set her blue eyes sparkling. Pansy blue, summer-sky blue, as wide as the ocean. He yearned for the day he could touch her bare hand and link their fingers, skin to skin. And for the day—oh, the day!—when he could press his lips to hers, when they would open under his and he would be granted his first taste of her. It would be sweeter than honey, for sure.
For now he accompanied Miss Bourne and Miss Bentham on their outings in the park, met the whole family at soirees or at the theater. And afterward he couldn’t wait to hear Miss Bourne’s opinion on the play they had seen.
The days raced by and he lived only for the precious moments he spent in her company. His spirits soared when he walked beside her, and his heart thudded in his chest whenever her laughter trilled in his ears.
His friends declared him mad. “You, my dear boy,” Cyril said, “act like a man possessed.”
Possessed?
If he were, it was a sweet possession indeed, a madness he didn’t want to be cured of. Amelia Bourne was bewitching and beautiful; she was all he had ever dreamt of. Now that he had found her, he wouldn’t be able to bear it should he lose her again. Her regard seemed to him the most precious gift. The mere thought that he might forfeit it because of his birth made him break into cold sweat. But he wouldn’t: if he never told her, he would never lose her and thus she would be with him forever.
Forever.
Surely nothing could be any sweeter than that.
~*~
An empty glass in his hand, Bentham sat in an armchair at his club and stared into space. Brooding. These days his acquaintances gave him a wide berth, yet he hardly noticed. A vise constricted his chest, squeezed his lungs, and he felt trapped, so horribly trapped. Hell, he felt as if he had sold his soul to Beelzebub himself.
Sweet heavens, what had he gotten himself into? If only he had never taken Lady Margaret’s cursed money! True, at the time—was it ten years now?—he had had no other options; the moneylenders, the greedy bastards, had started to regard him with suspicion. Therefore, when he had heard about the mysterious Lady Margaret it had seemed a godsend. I will give you the money, and you will pay it back when you can. An unusual arrangement, to be sure, yet it had seemed so simple, so astonishingly easy. Pay it back when you can. Something he had always put off, until it slowly but surely slipped his mind. The right time for paying his debts had never come; he always needed more money—and more—and more—and more. Truly, he had tried to stop for a while, but how could he withstand the lure of the cards? The thrill? The excitement?
And now…
He shuddered, and a snap of his fingers produced a footman, who poured him more brandy. With a trembling hand he raised the glass to his mouth and downed its contents. Liquid fire burned down his gullet and into his stomach. Closing his eyes, Bentham waited for the explosion of heat that would relax his tense muscles.
“Ah, Mr. Bentham.”
His eyes snapped open. Disbelieving, he ogled the stranger who slipped into the empty armchair facing him.
“So, our Sicilian Dragon has been successful, I’ve heard.” His voice smooth and pleasant, the man crossed his legs.
“How the devil did you get in here?” Bentham snapped, while the alcohol rolled sickeningly through his stomach.
One dark blond eyebrow arched. “I get admission everywhere, my dear Mr. Bentham. I thought you would have guessed by now.”
And what was that supposed to mean?
Sweat trickled down Bentham’s temple as, with apparent interest, the other man looked around the room. “Such a nice, cultivated place, a gentleman’s club. Prestigious, you might call it. Does it not just ooze wealth and distinction?” He turned back to Bentham, his lips curved. “What a lucky man to belong to such an institution. You have been … successful?”
At the man’s sneer, Bentham felt his insides quake. He felt like a rabbit at first sight of a snake.
For now he accompanied Miss Bourne and Miss Bentham on their outings in the park, met the whole family at soirees or at the theater. And afterward he couldn’t wait to hear Miss Bourne’s opinion on the play they had seen.
The days raced by and he lived only for the precious moments he spent in her company. His spirits soared when he walked beside her, and his heart thudded in his chest whenever her laughter trilled in his ears.
His friends declared him mad. “You, my dear boy,” Cyril said, “act like a man possessed.”
Possessed?
If he were, it was a sweet possession indeed, a madness he didn’t want to be cured of. Amelia Bourne was bewitching and beautiful; she was all he had ever dreamt of. Now that he had found her, he wouldn’t be able to bear it should he lose her again. Her regard seemed to him the most precious gift. The mere thought that he might forfeit it because of his birth made him break into cold sweat. But he wouldn’t: if he never told her, he would never lose her and thus she would be with him forever.
Forever.
Surely nothing could be any sweeter than that.
~*~
An empty glass in his hand, Bentham sat in an armchair at his club and stared into space. Brooding. These days his acquaintances gave him a wide berth, yet he hardly noticed. A vise constricted his chest, squeezed his lungs, and he felt trapped, so horribly trapped. Hell, he felt as if he had sold his soul to Beelzebub himself.
Sweet heavens, what had he gotten himself into? If only he had never taken Lady Margaret’s cursed money! True, at the time—was it ten years now?—he had had no other options; the moneylenders, the greedy bastards, had started to regard him with suspicion. Therefore, when he had heard about the mysterious Lady Margaret it had seemed a godsend. I will give you the money, and you will pay it back when you can. An unusual arrangement, to be sure, yet it had seemed so simple, so astonishingly easy. Pay it back when you can. Something he had always put off, until it slowly but surely slipped his mind. The right time for paying his debts had never come; he always needed more money—and more—and more—and more. Truly, he had tried to stop for a while, but how could he withstand the lure of the cards? The thrill? The excitement?
And now…
He shuddered, and a snap of his fingers produced a footman, who poured him more brandy. With a trembling hand he raised the glass to his mouth and downed its contents. Liquid fire burned down his gullet and into his stomach. Closing his eyes, Bentham waited for the explosion of heat that would relax his tense muscles.
“Ah, Mr. Bentham.”
His eyes snapped open. Disbelieving, he ogled the stranger who slipped into the empty armchair facing him.
“So, our Sicilian Dragon has been successful, I’ve heard.” His voice smooth and pleasant, the man crossed his legs.
“How the devil did you get in here?” Bentham snapped, while the alcohol rolled sickeningly through his stomach.
One dark blond eyebrow arched. “I get admission everywhere, my dear Mr. Bentham. I thought you would have guessed by now.”
And what was that supposed to mean?
Sweat trickled down Bentham’s temple as, with apparent interest, the other man looked around the room. “Such a nice, cultivated place, a gentleman’s club. Prestigious, you might call it. Does it not just ooze wealth and distinction?” He turned back to Bentham, his lips curved. “What a lucky man to belong to such an institution. You have been … successful?”
At the man’s sneer, Bentham felt his insides quake. He felt like a rabbit at first sight of a snake.
Similar Books
