Cocky Earl - Annabelle Anders Page 0,79
bullying. Men?” She frowned. “They drink whiskey and tend to be less subtle about the trouble they make.”
He lifted his head from his hands and his blue eyes glimmered as his gaze met hers. “We fought. We gambled.”
“And other things.” Jules’ prior behavior didn’t bother her. She was enough of her father’s daughter not to be shocked at what men whom the world considered refined and genteel often resorted to—even those who attended church regularly and professed to be devout in their religious beliefs.
He grimaced. “Yes.”
He stared down at his hands again, then lifted them to grasp one of hers. He didn’t hold her hand, so much as play with her fingers, her palms, as though the lines and flesh there were the most fascinating thing in the world.
His innocent exploration sent tingles down her spine. And as before, invisible silken ropes entwined themselves around them, making them the only two people in the world.
“Greys suspected one of the… ladies at the establishment put something in whatever I drank that night because I have no recollection of anything that happened after I went upstairs—” He caught himself. “Regardless. There is no excuse for my carelessness.”
“The duel was over a married woman?” He’d told her that, hadn’t he?
“Yes. And I was not unaware of her marital state. I was a fool.”
“Had you ever done that before? Blacked out?” A man the size of Jules would need to drink an abundance of commercial whiskey or wine to black out to the point of forgetfulness, especially if he consumed spirits regularly.
“Never like that.”
“Is it possible her husband arranged it?” She knew that even if this was the case, he wouldn’t excuse himself, but she thought that perhaps, if he told her some of it, it might fester less.
He half-hypnotized her with the lazy drawings he was making on her palm, but she forced herself to give him her full attention.
“It’s possible. Lord Casterley was… is… a cold-hearted bastard. But it doesn’t change anything. I made my choices. If I hadn’t been so selfish…”
“My father blames himself for my mother’s death. He’d lamented more than once that she might have lived if he’d brought her back to England. He blames himself for the fact that his daughter has never been accepted into the society his wife valued so much.”
Watching her intently, he continued making slow circles on her palm with his thumb.
“I blame myself for not loving my mother enough,” she continued. It was difficult to admit something to him that she could hardly admit to herself. “If I had been a better daughter, tried harder to be the person she wanted me to be, she might have lived longer.”
“But she died of consumption, did she not?”
Charley lifted her shoulders, still staring into his eyes. “I know. But I still wonder.”
“I know what you are trying to do, Charlotte Arabella Jackson.” His smile was that lopsided one where he only lifted one corner of his mouth. “And I appreciate it. But it is not the same.”
Charley did something most out of character then. She reached her hand out and cradled his cheek. “I know.” She smiled back at him.
Captured by his gaze now, all the air sucked out of the room and her blood felt like it might be boiling. She was only vaguely aware of the white illumination of lightning that flashed across the room and the thunder that followed. She was only aware of this man. Of Jules.
He rose from his chair and moved to stand before her. Not looking anywhere but in her eyes, he deliberately stepped between her legs amongst the folds of her skirt.
Was she even breathing? She was too light-headed, too dizzy, too sensitive.
“Charley.” He slid his hands into the hair at her nape and then, dear Lord, he lowered his mouth to hers. “Who are you?” he breathed against her lips.
Her neck couldn’t hold her head up a second longer. Her neck fell back as she surrendered. He would hold her. He was warm and solid and dependable.
She slid her hands up his chest and wound them around his neck, pulling him closer, begging him to deepen the kiss, surrendering to the need he’d planted in her when they’d sat alone in the cellar.
The desire racing through her blood was foreign but recognizable. His kiss was earthy, masculine, dangerous, and she couldn’t get enough of him. Her body understood that this connection was the reason for all those giddy feelings she’d experienced with him before. This was