Page 89 of Tender Blackguard

Lark was there waiting.

Dressed in the dark navy-blue dress she’d worn the first day she’d arrived at Warfield House, with her hair twisted into a neat bun at her nape, she stood with her back to the fire and her fingers clasped securely at her waist. Her gaze was steady, direct, and utterly unreadable—again, just as she’d appeared at their very first meeting. So resolute and determined.

He was reminded of how she’d shown every bit of expected proper deference until she chose to challenge him by suggesting he needed her.

And how blasted right she’d been.

Chapter Thirty

Lark soaked up the sight of him, letting his presence fill her heart and soul. He closed the door behind him but did not come farther into the room. And he did not speak. Despite every whispered warning in the back of her mind—every silent urging to hold firm to her decision—she couldn’t stop herself from reacting to the intense heat and possession of his stare. Everything about him told her how badly he wanted her. Needed her. And her body responded with ready acceptance. Melting with desire for him.

Desire and love and the kind of longing that felt like an undeniable magnetic force.

She twisted her fingers more tightly together and locked her knees. This was for the best. No matter how badly she wanted him now, the pain of having to leave him after her love had grown to something greater than herself would be impossible to bear.

She’d left Warfield House with very little thought as to where she’d go. But then she recalled Portia telling her where to find her if she was ever in need. When she’d arrived, Lark had discovered that, although the house was owned by the Turners, it was not their personal residence.

Morley had allowed her to wait while a message was sent, and Portia arrived very shortly after. She’d assured Lark she could stay at the house as long as she needed. It was clear the other woman had wanted to ask about Lark’s reasons for leaving the marquess’s household, but she’d noticeably bitten her lip to keep from prying.

Lark had been grateful. Her emotions had been far too raw for any explanation to make sense, and when Portia encouraged her to get some rest, she’d crawled beneath the covers in the bedroom she’d been given and slept for several hours only to be notified upon waking that the marquess had been waiting downstairs for some time.

Now, she struggled to meet his intent gaze. Hoping he wouldn’t be able to read all that she was feeling. A mad rush of emotions that twisted together like ribbons in the wind. Fear, need, grief, doubt, and hope.

It felt as though they stood staring at each other in silence for an eternity, though it was likely only a few moments, when he took a step forward. Then another.

Lark held her breath, wondering why he’d come—what he’d say.

His gaze was intense, but his expression was equally distressing. It was not the icy disinterest she’d come to recognize and understand as a method of defense. Instead, there was an undeniable heat in his eyes, and anger pulled heavily at his features as he stalked her position. Though she was reminded of how she’d likened him to a predator the first time she’d met him, she realized that had been nothing compared to the ferocity he displayed now.

The thought of backing away or retreating from his approach didn’t even occur to her, and within moments, he’d reached her. One hand slipped around the back of her neck while his other arm encircled her waist to bring her harshly into his arms.

Silver flames flashed in his eyes with a promise that probably should have scared her.

“I thought I told you never to sneak away from me again.”

The raw emotion in his voice went straight to her heart, making it thump madly against her ribs. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Then she didn’t have to as he took her mouth with another rough sound.

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