His brother’s ire was still tangible, his face hard as granite. “Gregson will be turned away from The Sinner’s Palace and all other establishments where we assert any hint of influence. I’ll also be sharing this news with Lady Octavia. The right article in her scandal journal when the first edition is released, and he’ll be ruined just as he deserves.”
Jasper’s wife, Lady Octavia, had recently begun Tales About Town, a new venture that thrived on the foibles of the ton. Rafe would dearly love to see an article printed in its pages revealing Gregson for who and what he was.
He nodded jerkily, emotion making his throat feel thick, the words more difficult to find. “I’ve no doubt Persephone would like that.”
He realized his mistake the moment Jasper’s brows rose.
“Persephone, is it?” He shook his head. “Damn it, Rafe, just how familiar are you with the twins’ governess?”
Oh, the answers he could give.
Last night, his tongue had been in her sweet cunny and lashing her pearl while she rode his face until she came. Eh, he had a feeling Jasper wouldn’t appreciate that response too much. Best to try a different one.
“Familiar enough to know she’s a fine woman,” he said, not wishing to harm her position in Jasper’s household. She’d been deuced fretful this morning, worrying over what would happen. He hated having caused her a moment of worry with his own recklessness.
“That ain’t an answer, brother,” Jasper said, eyes narrowing.
Rafe grinned unrepentantly. “It’s the only one you’re going to get.”
He would guard Persephone’s honor to his dying breath. Perhaps it was all he could give her, aside from last night’s pleasure, but he owed her that much. He owed her more, but he wasn’t certain what he could give her.
She was a governess.
He was an East End scoundrel.
The carriage rocked to a halt outside The Sinner’s Palace. This was where he belonged. His duty was to his family, he reminded himself firmly. Not to a woman who could never be his, regardless of how he felt for her. A man could love a woman and let her go because he knew he wasn’t bloody well going to be the man for her.
Couldn’t he?
“Hell, Rafe. What have you been doing beneath my roof?” Jasper demanded.
A scream issued from within the gaming hell.
“Damned rats,” his brother grumbled.
Rafe and Jasper scrambled from the carriage, the question left unanswered, as they hastened inside.
* * *
Three nights.
Persephone paced the carpets of her small room, trying to turn her mind to other matters and failing. It always, inevitably, returned to him.
To Rafe.
She had not seen him since the morning he had left in day-old rumpled shirtsleeves and trousers, since he had kissed her on the nose and looked at her so tenderly she must surely have imagined it all. To say nothing of the feverish passion they had shared.
Yes, she would have believed none of it had happened at all were it not for the rush of sensation that filled her—entirely new and potent and unlike anything she had ever felt before—whenever she thought about what had passed between them that night. And were it not for the memory of his frantic kisses, his knowing touch, and his big strong body at her mercy.
But it had been three nights, and still, to the best of her knowledge, he had yet to return to the house. It was possible he may never. And she was powerless to know the truth of the matter. Who could she ask? Certainly not Mr. Sutton, who already suspected something more had happened between herself and Rafe than she dared reveal. Nor Lady Octavia, and most definitely not anyone belowstairs. To do so would only cause minds to wonder and tongues to wag, and she could not afford any of those circumstances.
You are down to weeks, Persephone. A scant few weeks until you are free of Cousin Bartholomew’s reign.
“Oh, heavens!” Heaving a sigh, she stalked back to the opposite end of her chamber.
The evening air held a damp chill, for it had rained all day, and not even the fire burning in her grate was sufficient to warm her. She supposed she ought to be thankful for the fireplace, at least. In her previous situation, her room had been impossibly sweltering on a warm day and numbingly cold on a chilly day. She’d never been able to amass enough bedclothes to keep herself warm. It had been one of many times when she had been forced to acknowledge the disparity between her life—one she had considered an imprisonment, of sorts—and the lives of those in service. While Cousin Bartholomew had kept her soundly beneath his thumb, she had never been physically uncomfortable.
Aside from his announcement of their betrothal and the kisses he had forced upon her. She had been eighteen then, and terribly young and untutored in all the evils which could be visited upon a girl of vast fortune with no one to protect her.