gesture of pure, confused, frustration. “What did you think of me then? What did you think we were doing together? What did it mean to you?”

  “I didn’t think, Julia. Not beyond the present, about how fulfilled I was when we were together, how deeply you satisfied me in all ways. Our times together—they meant everything to me. I thought they did to you as well. Until you left.”