Seven Nights to Forever (8 page)

He bade Decker good evening and watched the young man’s retreating back turn the street corner, then James stopped in his tracks. Heaving a sigh, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps. His footsteps echoed on the bare floorboards as he passed through the main room. Weak moonlight seeped through the windows, providing little light. But he didn’t need it to reach his destination. He could close his eyes and find his way to his desk without grazing a chair or bumping his thigh on the edge of Decker’s desk.

He lit the candle in the plain pewter holder on the corner of his desk. The pool of golden light barely penetrated the darkness beyond his desk, but he didn’t bother lighting any of the other candles in the room. The leather chair creaked as he sat down. He rubbed his tired eyes, trying to trick them into believing he hadn’t already spent too many hours reading. A useless effort if ever there was one. Giving it up as a lost cause, he took the document off the top of the stack on his left—the “need to do” pile, the “done” being the shorter one on his right—and picked up his pen.

It was so quiet he swore he could hear his pocket watch ticking in his waistcoat pocket. Decker could be working at his desk, the door to James’s office closed, and those little noises like a shuffle of feet or the flip of papers would not register in James’s mind. He didn’t know if it was the darkness backing the windows or the lateness of the hour or the fact that he knew Decker had gone home, but now even the smallest sound seemed amplified. Each little
creak
or
flick
announcing he was all alone.

Three completed pages had been added to the stack on the right when he realized he could not remember a word he had read. With a curse, he went back to the first page and tried to will himself to focus.

Unbidden, plump rose red lips, the edges turned up, materialized in his mind’s eye. Damnation, that smile had made him feel good. Just one had been enough to temporarily vanquish the emptiness. He curled his left hand into a fist, savoring the memory of her small, warm hand in his.

His mind began to wander down a path it should not take when the clop of hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels passing the warehouse broke the silence.

No, he should not go to Rubicon’s again.

One time.
That had been the bargain he had made with himself. And one time it would remain, regardless of how tempting the lure.

He focused again on the document before him, but it refused to hold his attention. Maybe another would do the trick. He shuffled through the stack, pausing on each document as he did so, debating the interestingness of its contents before moving on to the next.

Why had he never realized just how . . . boring his work was? Manifests and contracts, bills of sale and reports on foreign ports, ship repair lists and captains’ logs from recent voyages. The epitome of dull.

Letting out a disgusted huff, he pushed back from his desk and grabbed a ledger from the shelf. Perhaps the accounts would hold his attention. The tally at the bottom of the latest entry would hold most any man’s attention and certainly garner a decent amount of jealousy. It was the only good thing to come thus far from his marriage. The only success he could claim.

He considered himself a driven fellow, one who strove for success and who took his responsibilities seriously. His father spent his days working, tending to his various business interests and continuing to fill the family’s ridiculously large coffers, so naturally as a boy James had envisioned himself following in his father’s footsteps. But James doubted even his father could have produced this result over such a short number of years. It took an iron will to be anywhere but at home, and with no place else to go, to be able to produce these staggering results. Hell, if he kept up this pace, he would likely surpass the King’s bank account soon enough.

Did he want to keep up this pace? Did he truly need more money? His sigh filled the room, the sound backed with a weariness that could not be disguised. He had more money than he could ever reasonably spend in three lifetimes, so no, he didn’t need any more. His office . . . He took pride in what he’d built, but he wasn’t so fond of it that he would choose it to the exclusion of all else. If given the choice, he’d much rather not be here at ten in the evening, when all the other souls who labored in his warehouse and in the surrounding buildings had long since gone home to relax and unwind, to enjoy themselves, and for the lucky ones, to spend a few precious hours with someone whose eyes would light with joy at the mere sight of them and would not wish them to an early grave.

He’d much rather be . . .

He glanced over his shoulder to the squat cabinet behind him. It held a pair of trousers, a shirt, cravat, his shaving kit, and the door to the safe hidden in the wall. A safe that contained a couple thousand pounds, more than enough for—

Giving his head a sharp shake, he turned back to the ledger. But before he knew it, he was glancing over his shoulder again. One more visit to see Rose wouldn’t cause any harm, would it? Amelia had had scores of lovers, whereas he had never taken one. Had not, until last night, pressed his lips to a woman’s since he had said his vows three years ago. But it was more than Amelia’s dictates and the unfortunate fact that he was a married man that were responsible for his celibacy. If he only wanted a quick tryst, it could be accomplished easily enough and word of it would never reach Amelia’s ears. He passed many taverns on the route home, had occasionally stopped at The Black Dog for a bite to eat, and, on most every visit, the pretty young barmaid had let him know in no uncertain terms that she was more than willing to spread her legs for him.

But quick, meaningless trysts simply weren’t in his nature. Twenty-five years of age, and he could count the number of women he had been with on one hand. Hell, he could add Rose to that number and still only need one hand.

Though he would definitely put both hands to good use if given the opportunity again. Those firm, full breasts, the lush flare of her hips, the trim indent of her waist . . . she had a body made for a man’s touch. A body that begged to be touched, kissed, thoroughly explored, and thoroughly pleasured.

Her lips had certainly tasted as sweet as she looked. Would the rest of her taste as sweet?

Shifting in his chair, he reached down to reposition his cock in his trousers. Damnation, just thinking of her got him hard. It had been much too long since he’d been with a woman, and at the moment, he felt every one of those long, lonely hours. Each one pressing heavily on him. Each one pleading with him to open that safe. To seize the opportunity he had refused last night.

