The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn Read online

  * * *

  Seven hours and four apprehended criminals later, Vennor wasn’t sure he’d made the right choice. He felt miserable right now. She’d be dancing at the Medhursts’ ball. Perhaps he should have gone if for no other reason than to puncture Lord Hayes’s over-inflated ego. What if there had been an announcement? What if Marianne had decided to go through with it? His stomach lurched at the thought. Surely she wouldn’t, but what if there’d been pressure from her parents? What if she couldn’t refuse?

  He stopped walking, a sixth sense pricking at him. He focused on his surroundings, surprised to find that his feet had led him to the Royal Opera House with its distinctive columns. It was deserted, the evening venue having let out hours ago. It was not a place he came as Vennor the Duke or as the Vigilante. He’d not set foot inside the opera house since the night of his parents’ deaths. The Newlyn box sat empty Season after Season—a fact that did not go unremarked.

  In little over a week it would be the third anniversary of the murders.

  Vennor reached up and tightened the ties of his mask, suddenly seized with a perverse desire to see the spot again—the alley where they’d lain. He’d seen it before, on the evening of their deaths, and the scene was indelibly etched in his mind.

  His feet brought him to the alley and his mind brought the rest.

  They’d still lain as they had fallen, the Bow Street Runners wanting to study the scene before the bodies were moved. His mother’s throat had been cut and his father had been run through the stomach with a blade of some sort.

  His mother had died first. His father had died trying to reach her, his hand outstretched towards her as he’d fallen. The depth of the blade’s cut testified to a man driven to madness at the last. He must have plunged forward, desperate to reach her, heedless of whatever obstacle stood in his way. The blade had nearly speared him clean through.

  Vennor had promptly walked away to vomit in privacy.

  From the looks of it, his parents had been provoked and taunted before being violently slain. He could imagine his mother, her elegant head pulled back, held against her captor, a knife against her white throat, and his father outraged and...helpless? It had been hard to picture him thus. The Duke of Newlyn hadn’t been helpless a day in his life. But he would have been that night.

  He’d clearly drawn his swordstick because it had lain on the cobblestones beside him—but to do what? It would have been useless against a knife to his wife’s throat. This had not been a hasty murder, no matter how Bow Street had insisted it was the work of thugs.

  Thugs with swords? Swords were not the weapons of the street. Thugs wanted money, not blood. But nothing of value had been taken from them—not his mother’s diamond necklace, nor his father’s watch. There’d been plenty to take and his father would have handed those items over without hesitation to protect his mother.

  Nothing Bow Street had concluded had rung true, yet nothing had emerged in the days, months and now years following to disprove the original hypothesis.

  Vennor traced their last moments with his own movements. His father would have stood here, swordstick in hand. His gaze lifted to the brick wall. His mother would have been there. He took a step and then another, faster now. His father would have been quick. He would have stumbled here, the blade of his attacker taking him.

  Vennor went to his knees in the alley, crawling, crawling and then stretching out, the cobblestones cold beneath his cheek, his hand reaching for the slipper on his mother’s foot and falling short. Horrifying last moments. His mother’s eyes had been wide, a scream frozen on her lips. Had she lived long enough to see his father reach for her? Long enough to see him fall? That would have destroyed her in those last moments. They’d been everything to each other.

  The morbid guilt rose in his mind, refusing to be pushed back. He’d failed them. He was still failing them—just as he’d failed Marianne today. Three years and still no answers. Maybe it was time to give it up, to set aside his quest. If he did, he’d be free to offer for Marianne, to give her a choice beyond exile as a journalist or marriage to a man she didn’t love for the sake of respectability. Marriage to him would be better than that, at least for a while, until she realised he wasn’t half the man she’d made him out to be, that, in truth, he was a man without direction, a man who’d failed in the one task he’d set for himself.

  Vennor stayed in the shadows, leaving the Vigilante’s mask on as long as he dared, wanting to walk home, but dreading the arrival. The town house would be dark and he feared the ghosts were hovering close tonight. Finally, reaching his house, he stuffed the mask into his pocket and Honeycutt opened the door for him.

