Page 98 of A Devil in Silk
“You’re mine, Clara. Every part of you. Never forget that.”
He began to move inside her, slow at first, then deeper, stronger, each thrust carrying his vow. Together they found the rhythm, their bodies moving as one, tender and wild all at once. His fingers interlaced with hers, holding fast as if to tether her to him forever.
He angled his hips, finding a depth and friction that sent sensation spiralling. It built swiftly, until it broke over her in a rush that tore a cry from her lips.
With a hoarse groan he withdrew at the final moment, spilling hot against her skin, as though even that carried part of his soul.
They collapsed together, limbs entwined, lips brushing. Her heart still raced, yet certainty blazed within her. For the first time in her life she felt whole. Tomorrow she would tell him. Tomorrow she would bare her soul. Tomorrow he would know he was loved.
A faint knock disturbed the silence.
Bentley rubbed his eyes, the fog of sleep slow to lift. His gaze went first to Clara. She lay tangled in the sheets, her hair spilling like ebony silk across the pillow, lips parted in peaceful slumber. The sight held him for a breath, rousing something fierce and tender in equal measure.
The sound came again, soft, insistent.
He rose quietly, muscles taut, senses sharpening, and snatched his shirt to cover his nakedness.
“Rutland,” came Rothley’s masculine whisper.
What the devil? Rothley would only come if disaster loomed.
“Wait.” Bentley pulled on his shirt and trousers, tugged on his boots. He raked a hand through his hair, cast one last glance at Clara. The bed was a sanctuary he was loath to leave, but he set his hand on the latch.
Rothley’s grave expression quickened Bentley’s pulse. He had dressed in haste, his shirt open at the throat, waistcoat missing.
“What is it?” Bentley stepped into the corridor, closing the chamber door softly behind him. “Is it the boy? Has Mrs Peverill come to take Alfie back to the seminary?”
“No. He’s snoring like a warthog on the trundle bed.”
The news brought no relief. The sombre note in Rothley’s tone unsettled him. Bentley hadn’t seen his friend looking this solemn since the day Justin vanished from Cambridge a decade ago.
“Does this concern Justin, or why you’ve taken to scouring the shadows as if the accursed are at your heels?”
“No.”
“Then why drag me from the comfort of my bed?”
Rothley stepped closer, lowering his head. “Because this night may be remembered as your worst, not your best. Take it from a man who’s won more than his share at the tables. The odds are stacked against you.”
“Stop speaking in riddles. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Dalton is downstairs.”
Bentley froze. The name hit like a musket shot, shattering what calm remained. He’d hoped to ask for Clara’s hand, not stand trial and defend his actions. If Dalton wanted the truth, he would have it.
It wasn’t his friend’s judgement that troubled him. It was Clara. Would she feel trapped, forced into marriage by scandal rather than love?
That fear cut deeper than the threat of any duel.
“Does he know about Clara? Is that why he’s here?”
“Daventry told him where to find us,” Rothley said grimly. “He came to offer assistance. I only knew Dalton was here when he knocked on the bedchamber door. The innkeeper said you’d hired another room and winked as though you were conducting a sordid liaison.”
“Damnation,” he muttered. One way or another, the reckoning could not be delayed. “Is Elsa with him?”
“Of course. She went to check on Clara and found her gone. The only reason Dalton didn’t storm into your chamber was to avoid alarming his sister.”
Bentley exhaled slowly. The thought of Clara waking to her brother’s fury made his stomach knot. He needed to address the problem before she rose and found him gone.