Letting out a low curse, he dragged both hands through his hair. For God’s sake, he was a man. Surely he could not be expected to live the life of a monk forever. Even if Amelia discovered the truth, as long as he was discreet, as long as word never reached her vaunted acquaintances’ ears that he wanted anyone other than her, then she could not reasonably refuse to sponsor Rebecca.

Purposefully ignoring the little nudge that Amelia had never shown herself to be reasonable about anything, he pushed from the desk and turned to the squat cabinet. For once in his life he was going to do something simply because he wanted to, and he refused to feel a drop of guilt over it.

MINDFUL
of the madam watching him from the doorway along the white paneled wall in her office, James did his best to keep to a sedate pace as he went up the narrow stairs. The anticipation that had been building for the past hour, during the walk from the docks, pounded through his veins. It felt as though an invisible tether was pulling him toward that darkened door, toward
her
.

He reached for the brass knob and turned it. The last bit of that deadened feeling in his chest slipped away the moment he laid eyes on her.

Clad in a deep amber gown and with her dark hair loosely knotted at her nape, Rose was even more exquisite than he remembered. She rose from her place on the settee and walked to him, unable to mask the slight surprise upon seeing him. Hopefully it was the good kind of surprise.

“Good evening, James.”

He held out his hand and she placed hers in his. A jolt shot up his arm. “Good evening, Rose.” Bowing, he pressed a light kiss on the back of her hand, just grazing her warm skin. He wanted more. Wanted to pull her close and kiss those beautiful red lips. To have her in his arms once again. But something about the way she looked at him made him hold back.

“Come. Have a seat.”

He allowed her to lead him to the settee and took up a spot next to her.

“Would you care for a drink this evening?” she asked, indicating the three glass bottles on the table behind the settee.

He shook his head. He had never been one for spirits. One would think given his size, he could consume an entire bottle of brandy with no ill effects. But since he rarely partook, anything more than one glass dulled his wits. And he had yet to find a spirit that didn’t make him grimace at the taste. He had enough reasons to grimace on a daily basis. No need to invite another.

Her gaze went from him to her offering and back to him again. “What do you usually prefer?”

“Coffee. Black.”

“Always?”

“When given the option, yes.”

Her hand slid free from his as she got to her feet. Crossing the room, she tugged on a bellpull by the bedchamber door. Within a minute she answered the light scratch, opening the sitting room door partway. He heard the soft murmur of her voice but couldn’t make out her words.

When she returned to his side, he reached for her hand once again. Silly really, but he couldn’t explain why he received so much comfort from simply holding her hand.

Her gaze traveled over his face once again, studying him. The barest hint of a frown pulled her fine brows.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, something’s on your mind.” That much was obvious.

“I . . .” She lifted one shoulder, dropping her gaze to their joined hands. “I did not expect you to walk through the door tonight.” The tone of her voice revealed nothing about her thoughts on the matter.

“To be honest, I didn’t anticipate returning, either. It’s not something I had planned yesterday. But here I am. Is it a problem that I returned?”

“No.”

That “no” had come much too easily, as though automatically. A required response, one not her own. “Would you have preferred it if I had not returned? I’ll leave now if you’d like. It is not my wish to impose.”

With her free hand, she gave her amber skirt a slight tug, adjusting it. Her silence hung between them. As good as a yes.

At least she did not try to fool him with a lie. He couldn’t stomach the thought of her acquiescing because of the pound notes he had paid the madam. The truth, while painful, was much preferable.

She had not wanted to see him again.

Doing his best to keep the stark, sinking disappointment from revealing itself, he made to get to his feet.

Her grip tightened on his hand. “Don’t leave.”

Breath held, he looked at her askance.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to imply . . .” She shook her head, clearly struggling to explain herself. With a little shrug, she ducked her chin. “You threw me off balance. I thought for certain you would never return.”

“Why?”

“You do not seem the type of man to frequent such establishments.”

“I don’t. This is the only one that contains you.”

She glanced up at him through her lashes and captured the edge of her plump bottom lip between her teeth, a question lurking in her light blue eyes.

“Yes?” he queried.

“You are tense tonight.”

He highly doubted that was what had been on her mind a second ago. “Versus last night?”

“That was different. And you weren’t so tense the entire night.” She arched a delicate brow. “But . . . you’re holding yourself differently.”

“I spent the greater part of the early afternoon sorting a new load of timber in the warehouse.” And he had the sore muscles to prove it. Not that he made a habit of lazing about. If he wasn’t behind his desk, Decker knew to look for him in the warehouse. But he’d challenge even the strongest of men not to feel the aftereffects of the work he’d done that afternoon. In hindsight, he had likely pushed harder than he should have, but mind-numbing physical labor pushed thoughts of Amelia out of his head like nothing else could.

A knock sounded on the door. She crossed the room, returning with a silver tray bearing a stout white porcelain pot and two cups. The cups clinked lightly on their saucers as she set the tray on the side table. “Couldn’t you hire someone to do the work for you?” All traces of her earlier discomposure were gone. Her movements were efficient yet graceful as she poured him a cup of coffee.

She was bent at the waist, displaying her luscious breasts to their best advantage. He dug his fingers into the cushion at his hip, resisting the urge to trace the valley between them, to cup the lush, ivory swells spilling from her bodice, to have the weight of them in his palm.