Page 99 of A Devil in Silk
“Then let’s get it over with.”
He followed Rothley downstairs into the private parlour. The shabby room was cloaked in shadow, lit only by the faint glow of a single candle and the amber glint of brandy in the glass on the oak table. Dalton sat there, dark and still. He looked like a fallen angel at the best of times, but tonight his eyes were blacker than the devil’s soul.
“Sit.” Dalton kicked out a wooden chair, the legs scraping harshly across the boards.
In the corner, Elsa sat quietly in a leather wing chair, hands folded in her lap, her watchful gaze a stark contrast to her husband’s simmering fury.
Bentley lowered himself into the chair, the wood as hard as Dalton’s stare. His gaze swept over Bentley’s rumpled shirt,open collar and tousled hair. The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow.
“Were you in bed with my sister?” Dalton’s menacing voice cut through the gloom.
Bentley’s pulse hammered. “I’m in love with her. I believe she feels the same, though she’s not ready to admit it.” It was undoubtedly love. That beautiful yet elusive thing that drove sensible men to recklessness. “I’m so in love with her, nothing else seemed to matter.” Not friendships. Not oaths made in his name. Not the consequences of his actions.
“Were you in bed with my sister?” Dalton repeated.
“Yes.” The word left him without hesitation, the truth his only defence.
Dalton’s fist struck the table, rattling the glass and slopping brandy across the oak. “Damn the devil. I told you about her list so you would protect her, not ruin her for any other man.”
The thought of Clara with another man chilled his blood, but anger flared. “What was I supposed to do? Leave her to climb towers alone? You know she meant to strip off her clothes and swim in the Serpentine.”
“On the list, it said paddle her feet.”
Bentley snorted. “Then clearly you don’t know your sister.” Before Dalton could lunge across the table and deliver a right hook, he pressed on. “She has an unquenchable thirst for life. She needs a companion who fuels her passions yet keeps her grounded.”
“Do not presume to tell me what my sister needs.”
“Why? Because you feel guilty for leaving her alone in London? I’ve been her constant chaperone since you left.”
“You dare put this on me?” Dalton spat.
Bentley drew a breath, conceding the point. “No. I alone am to blame for letting our feelings overrule our better judgement.”
That first kiss atop the tower had been his undoing. The moment their mouths met, he knew he’d found his destiny. Every stolen glance, every reckless step since had only bound him tighter in her spell.
“Did you not think to wait until my return?” Dalton reached for his glass and downed the brandy like it had wronged him, too. “What about your loyalty to me? We’ve been friends for a bloody decade.”
Bentley sat forward. He was aware of Elsa’s gaze on him, calm where Dalton seethed. “Let me ask you this. What do you think my intentions were?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “From the moment Clara spoke in a poor Italian accent and claimed to be The Crimson Contessa, I planned to marry her.”
Elsa gave a small chuckle. “I believe Clara was on a quest to tease you. To flirt and dance while keeping her identity a secret.”
“Why? I’ve known her since she was fifteen.”
“You knew the woman before the accident,” Elsa said, sadness deepening her tone. “Not the woman who wears her scar as if it were a punishment. Clara hides behind a variety of masks.”
“Not with me.”
“Yet you’re still unsure of her feelings,” Elsa stressed.
He couldn’t argue, not after Clara declared she might take a position as an agent of the Order. “She’s afraid, that’s all. Afraid of losing her independence, of being a burden. I need time to prove that won’t be the case.”
“Time is the one thing you don’t have.” Elsa crossed the room and smoothed her hand over her husband’s rigid shoulders, drawing his attention. “Shall I fetch Clara? She’s of age and entitled to have her say.”
“Not yet.” Dalton rose, his jaw set grimly. “If our friendship is to survive, Rutland must be held to account. I demand satisfaction. One shot each, and honour will be restored.”
Bentley’s stomach tightened, though he understood. Dalton would aim high, draw blood perhaps, but spare his life. Still, a duel was the price of Clara’s hand, the cost of regaining her family’s trust, and he would pay it gladly. Better a bullet than a lifetime without her.
But Elsa disagreed.