  ‘You have a visitor, Your Grace.’

  Ah, so it wasn’t ghosts that were hovering close, but Marianne in the flesh. His blood began to pound as he took the steps two at a time. She was exactly what he wanted and exactly what he must resist.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Prepared as he was, Vennor stopped short at the sight greeting him. Marianne was sitting cross legged on his bed, draped in his banyan, her riot of red curls falling about her shoulders, a veritable siren if ever there was one—and a naked one, too. This realisation came to him as the lamplight played over her alabaster skin highlighting where his robe draped over her breasts. ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing here, Marianne?’ His voice was rough with surprise and hoarse from desire.

  ‘Waiting for you. You went out without me.’ There was a scold in her voice at being left behind. She rose from the bed and moved towards him, a sylph in silk, the robe threatening to slip open, teasing him. He’d never seen anything so seductive, so tempting, that he so desperately needed to decline.

  He ought to tell her about the note in his pocket, about the woman in need of help, but discussing the Vigilante’s business was asking for the impossible when every part of his body cried out for her, when all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and kiss her senseless, and make her forget Hayes; he wanted to take her to bed and make love to her until he was senseless, too, his own nightmares and failures driven away. Today had been trying for them both and they’d reached for each other in their desperation.

  He ought to have called for his carriage and taken her home. He should have demanded she get dressed at once but the words that came out were far different. ‘Hayes has proposed?’ He’d never hated another man so intensely as he did Hayes right now.

  ‘I have asked for a delay in my decision, but I will refuse him.’ She pressed a finger to his lips and stepped back, giving him a full view of her, her grip letting go of the banyan. The sides fell open to offer a glimpse of creamy breasts, full and ripe and ready for his hands. ‘I could never marry him, no matter what the situation.’

  All that mattered in this moment was simply that she was his. She was here tonight because she was his. His. Vennor dragged her to him, kissing her hard on the mouth, whispering one word fiercely, ‘Mine.’

  And Marianne answered back, ‘Mine. For tonight, for however long it can last, I want you, Vennor. Only you.’ There was a fury between them now the decision had been made. They were in a hurry to go forward. Their hands fumbled with his clothes. She worked the buttons of his waistcoat free and pushed it from his shoulders, tugging at his shirttails, impatient, eager, and he pulled the shirt roughly over his head, refusing to be slowed down by buttons.

  ‘Trousers next,’ Marianne breathed, her dark eyes sparkling like polished onyx in the lamplight.

  Trousers, absolutely. He wanted only to be naked with her, skin-to-skin, as if in their mutual nakedness he could exorcise the demons that had driven them here tonight. Vennor worked the fastenings at lightning speed, pushing them down past hips and thighs, watching Marianne’s face come alive with awe and desire. They were man and woman now, Adam and Eve in the garden for the first time. He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his hips, her arms about his neck, as he carried her to
the bed.

  He came up over her, arms braced, muscles taut, as he looked down on the glory of her, all fire and cream beneath him as he settled between her thighs as if he belonged there, as if their bodies had been made for each other. ‘I want to worship you,’ he murmured at her ear, trailing kisses like offerings to the gods along the curve of her jaw, the length of her neck, in the valley between her breasts. He lingered there as long as his body allowed, his hands caressing, his tongue licking, his mouth sucking while his body revelled in the response of hers. Every moan, every little mewl of delight thrummed as she came awake to passion’s pleasures.

  She arched against him, hips driving into his, and lingering no longer became prudent. He kissed her navel, his hands bracketing her hips in a firm, controlling grip as he reached the damp nest of her curls. He blew against them, exhilarated by the long gasping sigh that followed and the hoarse whisper of his name on her lips. ‘Vennor.’ It was a plea, asking for something she could not name, did not know how to name, but something her body knew existed all the same.

