Chapter 26

When she woke the next morning in the drawing room, she thought of the kitchen table, and that she would never be able to look at it without blushing ever again. Could she have breakfast there now without her mind wandering back to last night? Leave it to Tristan to despoil a perfectly innocent piece of furniture.

He had again stayed, after he had carried her limp form from the kitchen to have his way with her before the fireplace.

He was awake now, up on his elbow, his chin in his hand, studying her with an expression of lazy satisfaction. His eyes were suspiciously free of guile.

Her own feelings were ambiguous. This was her last morning of waking up with a man. Last times had a touch of nostalgia to them even as they were still ongoing.

Tristan appeared oblivious; his free hand was playing with her hair, looping it between his fingers. “When I was here the first time,” he said, “you said you had read lascivious accounts about lovemaking.”

She blinked slowly. “Yes.”

He tugged on the lock he had caught, and the gentle prick on her scalp sent goose bumps down her back.

“What was it that you read?” His voice was a low erotic rumble.

She gave a little shrug. “I suppose the most lascivious ones were in The Pearl.”

He stilled. “The Pearl,” he repeated. “By the Society of Vice?”

“Yes.”

“Good Lord.” He looked torn between shock and delight. “That is utter smut—the worst you could have chosen.”

“So I gathered,” she said, “vastly ridiculous, too.”

“Ridiculous?”

“Yes. All these charming parlor maids and dear virginal cousins keen on sharing the unsuspecting male houseguest among them—it appeared to be a common theme in the stories.”

He fell back and erupted in what appeared to be both laughter and a cough.

She sat up. “Are you well?”

He looked up at her, eyes liquid, and shook his head. “It is a recent publication,” he said, his gaze turning calculating. “Either you started your education late, or you are diligently . . . maintaining it.”

“What of it?” she muttered.

He touched her cheek. “Was there anything in those stories that you did like?”

There was a promise in that question. Tell me your desires, your darkest ones.

He would do whatever she asked of him, she understood. She looked down at him, glorious in his nudity, and briefly, she felt drunk on the possibilities that came with having a lover of few principles. It felt peculiarly close to freedom.

But this was their last morning. As it should be.

“You should leave.”

He paused, then glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“You are quite right.” He let her hair slide free. “How rude of me.”

He sat up and leaned in to kiss her forehead, his lips teasing and soft. He had to have a heart of stone, to indulge in such small intimacies and then go on his way without a backward glance.

She watched him as he turned and bent forward to reach his shirtsleeves, carelessly discarded on the floor next to their nest.

The morning light was bright on his back. It revealed a crisscross of faded white lines, from between his shoulders down to the small of his back, and it took her a moment to comprehend the nature of such scars. She laid a hand against his side.

“I thought the army had outlawed flogging decades ago,” she said. “I was, in fact, under the impression that noblemen were not flogged at all.”

Tristan had turned rigid under her palm. “It was not the army,” he then said.

He came to his feet, and the disturbing pattern disappeared beneath a layer of fine cotton. She still felt unsettled. “Your headmaster, then?” she asked, because when she was unsettled, she investigated.

He turned to her, fastening his braces. “He must have dreamt of doing so on occasion, but no.”

A cold sensation spread in her chest. “Rochester.”

He nodded, and when her horror must have shown on her face, he gave a shrug. “Many fathers thrash their sons. Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

“You were not thrashed,” she said, her voice low. “This was cruelty. He must have had you beaten within an inch of your life.”

“Oh, he did it all himself,” Tristan said. “I give him that.”

His expression was entirely untroubled, but she saw a lanky adolescent, who must have been bleeding and in pain, and a fierce emotion surged through her body and launched her to her feet.

Tristan paused in the process of buttoning his waistcoat, his eyes riveted on her, and she realized she stood before him in the nude.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What Rochester did to you was wrong.”

“What a lovely sight you are,” he murmured. “Furious and debauched.”

Unexpectedly, he reached for her and pulled her up against him.

The sudden feel of his clothed body against her naked length was a shock. She stood still as his one hand smoothed a slow, warm path down her back, then lingered suggestively on her bottom.

He knew what he was doing. He could make her feel things, he could change her moods with a well-placed touch. It was, upon closer inspection, horrifying.

And there was the sad truth of it: she did not want it to be the last morning.

Fleetingly, she wondered whether this was how it began for the wretched souls who ended their days in an opium den—with the thought: only one more time.

She peered up at him.

His lashes had lowered; he looked absorbed in the feel of her. But she sensed he would never ask her. The male flaunts itself, the female chooses.

It would not be sensible to ask him.

“I wish to see you again,” she said.

His eyes opened, and her stomach dipped. She loathed it well enough—asking for things, and him of all people.

His hand flattened against her lower back.

“When?” he asked gruffly.

The tension in her shoulders eased a little. “Soon. But it cannot be here.”

A pause ensued.

“I shall see to it,” he said, and then his fingers came to her chin and tipped up her head, making her look him in the eye. “However,” he said, “it means it is time for some rules.”

Her brows swooped. “More rules?”

“Yes. Two nights can pass as an accident. Three nights are the result of deliberate forethought.”

“And this is a matter of concern?” she asked, for there was an undercurrent of hesitation in his voice.

He shook his head. “No. Sometimes, it may take longer to slake a particular desire. But it requires that you tell me your expectations.”

“What is the advantage, stating them?” She sounded skeptical.

“It may reduce regrettable misunderstandings.”

He had done such things before, and she did not relish the reminder. She slipped from the circle of his arms to pick up her robe.

“Discretion,” she said, turning back to him. “I expect you to be discreet.” Her eyes bore into his in a warning. “My work and my reputation would be ruined if word got out.”

“You are taking a high risk, my sweet.”

She was aware, acutely so. “I am not above holding your books hostage,” she said coolly.

“Charming,” he muttered. “But clear. Anything else?”

She nodded. “Honesty.”

“Honesty,” he repeated, testing the word.

“Yes. Without honesty, there can be no trust.”

“Ah, darling.” His smile was lopsided. “My second rule is: do not trust me. Not in the deep, blind sort of way.”

“Why?”

“Because even I do not trust myself such.”

“Charming,” she said wryly. “And your first rule?”

His tone was kind, but his eyes held a rare seriousness. “Don’t fall in love with me.”