Page 74 of Gone with the Rake

Silently, so as not to wake him, she sneaked into his dressing room and sifted through the clothing in his wardrobe. None of it truly fit. He was a large man, and she was tiny even compared to most women. But she managed to fasten the breeches with a belt and a few pins, tucking the shirt into them. She’d found a cloak and draped it over her arm for now. She would wrap herself in it just before she left.

The only true challenge would be the boots. But it wouldn’t be the first time she’d stuffed male boots with cloth to make them fit better.

She put on the stockings, collected the boots, pinned them under her armpit, and tiptoed back into the bedchamber to sneak one last peek at the man she loved.

She glanced at Art’s peacefully sleeping form—his chest rising and falling with measured breaths.

Blast! She couldn’t disappear like this. Not again.

She couldn’t leave him without a word.

She silently walked toward a writing desk by the window, lowering her boots to the floor and arranging the cloak over the back of the chair as she sat down behind the desk. A few documents lay by the inkwell, but there was no empty paper. Just a book.

The Scoundrel.

It was fitting somehow to leave a message in her favorite volume. She opened the book, picked up the quill, and stared at the empty page for a moment, thinking what she wanted to say.

I am sorry?

The words rang hollow in her mind. What does it even mean? I am sorry.

How could she explain to him the heartbreak with which she was leaving him? How could she make him understand that this hurt her too much to form words and that she was doing it for him, too? The ruby ring on her finger winked at her, catching the light from the window.

She took it off once again and placed it on the table. Then, she dipped the quill in the inkwell and slowly scrawled the words.

I love you.

“Then why are you leaving?” His hoarse voice behind her made her jump.

She dropped the quill and knocked the inkwell over in the process, spilling the ink onto the book. “Art!”

“Yes, Lydia?” He stepped closer, crowding her, his naked body perilously close to her back, sending shivers down the back of her spine. He reached out slowly, his arm stretching over her shoulder, and closed the book. Then he turned, propping his hips against the table, facing her. Except in her seated position, she was now facing his groin. “Why are you leaving?”

Lydia blinked, staring at the hard, corded muscles of his thighs. Her gaze slid higher to his cock. It was in its resting form, flaccid and relaxed, but still enough to distract Lily from her thoughts.

“Lydia?” His voice was harsh.

His cock jumped, and Lydia raised her eyes to his. His brows were drawn ominously low over his eyes, his lips flat and his jaw tight. He had always been tall and broad enough to inspire fear. But now, with his thunderous expression as he towered over her, his advantage was undeniable.

Lydia stood, closing the gap between them, meeting his gaze head-on. “I told you last night. I am trouble. Anyone around me shall suffer.”

“Does it look like I care?” He spread his arms, his entire naked form bared to her eyes.

No. No, he did not look like he cared one whit. Lydia forced her gaze to stay focused.

“Someone has to. You have people who depend on you.”

“Yes. You.” He pointed his finger at her chest. “You are one of those people. The most important one of those people.”

Lydia shook her head. “I can take care of myself.”

He scoffed and looked away briefly before boring his gaze into hers again. “And what about me? In your twisted plan of leaving me behind, have you given a thought to what it would do to me?”

Lydia swallowed, her eyes running around his form.

“Look into my eyes, Lydia!” he growled.

Lydia complied, and he narrowed his gaze.