  ‘Yes, Marianne,’ he breathed against her, his tongue finding the secret nub of her pleasure, licking it with a lingering stroke that both teased and consoled, working her to a frenzy as she arched and bucked beneath him, seeking the elusive capstone to her pleasure and drawing ever nearer. They were both primed to pleasure’s brink when she shattered, her back arched, her hips thrust high against him. The scent of her completion was in his nostrils, an aphrodisiac nonpareil. He closed his eyes, letting his other senses feel the pleasure that rippled through her, wave upon wave.

  He moved only after her body had settled, levering himself over her once more, taking in the smile on her face. ‘I had no idea,’ Marianne murmured, barely coherent in the wake of her fascination with the discovery. ‘There’s more, though, isn’t there?’ She said it as if she couldn’t imagine there being anything more wondrous than what had just occurred.

  ‘Oh, yes, there’s more and it’s even more wondrous.’ Vennor pushed a curl back from her face, although he shared her sentiment. In the moment, it was hard to imagine anything more wondrous than having watched her achieve her pleasure and knowing he’d been the one to give it to her.

  She wrapped her arms about his neck. ‘I want it, all of it, Ven. I want to leave nothing out.’ Her thighs bracketed him, her knees bent, and again it felt as if their bodies were meant not just for this, but for each other, two interlocking pieces that had been separated for too long. He wanted it, too. Giving her pleasure had been just the beginning, a readying. While it had achieved that, it had left him in a rather heightened state of arousal. He would need to keep himself in check and go slowly with her this first time, something that was becoming a challenge to his willpower with each passing moment.

  He kissed her, a long, unhurried meeting of lips and mouths as he raised her arms above her head, shackling them in his grip. His body began to move as he pressed himself against the opening to her core, teasing, preparing her. ‘I will try not to hurt you,’ he murmured in her ear. He would not take her blindly. If she showed any ounce of resistance, he would stop, he promised himself.

  ‘I know. You could never hurt me, Vennor.’ As if to prove it, she raised her hips, urging him on.

  She was ready and slick as Vennor eased into her, slow but persistent until at last he felt the tightness in her relent. A smile took her face as he sheathed himself to the full, then he began to move, a rhythmic rocking that she soon joined, answering the motion of his body with the movement of her own. Her legs gripped his hips, holding him tight, her arms drawing him close as the rhythm intensified, overwhelming them until they were one another’s anchors in the storm of pleasure sweeping over them. Marianne cried out, joy and laughter mixing with her moans, sounds of ultimate pleasure, ultimate happiness as he pushed them to climax, his own release rushing upon him in an irresistible wave. He’d have to resist, though, what little piece of sanity was left reminded him. He would see to her pleasure and then at last, he would not deny his, but he would mitigate it.

  He felt her body tighten along with his and he gave a final thrust, pushing her into the bliss, and then sought his own release in the sheets, both of them heaving with the exhaustion of completion, both of them wrapped in one another’s arms. This was lovemaking at its finest, two people claiming joy from the joining. But it was more than that, Vennor thought as he held her. This had contained something intangible that transcended his usual encounters. Some might argue that it was nothing more than ending three years of celibacy that had given this lovemaking its edge. But this had not been a purely physical joining. This had been almost otherworldly, a connection of souls. He’d lost himself in the act and found himself, too. No. Not in the act. He’d lost himself in her, and he’d found himself there, too, in her onyx eyes, in her cries of pleasure, in her intoxicating words, ‘I want only you, Vennor.’ If only the night would last for ever. If only he didn’t have to face the morning.

  * * *

  ‘Is it always like this?’ Marianne murmured. She lay in the crook of his arm, her head resting against the hollow of his shoulder, her body soft and exhausted against the hardness of his. In these moments, she was satisfied. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. The draining emotions of the day had no claim on her here.

  ‘No, to be honest.’ Vennor’s voice was quiet in the darkness; perhaps he, too, wanted to preserve the reverence that followed in the aftermath. ‘Sometimes, it’s...’ Vennor groped for the right word ‘...emptier.’

  She smiled against his chest, privately pleased that he felt it, too, that it hadn’t been just another liaison for him. ‘Good.’ She sighed. There could be no second-guessing her decision on Lord Hayes now. In his eyes she would be ruined. She had put herself beyond his reach even if he pressed the issue. She had a trump card to play now.

