The anticipation of present relief vanished, and his skin—all over—burst into flame. He turned back, repeatedly clinking his signet ring against the chain of his pocket watch, blustering his way through shocks of panic.
Not real. Not real.
There weren’t any bugs on his person. Nothing was undulating beneath his skin.
He turned around, focusing his eyes on the painting hanging on the opposite wall and his ears on the pinging sound made by his ring.
The risqué oil depicted two figures obviously in flagrante delicto. Although an artfully placed sheet preserved some of the couple’s modesty, the bottom third of the painting included a generous expanse of a woman’s shapely leg.
He’d always been partial to tall, long-legged women.
He should be with the Skylark right now, with the smooth, heated skin of her inner thigh gliding along his groin as he drove them both to oblivion. What the hell had happened?
Behind him, glass clinked against glass. A small gurgle followed.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon squeezed his arm as she handed him a drink. Her touch, though light, provided some sense of comfort.
Of care.
He refused to trust that feeling. Care had never kept anyone close to him.
The Black Widow had, for years, guarded his family’s secrets. But, beyond knowing she would never expose him, he would not fool himself into believing she had any greater regard for him than she had for anyone else. Nor did he expect her to show him any preference, just because she’d known his mother years ago.
On the other hand, she had just accused him of becoming like is father, and he couldn’t shake the suspicion the Skylark’s absence hadn’t been a surprise.
“Why?” he gritted.
“Don’t look at me with such contempt! I may not agree with how you choose to ‘treat’ your condition, but I had nothing to do with the Skylark’s departure. These sort of liaisons”—she waved her hand in the air—“they go on until one or both of the parties no longer finds them agreeable. The Skylark gave you five months. She’s simply moved on. Take my advice, Redver.Use this opportunity to heal. You cannot go on using anonymous women to distract you.”
Heal? From a condition no physician had been able to treat?
“With all due respect, Bessie, no. I am perfectly satisfied with our present arrangement.” He punctuated his refusal by roughly plunking down the now-empty tumbler of brandy. The internal burn provided something to think about other than his unbearable itch. But for real relief, he must experience flesh against flesh. “I need the Skylark.”
“You haven’t developed atendrefor her, have you?” she asked.
He frowned. “What is this new preoccupation you have with my amorous inclinations? You know I’ve none.”
Indeed, he’d no deep feeling for the Skylark—nor she for him. But they’d a pleasant arrangement where few words needed to be exchanged. And he’d thought he’d brought her as much satisfaction as she’d brought him relief.
“Perhaps the Skylark would consider returning if I had the chance to speak—”
“She is not available to you,” the widow snapped.
The Black Widow was notoriously protective of the women she assisted. Still, the retort was a right hook—as if any continued association with him would taint the Skylark.
The Skylark. Who had been, without a doubt, his social inferior. Not that he’d ever treated her as such.
Then again, as she was his inferior, didn’t custom dictate that he provide some parting gift? He cleared his throat, hopeful again their liaison was not completely at an end. “And if I should wish to see to her security?”
“Her security is assured.”
“How can you be sure she wants nothing from me?”
“Redver,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon huffed in exasperation, “might I remind you of your own rules? She’s been blindfolded during every encounter you’ve had. She doesn’t know who you are.”
She may not know him, but she knew how to ease his pain.
“You must put her out of your mind. And, in any case, she is not your concern. If you must know, she means to wed by the end of the quarter. And you are unlikely to ever cross paths again.”
