“Quick, there’s a seat here, love,” came the masculine voice so thick with lust it dripped like treacle. “It’s too far from the house for your husband to come looking.”
“Hurry, Frederick.” The woman’s desperate plea said she would be astride the lucky devil in seconds.
Feeling surprisingly aroused by his virgin’s peony scent and gasps for air, Dante focused on Miss Sands only to find she had squeezed her eyes shut and looked almost pained.
“I’m in a lush green meadow, yes, a meadow,” she whispered, pushing at his chest as if preparing to mount an escape. “There is space, space, so much space.”
“Hush. If we’re seen together, people will assume we’re lovers. Gossip spreads like wildfire.”
Not that he cared, but Daventry would be annoyed to find his first female enquiry agent was the talk of the ton. That said, in an attempt to gather evidence, Miss Sands would need to rummage about in Babington’s bedchamber. Posing as rampant lovers might give them a reasonable excuse if caught inspecting the gentleman’s smalls.
Dante turned, ready to accost the newcomers.
The couple dropped onto the cushioned bench and the gentleman set about freeing his lover’s breasts from her bodice. Passion consumed them to the point neither heard Miss Sands’ mumbled mantra. Neither knew she gripped Dante’s coat as one clutched the mast of a sinking ship. Neither knew the effort it took to stand firm.
“Oh, quickly, Frederick.” The woman fumbled with the buttons on the man’s velvet breeches. “I need you inside me else I shall simply die.”
Dante expected Miss Sands to gasp at the crude comment, but she did not. Having lived in the stews, she must have witnessed lewd displays in the back alleys.
Loath to spoil their fun, but fearing Miss Sands was about to dart out from her hiding place, Dante had to act.
“This seat is taken.” Dante’s menacing tone sliced through the shadows. He recognised the woman as the young wife of a doddering peer. “I suggest you move elsewhere unless you wish me to inform Lord Clements he’s a cuckold.”
Squeals and curses replaced the carnal grunts. Lady Clements jumped from the seat and covered her bare breasts. Frederick Wace, a young buck with less courage than chin hair, grabbed his lover’s arm and fled into the darkness.
Dante might have breathed a relieved sigh had Miss Sands’ ramblings not taken an alarming turn.
“Get off me! No! Get away!”
“Hush.” He swung around and drew her out of the shrubbery. “Hush now. They’ve gone.”
Tears streaked her cheeks, the droplets glistening beneath the faint slivers of moonlight. She fought to catch her breath, lacked the strength to raise her eyelids.
He hated seeing any woman in pain, preferred seeing them panting with pleasure and gasping his name. His stomach twisted into knots. Hard knots. Crippling knots. The urge to run, to seek amusing entertainment, to drink himself into oblivion, to banish the memory of his mother’s tears, forced him to step back.
But then Miss Sands’ eyes flew open. Fear marred the vibrant blue irises. Fear left its hideous etchings in every distressed line on her face. She looked at him, the realisation she had escaped her nightmare evident in her sudden exhalation. But then the tears came anew. The first like the trickle of water seeping through the cracks in a dam. It did not take long for the walls to collapse under the pressure.
Miss Sands rushed into his arms, buried her face in his neck and sobbed.
Dante stood rigid. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
Chapter 2
How odd it was to take comfort in the arms of a stranger. But then Mr D’Angelo was not a stranger. Everything about their meeting tonight had gone as planned. If he knew her real name, he would know of their connection. But Beatrice could not risk telling him yet. Not until they were better acquainted. Not until he’d learnt to trust her, to respect her opinion. And although she’d come expecting some surprises, she had not thought to fall into his arms, a quivering wreck.
For a moment, she forgot about the horrendous year she’d had—a lonely year spent struggling to survive—and took comfort in his warm embrace. Mr D’Angelo did not smell like a sweat-soaked monster. A devious devil in disguise. No. His spiced bergamot cologne reflected a man with an unmistakable presence. A sensual seducer, confident in his own skin.
“Miss Sands,” he said, his voice strung as tightly as a bow. “Perhaps I should have my coachman take you home. I’m not sure what caused your sudden panic, but—”
“I have a fear of enclosed spaces, sir.” It was not irrational by any means. She pulled away from him and accepted his proffered handkerchief. The silk square smelled as divine as his clothes. “When trapped in dark places, I fear I might not escape.”
“Ah, I assume it has something to do with the licentious libertine.”
“Sometimes, it is impossible to suppress the memories.” She hated the fact she had a weakness. Hated the fact someone insignificant could still affect her so profoundly.
“I understand. Memories appear with the slightest provocation.”
“They do.” She felt oddly comforted by his remark. “Mr Daventry took a chance hiring a female agent. I cannot go home without proving Mr Babington is the criminal who defrauded Mrs Emery.”