Raven (Gentlemen of the Order #2) - Adele Clee Page 0,46

commitment to Lucius Daventry.

He watched her leave the room, his hungry gaze following the gentle sway of her hips. The further she walked, the more fierce the primal tug. Parting brought deep sorrow. It was the reason he’d avoided her company the last few years.

Finlay released a weary sigh. He turned to his friends to find both men gaping. “Why the slack jaws? One would think I was standing naked and gripping my ballocks.”

Sloane shook his head and tutted. “At times like these, I long for Ashwood’s rationale.”

Having wed Miss Dunn less than a week ago, their colleague was enjoying the delights of married life before returning to take another case.

“Ashwood has more pressing matters on his mind than Dr Goodwin’s treachery.”

D’Angelo arched a brow. “I believe Sloane is referring to your love for Lady Adair, not the devious goings-on at Blackborne.”

“I see.” There was little point denying the truth. “Am I so transparent?”

“Blindingly so.”

Finlay scrubbed his hand down his face. “How remiss of me. And I thought I was a master of secrets.”

Something in his tone roused Sloane’s pity, for he sauntered over and draped his arm around Finlay’s neck. “You’re in need of a decent drink, my friend. Something to numb the senses for a while, else you’ll have a devil of a time sleeping tonight.”

As Sophia was sharing a room with Jessica, there would be no opportunity for an illicit liaison, no possibility of slipping between the bed sheets and plunging into her wetness.

Finlay smiled. “Have you something stronger than a wily whistle?” It would take a potent beverage to calm his raging lust.

“Sloane has a new concoction.” D’Angelo shrugged out of his fine coat as if preparing for a night of hard liquor and bawdy banter. “Though he is still thinking of a name.”

“Now we’ve discovered our friend’s weakness perhaps we might call it Finn’s foible,” Sloane teased.

“Or a suffering bastard,” D’Angelo joked.

Sloane hummed. “It doesn’t have quite the right ring.”

“Remind me to rip you to shreds when you meet a woman who excites your mind the way she does your cock.”

D’Angelo shivered. “Heaven forbid. When that day comes, you’ll be old and grey and incapable of ripping anything but the newspaper.”

If Finlay had learnt anything these last few days, it was that a man often found his fate on the road he wished to avoid. Love defied reason. The words of the great philosophers held some truth. Those hardest to love needed it most of all.

Chapter 13

“Is something wrong, Sophia?” Finlay asked from his seat in Sloane’s carriage. “Your nose is wrinkled to the size of a button.”

It was five o’clock in the morning, and they were making the fifty-mile journey to Godstow. She had barely slept, her mind busy conjuring visions of making love to Finlay Cole. Had she been alone in her bedchamber, she might have touched herself to ease the infernal ache. Had she been alone, she would have dragged the object of her desire from the rowdy party in the drawing room and indulged in something more vigorous.

“Wrong? Other than the fact you smell like a brandy barrel?” Oh, she hoped he heard the thread of annoyance in her voice. While she had lain in bed frustrated, he’d drunk himself into a stupor.

“Sloane likes to entertain and has a talent for mixing spirits. It would be rude not to appease our host.”

She pasted a smile. “That would explain why Mr D’Angelo took a detour on the way to his bedchamber.”

That wiped the smirk off his face.

Finlay’s eyes widened in horror. “D’Angelo entered your room?”

“No. I heard him singing in the garden. He found a statue of a sea nymph and professed undying love. Then he pricked his finger whilst picking a rose. He cursed, kicked the bush and ended up somewhere in the borders.”

Finlay chuckled. The tiny laughter lines about his eyes made him look impossibly handsome. “He did drink copious amounts of Finn’s … of brandy.”

“As did you, judging by the sickly stench oozing from your pores.” Seeing his eyes bright with amusement, not plagued by heavy storm clouds, soothed her mood. “Have you slept at all?”

“Slept? Knowing you’re sprawled naked in bed, and I cannot enter?”

So, he was not oblivious to her plight.

“Naked? Then I saved you from a crippling disappointment. I wore a rather dowdy nightgown.”

“I have a fertile imagination.”

“Indeed.” She thought it wise to change the subject lest she combust from the heat in his gaze, the passion in his voice. “Weather permitting, it’s another seven hours