Farah wanted a family? He’d plant a manor full of children in her belly. He’d take her until she could no longer walk. He’d tried the honorable route. Done his best to keep her safe from the menace and perils of his life.
No more. She’d won her dangerous game. She wanted the love of the Blackheart of Ben More? It was hers, and all the danger and darkness that came with it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Farah stood on the round dais in her dressing room long after Madame Sandrine had left, staring at her figure in the long mirror.
A velvet, late-spring evening settled into her Hampshire valley, turning the emerald fields into black squares of shadow. Only a dark blue stripe of light remained on the western horizon, and Farah had left the doors to her balcony open to let in the soft breezes to tease her hair.
The lavender lace sheath she wore brought out a violet tone in her eyes that she’d never before seen. Her hair spiraled around her arms in wild ringlets, reflecting the light from the candles with an almost luminescent glow. As nightgowns went, this one was rather scandalous. Though the neckline was high, the diaphanous fabric clung to her every line and curve, even accentuating the press of her nipples against the slight chill in the mobile air around her.
Though she slept and rose alone, generally eschewing the use of a ladies’ maid, she couldn’t help but try on the lovely undergarments that Madame Sandrine had brought with her to Northwalk along with several newly commissioned gowns. She only modeled them for herself, but she liked the sensual feel of the fabric against her skin. The glide of the hem on her ankles. She could imagine a masculine hand gathering the fabric in his grip to uncover the flesh beneath.
Lord, but her mind drifted to such things often these days. She supposed once she’d tasted the pleasures of the flesh, it became more difficult to live without. Farah knew, of course, that not all sexual encounters were as intense and climactic as hers had been, and she realized it would be excruciatingly difficult to allow anyone but her husband into her bed.
She wanted him. More than she wanted a child. More than she wanted her title. She wanted her Dougan back. Not only that, she wanted the sleek, predatory criminal Dorian Blackwell. She missed his cool arrogance, his sharp wit, and the way his eyes tracked her.
Watched her.
She wanted him to see her in this gown. Wanted to tantalize him by standing in front of the candles and pulling it across her skin while he watched, wondering when his control would snap and waiting for him to pounce like her jaguar.
The fantasy caused her thighs to clench and a moist warmth to rush between them. She really did look like a fairy in this gown. She wanted to show him that, too. That she still could be his fairy. That she could teach him how to love, just like she had once before.
A click interrupted her thoughts, and she whirled in time to see a shade move in the darkness beyond her candle. Who would lurk in the shadows of her rooms? “Dorian?” she called.
“You still haven’t accepted that your bastard husband has forsaken you?” The voice from her nightmares stepped from the shadows. “Pathetic.”
Reacting on impulse, Farah lunged for the bellpull that would bring a footman running. A revolving click stopped her cold.
“One more step and I paint those mirrors with your blood.”
“Warrington,” she gasped. She’d known he’d been released, and that he’d disappeared, but she’d been told by Murdoch that he’d been found dead.
“How did you get in here?” She’d been facing her door, and the balcony was two stories high. The stone walls were flat with no trellises to climb.
His eyes were two dark pits of rage in his large, ruddy face. “I’ve lived in this house longer than you’ve been alive, you spoiled bitch.” He took a threatening step forward. “This is my home.”
“This was my father’s home,” she argued.
Warrington scoffed. “But I know all her secrets.”
Farah’s eyes swung to the bed, her arms crossing over her breasts in an attempt to cover herself. Her limbs felt weak, her neck frozen and unable to move as terror locked her muscles into place. “What—what do you want?”
“I want what’s mine!” he raged, advancing on her until the metal pistol pressed against her temple in an icy kiss. “I want what your father promised me.”
He meant her. Panic stabbed deep into her belly, nearly doubling her over.
“You’d better escape before my husband returns,” she threatened, hoping she’d improved upon her lying skills somewhat. “He’s a dangerous man. I won’t send him after you if you leave now.”
Though he had to be inching toward fifty years, Warrington had retained a powerful build, if not a bit softer and heavier than in his youth. Farah remembered that he’d fought with her father in the war, that he’d saved her father’s life. Was that why Robert Townsend had kept him around? Out of gratitude?
Now that he’d stepped into the dim light, Farah could see that his skin looked worse than it had months ago. Sores covered one side of his neck, and his breath smelled foul. Like rot and death.
She cringed as he lowered his face to hers. “That disfigured bastard you married can’t stand the sight of you. He doesn’t love you. He’s not coming to save you. No one will even notice you’re missing until it’s too late.”
The truth of his words terrified her more than the gun at her head. She’d turned in for the night. Even if the maid, Margaret, peeked in to check on her, she likely would just assume Farah had gone to use the necessary before bed.