Octavia released her grip on his shoulder and allowed herself the liberty of tracing the whorl of Jasper’s ear.
A muscle in his jaw worked, but his stride did not falter. “What are you doing, minx?”
Minx.
The word sent a hot streak of longing into her belly.
He meant it as an insult, she supposed. But he had used it several times this evening, and she could not shake the suspicion that it was also something of an endearment. After all, he had shown her scrapes such care.
&nbs
p; A complicated man, Jasper Sutton.
“I…” she faltered, unable to think of a proper answer. “I thought I saw something there, but it was a shadow.”
And she could not seem to stop touching him now that she had begun, much to her shame. Her hungry fingers moved lower, to the swath of skin above his cravat. She liked the manner in which he wore his neck cloths—no fanciful dandy’s waterfalls for Jasper Sutton. He was a man of function. One tidy knot, almost stern. Half dress was all he required.
He elbowed his way through a door, and suddenly she was in a new chamber.
A dark one.
“Fucking hell.”
His low growl and epithet took her by surprise, as did the lack of light in the room.
“A candle is always to be left lit,” he added in a grumble, moving them an indeterminate span of space through the gloom.
She found herself deposited on something soft and large.
A settee of some sort? She leaned, expecting to find a cushion, and fell to her back instead. There was only one answer to the piece of furniture she had been settled upon. A bed.
Ought she to be concerned by this? Likely. But somehow, the absence of Jasper’s warmth and arms around her hit her first. Hugging herself, she waited as her eyes attempted to adjust.
There were some scrapes and more muffled curses, and then a spark and flare of light from first one candle. Then others.
Gradually, the room became illuminated, and she realized the place he had brought her was not just a dark chamber but a large one.
A masculine one.
And she was indeed seated upon a bed.
There was something about her surroundings that suggested she could only be in one chamber.
His.
“Where have you brought me?” she demanded anyway, as if asking the question would somehow alter the conclusion she had already reached.
Because he could not have truly taken her where she suspected he had. Jasper Sutton would not take her to his bedchamber. He was a rogue. A gaming hell owner. Hardly a gentleman. But surely he would not…
“My chamber,” he said.
Oh.
Oh.
He had. She was in his room.
In his bed.