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His chest didn’t twist. Didn’t heave. Ever.
He’d vanquished long ago any and all rogue emotion that managed to spark in his chest. So he didn’t care for his body’s innate reaction to her.
Luckily, his mind ruled his body. It always had.
Even more fortuitous, she had been hovering fourteen feet above him. That space away from her had been his saving grace.
No—learning who she was had been his saving grace.
He’d needed that walk back into the gardens. The air not filled with a voice that could only belong to a sea nymph.
Positioned far away in the gardens and watching her stand alone on the balcony, he’d been able to identify the odd response his body had to her.
It was carnal.
Nothing more. He wanted to sink his cock into her. It was as simple as that.
An animalistic urge that he rarely felt—never felt—but that’s what it was. His baser nature merely coming out to play after Lady Frantole stormed away from him.
His cock wasn’t choosey, and he’d had that reaction because Lady Victoria had appeared above him while he was mauling Lady Frantole’s neck. A presence that he’d felt, eerily in his bones, the moment she’d first peered over the stone balustrade.
Lady Frantole hadn’t had the slightest clue they were being watched from above. Yet he was rabidly aware of it. Lady Victoria watching them had made his cock twitch to life while Lady Frantole hadn’t been able to spark anything in his member.
He’d gotten hard. Painfully hard.
Lady Victoria hadn’t run at the sight of them. No. She’s stayed and watched. And damned if that hadn’t made his cock strain even harder for her.
Rafe took a deep breath, unconsciously taking a drink of the champagne in his hand. It wasn’t until the bubbles hit his tongue that he almost gagged. He had a nice hellhole where he’d like to chain up whoever invented the putrid liquid.
With a grimace, he choked down the swallow, his gaze searching rapidly about the ballroom. Directly opposite him across the dance floor, a tall, dark-haired man with his back to Rafe moved to his left and turned halfway, looking at the dancers.
The Duke of Wolfbridge. The same dark hair as his niece, who stood directly behind him, a definite pout on her face.
A pout that had no place on the woman he’d just talked to under the cold night sky.
He hissed out a breath.
Good.
This was easier. Easier to avoid. Easier to damage.
A pouty, spoiled brat was exactly what he’d expected.
And exactly what he needed.
~~~
A day after the ball, Rafe stepped into the Blue Bull Tavern on the southeastern road out of Wolfbridge. A boot-scum hovel of a place, but he’d spent far too much time in worse.
He located Wally. Hard to miss the brute and his hulking form stuffed into the far corner under the heavy, soot-stained beam that crossed diagonally over his head. Four men, just as dirty and hard-worn as Wally, sat around him.
Rafe moved silently to their table, pulling a nearby chair and sitting down before Wally even realized he’d entered the tavern.
“Sir.”Wallygave him a slight nod before taking a long swig of his ale.
“They are set to begin travel tomorrow. They should be on the designated stretch of road a day after that.”
Wally nodded.
