“Forgive me.” His heart pounded in his chest. “I’ll buy you new stockings.”
“I don’t care about the stockings.” She stroked a lock of damp hair from his brow. “It was quick, but was it making love?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
Sex with her wasn’t just about the build-up, the euphoric release. It was about the contact, the closeness, the connection. It was about these unfamiliar feelings of affection, of permanency, of love.
Chapter 17
Reminiscent of the night Beatrice attempted to gain entrance to Dante’s house, the dowager’s butler proved just as reluctant to invite them over the threshold.
“I cannot let you in without an appointment, sir.”
Dante muttered his frustration. “Sherborne, as Lady Deighton’s grandson, I am confident her instructions do not apply to me.”
Why did Dante not thrust the letters at the snooty fellow and be done with it? But for some reason, he wished to tighten the man’s coil and watch him unwind.
Sherborne stared through perfectly straight spectacles. “I’m afraid they do, sir. The night you left to live with the Italian gentleman, Lady Deighton gave orders you were never to set foot in her home again.”
Dante sighed. “That was ten years ago. Besides, the dower house is in Duke Street, is it not? This house belongs to my uncle, and the only reason my grandmother lives here is because his lordship hasn’t ballocks big enough to throw her out.”
Unfazed by Dante’s comment, Sherborne raised his chin. “Might I suggest you write and request an audience, sir?”
Beatrice’s patience had worn thin. She’d barely slept, had spent the night pacing the room, wavering between lustful thoughts of Dante and worries about the daunting task ahead. The need to lay the blame at the dowager’s door, and not her father’s, weighed heavily, too.
“Sherborne,” Beatrice began calmly, “tell your mistress we’ve come about the letters Daphne D’Angelo brought here the day she died. Tell her we’ve been to see Mr Coulter and that if she refuses to see us today, our next call will be at the offices of the Herald.”
Dante gave an arrogant sneer. “I’m sure my grandmother would prefer not to have her secrets sprawled across the front page of the broadsheet.”
The man’s face remained cold, stone-like, though fear flickered in his eyes. He strolled away as if he had a lifetime to waste, not years he could count on one hand.
“Dante, you need to approach this as an agent, not a man with a personal vendetta. What if Lady Deighton is innocent of any wrongdoing?”
But he had already found the dowager guilty, had donned his black cap and delivered the sentence. For Dante’s sake, she hoped the dowager was innocent, else he would always be troubled by the past. But then the blame would fall to Henry Watson, and Beatrice’s hopes and dreams would be left in tatters.
“Innocent?” Dante snapped as they waited like begging guttersnipes at the door. “She made my life a living hell, and I’ll never forgive her for that.”
“No,” Beatrice agreed, hoping the dowager might say something to make amends. “Still, we should try to remain civil.”
“The woman hasn’t a civil bone in her body, as you will soon discover.”
Sherborne returned, his pasty cheeks flushed. “If y-you will kindly follow me.” The butler seemed unnerved and had probably received a veritable ear-bashing.
They were led through the hall to the dayroom at the rear of the house, which by definition should have been a bright place overlooking the garden. A place filled with natural light where one’s spirits were uplifted. Yet, with the heavy curtains drawn, the room was dark and dismal. An anteroom to hell.
The Dowager Countess of Deighton stood near the marble fireplace, her penetrating gaze finding them in the dimly lit space. Dressed in black as if in mourning, and with her white hair piled high in a style fashionable forty years earlier, the lady cut a menacing presence.
A woman wearing a drab mauve dress, with bony features and scraped back hair, hovered in the background like a member of a sacred order. A fanatical zealot so loyal to her mistress, she would sacrifice herself to further the cause.
“Leave us, Sherborne. Our guests will not be taking refreshment.” The dowager glanced at her emissary, one flick of the head a silent instruction.
The servant stepped forward. “My lady would like you to sit.” She gestured to the chairs positioned awkwardly near the far wall, put there to ensure they felt unwelcome.
Beatrice glanced at Dante. On the surface, he appeared the strong, capable man she had fallen in love with. Indeed, every taut muscle said he was desperate for a fight. Yet she saw the terrified boy who’d witnessed the worst of horrors, been denied love and any form of compassion.
Her heart ached to console him.
But anger reared.