  Vennor stirred, apparently the same thought occurring to him. ‘Marianne, why did you come here tonight? Did you come to be ruined on purpose?’

  ‘No, it’s not like that, Ven. You mustn’t think I used you for that. I came to take charge of my life. I came because I wanted to be with you and no other and I wanted no strings attached. I wanted it to be my choice entirely.’ How did she explain her decision? Would her words be enough?

  ‘You’re thinking, Marianne.’ His fingers played in her hair, gently combing through the tangles. ‘Not having regrets already?’

  ‘Never.’ She let her own hand drift over the muscled expanse of his torso, tracing, exploring. Now that she’d claimed this, she wanted more of it.

  ‘You’re a ruined woman, now.’ Vennor offered. Regardless of what her motives were, that consequence was certain.

  ‘Not ruined. Complete.’ Marianne looked up at him, taking in the strong jaw and the squared chin with its secret dimple. ‘I could never feel ruined by what we did.’ She levered up on one arm. ‘I wish I could have gone with you tonight.’

  ‘No, you don’t. I went to the opera house. To the alley. I walked their footsteps.’

  Marianne was silent. The ghosts were riding him hard tonight, then. He seldom went there. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ She could only imagine the horror he associated with that place.

  ‘No, in fact, I did not. Am I just torturing myself now, Marianne? Should I let them go? Should I accept that I won’t get the answers I’m looking for, that those answers might not exist? That maybe I want more than answers. Perhaps I want absolution, absolution for not being there that night, for not stopping it.’ He’d not once spoken to her of his guilt. She wondered if he’d spoken of it to anyone? To Cassian or Eaton? Or Inigo? She waited, careful not to speak lest it deter him from continuing. She felt his chest rise with a deep inhalation and then the words came. ‘I should have been there. I was supposed to be there.’

  The pain in his voice was edged with a gnawing agony. The sound of it tore at her. Dear heavens, it shredded her heart to think this c
onfident, strong man had carried this with him all along. It made her response that much more important. This guilt could not be dismissed with platitudes. She draped her arm across his naked torso, all strength and muscle beneath her hand, and held him close. ‘Tell me, Ven. Tell me all of it,’ she offered in soft tones. ‘Let me share your burden. Please.’

  There was a long silence, and she thought for a moment he would not take the invitation, but the intimacy of the night, the intimacy of their arms wrapped around one another was an irresistible cocoon, a safe space in the world where anything might be said. Vennor began to talk, each word setting free another part of the past.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘We’d had dinner together at a restaurant my mother wanted to try. She’d worn a new dress that had been delivered that day, a purple one with jet beading. Father ordered champagne and told her she looked spectacular.’ Vennor remembered the evening as if it had happened last week, so vivid were those last hours. ‘They were always so in love. They were always complimenting one another.’

  ‘That must be why you’re so very good with the compliments yourself.’ Marianne laughed softly, encouraging him, and he let the darkness envelop them in rare, intimate privacy, grateful for the warmth of her against him.

  ‘We had a good time at dinner. The meal was excellent, the champagne cold, and we laughed and talked about nothing significant.’ Which had been a relief because it had been a tense week full of disagreement. His mother had diplomatically tried to bring up the subject of marriage and his father had not so diplomatically suggested he find a cause to take an interest in. He’d quarrelled with both of them.

  ‘At the end of dinner, though, a message arrived from the town house,’ he continued. ‘A cargo we’d been waiting for had arrived. Someone was needed to oversee the handling of it and to sign receiving documents. The foreman had gone home sick earlier. The first chance I had, I offered to go and take care of the cargo. I was relieved. My mother had arranged for us to take the niece of a friend to the opera that night and I was not looking forward to meeting the girl. I left them at the restaurant, eager to be away, happy to have escaped another of my mother’s matchmaking attempts. My mother was disappointed. She had great hopes that I might find the girl interesting.’ He exhaled. ‘She wasn’t just disappointed in the outing fizzing out, she was disappointed in me. I had disappointed her.’