Page 61 of A Devil in Silk
The next morning, Bentley sat in his parked carriage a short distance from Clara’s home in Bedford Square, reading the early note he had received from his mother. Birds sang and sunlight spilled across the rooftops, yet the promise of a glorious day was dulled by the sorrowful words on the page.
It was a demand, not an apology. A desperate insistence that if he refused to marry Sarah Woodall, disaster would strike. Worse still, illness would stalk the house in the dead of night like the reaper come to claim its next victim.
“Our family isn’t cursed, Mother,” he muttered, weary of hearing the same complaints. “Everyone suffers misfortune to some degree.” Was life not about learning from tragedy?
Yet his mother was adamant the Lord had forsaken her. That she was being punished for her sins, and that her suffering would only ease if he married Sarah and restored a bond that should never have been broken.
“What nonsense is this?” Bentley scratched his head. The most troubling part was that she truly believed another calamity was imminent.
On the bright side, at least she hadn’t mentioned Marcus.
The toll of St George’s bells, marking the hour, had him shoving the letter into his pocket and focusing on calling for his new mistress.
He chuckled as he rapped on the carriage roof, Clara’s parting words from last night replaying in his mind, revealing the complicated nature of their relationship.
We’ll get the truth out of Lord Tarrington tomorrow if it kills us. And I believe Porretta’s Bathhouse rents private bathing rooms. As time is precious, we should visit tonight.
The woman was a devil in silk. It was a wonder he hadn’t rubbed his palms raw, given how many times he’d thought about her in bed last night.
But Rothley’s warning still echoed in his ears like a distant death knell. Friends or not, Daniel Dalton would likely kill him if he dared lay a hand on Clara.
Bentley clearly had a death wish. Despite the risk, he couldn’t stay away. When they kissed, the world no longer seemed cold and barren. There was something gentle yet untamed about her spirit. Something he couldn’t live without.
But in his desperate quest for freedom, he’d crossed a boundary. One he couldn’t cross again without making Clara his wife.
Even knowing she would never agree, he found himself smiling … until Clara stepped out of the house and into his carriage, and he knew instinctively something was wrong.
She sat across from him, adjusting the delicate folds of her lavender skirt. A light spencer jacket did nothing to soften the tight set of her shoulders. In a cool, measured voice, she said, “Good morning, my lord. I trust you slept well.”
He wasted no time on pleasantries. “No. I kept thinking about you coming against my mouth and barely slept a wink. And what happened to calling me Bentley? As my mistress,you’re supposed to spend the journey astride my lap, yet you’ve deliberately worn a new dress.”
A faint blush touched her cheeks. “I’ve had time to reflect. What happened last night cannot happen again,” she said, trampling over every erotic dream he’d had since dawn. “I wish I could claim I was drunk on champagne, but the truth is I let excitement overtake my better judgement.”
“Bollocks.”
“Bentley!”
“Forgive me. But we’re close enough that I can speak honestly—and honestly, I’d rather say ‘bollocks’ than call you a liar, Clara.”
She tried to appear haughty, but such a dour expression didn’t suit her. “A liar deliberately misleads. I’ve simply had a change of heart.”
“Now I know you’re lying.”
“Why? Because, unlike other women, I’m not falling at your feet?”
He fell back as though struck. “Shall I tell you how I know something’s wrong? You haven’t looked me in the eyes since you stepped into this carriage. And you’re speaking to me like I’m a stranger, not the man who’s had his mouth between your thighs.”
“Must you be so crude?”
“You’re the one who asked to be my mistress. I could remind you of all the things you said to me, but your facade is cracking. I only know true peace with you, Clara. Don’t lie and pretend you don’t feel the same.”
She bowed her head, still avoiding his gaze. “You have more to lose than I do. Don’t make this decision any harder than it already is. Some things … some things just aren’t worth the risk.”
A nagging suspicion took root. Had his mother written to her? “Risk to whom? You’re leaving London and have swornnever to marry. We’re already courting scandal by working as agents of the Order. And we were seen together at a seance.”
“But you’re expected to marry.” She pressed a gloved hand to her mouth as if the notion unsettled her. “You’re the last of your bloodline. More than that, my brother trusts you. If he doesn’t shoot you, he’ll force us to wed.”
He sat with that thought. Marriage was preferable to death—unless they were speaking about Miss Woodall. Then he’d rather have every bone broken on the rack.
