42. Gilded cage (2)

The annual Blackwood Winter Gala was a sea of shimmering silk, dripping diamonds, and false, practiced smiles. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive perfumes, the sound of a string quartet struggling to be heard over the hum of a hundred elite conversations. But Julian Blackwood saw none of it. He stood on the mezzanine, a glass of untouched scotch in his hand, his eyes locked on the far corner of the ballroom.

There, bathed in the light of a crystal chandelier, was Clara. She was laughing-a genuine, melodic sound that Julian had rarely heard-with Lord Halloway, a young baronet who had been hovering around her like a moth to a flame all evening.

Julian's grip on his glass was tight enough to crack the crystal. He watched the way Halloway leaned in, his hand brushing the small of Clara's back as he whispered something that made her eyes brighten. Clara, dressed in a midnight-blue gown he had anonymously sent to her quarters, looked radiant. The silk hugged every curve she usually hid under drab tweed, the plunging neckline revealing the elegant column of her throat and the soft swell of her breasts. She looked like a queen among commoners, and she looked far too accessible to a man like Halloway.

Jealousy was a bitter, metallic taste in Julian's mouth, a living thing that clawed at his insides. He had spent months convincing himself she was just a tutor, a fleeting intellectual distraction. But seeing another man's hand near her skin made something primal and ugly scream for release. He didn't want her respected; he wanted her marked. He wanted every person in this room to know that she was his, even if the world said she could never be.

He didn't wait for the dance to end. He moved through the crowd like a scythe, his dark presence parting the guests as if he were a force of nature. He reached them just as Halloway was leading Clara toward the terrace, likely seeking the privacy of the winter night.

"Lord Halloway," Julian said, his voice a low, dangerous growl that cut through the baronet's laughter like a knife. "I believe you're encroaching on time that belongs to me."

Halloway blinked, his face paling as he took in Julian's expression. "Blackwood. I didn't realize Miss Vance was... under such strict supervision this evening."

"She is," Julian snapped, stepping between them, his physical presence overwhelming the smaller man. He didn't look at Halloway; his eyes were fixed on Clara, who was staring at him with a mix of shock and rising fury. "Now, if you'll excuse us, there are matters of the estate that require the tutor's attention."

Clara's face flushed a deep, indignant crimson. "Julian, you cannot be serious. Lord Halloway and I were right in the middle of-"

He didn't let her finish. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist-firm enough to show his intent, but careful not to leave a mark on her delicate skin. The contact was like a live wire, a jolt of pure possession that fueled his rage. He led her away from the ballroom, ignoring the whispers and the curious stares of his guests. He didn't stop until they reached the private wing, slamming the heavy oak door of his study shut behind them.

"How dare you!" Clara turned on him the moment he released her, her eyes blazing with blue fire. She looked magnificent in her rage, her chest heaving against the tight silk of her bodice. "You embarrassed me in front of the entire county. You treated me like a piece of property, a dog to be whistled for!"

"While you live under this roof, while you wear the clothes I provided, you represent the Blackwood name," Julian roared, his control finally snapping after months of restraint. He paced the room like a caged panther, his tuxedo jacket discarded on a chair. "And I will not have you throwing yourself at every titled fool who has a fancy for a pretty face and a common pedigree."

"I wasn't throwing myself at anyone! We were talking. Something you wouldn't understand, since you only know how to dictate and demand!" She stepped into his space, her finger poking his chest, her stubbornness refusing to let her back down even as he towered over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. "You're jealous, Julian. Admit it. You hate that I can be happy with someone who doesn't look at me like a problem to be solved."

Julian stopped dead. He looked down at the small woman defying him, her lips stained red from the wine, her hair beginning to spill from its pins. The sight of her-the fire, the beauty, the sheer, unadulterated audacity of her-broke the last of his iron-clad restraint. The jealousy he had been nursing all night exploded into a desperate, needy hunger.

"Yes," he hissed, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly low register. He grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against him, his hands digging into the silk of her gown. "I am jealous. I am losing my goddamn mind with it. Every time I see a man look at you, I want to tear his eyes out. I want to lock you in this room, bolt the door, and never let another living soul see you. I want to tear this dress off you and mark every inch of your skin so clearly that no other man would ever dare think you were free."

Clara froze, her breath catching in her throat. The honesty of his rage was more erotic than any gentle word could have ever been. She felt the hard, uncompromising line of his body against hers, the evidence of his desire pressed firmly against her hip. She saw the madness in his eyes, the absolute possessiveness of a man who had finally admitted he was conquered. She should have run. She should have been horrified.

Instead, she reached up and grabbed his silk lapels, her fingers trembling but her gaze steady. "Then stop talking about it, Julian," she whispered, her voice a naughty, breathless challenge. "Stop being a coward and finally do something about the way you look at me."

He didn't need to be told twice. He crashed his mouth against hers, a desperate, hungry collision that tasted of gin, salt, and long-buried need. It was a war of a kiss, his tongue demanding entry and hers meeting him with a ferocity that matched his own. He backed her against the heavy mahogany desk, his hands roaming over her curves with a frantic precision, finding the high slit of her gown and sliding upward until he met the warm, soft skin of her inner thigh.

"You're mine," he muttered against her skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her neck, leaving a faint, blooming mark. "Say it, Clara. Tell me you belong to me."

"I'm no one's," she gasped, her head falling back as his mouth found the valley between her breasts. "But I'm here. Right now. And I'm not going anywhere."

He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized ecstasy, and for the rest of the night, the walls of the study were the only witnesses to a storm that had finally been allowed to break.