The Earl She Should Never Desire, page 16
He looked over at his parents’ portrait that hung between the bookshelves. ‘This is a turn for the books, isn’t it? I know I promised to marry before my thirty-fifth birthday, but I think you will agree this change of plans is for an excellent cause.’
His father, ever the optimist, smiled on, while his mother, also quite typically, managed an impressive mixture of resignation and contentment.
Ombra gave a jaw-cracking yawn and padded after him as he strode out of the study and up to his room. As they passed the great mirror that hung midway up the stairs he caught his expression and allowed himself a complicit smile.
Five years without a real kiss. Well, he could work with that. He would have to go gently, though.
He paused halfway up the next flight of stairs, his hand tightening on the banister as he remembered her shock when he’d mentioned the siege and the fire.
That had been cruel of him. Not that he could have known she would react like that, that the memory and the wound ran so deep. But still, knowing what he did about her life, he never should have stooped so low. His only defence was that she’d breached his own defences so thoroughly.
And that foolishness of mentioning children. He’d been hoist by his own petard. He’d wanted to convince her of the importance of honouring his mother’s wishes, but he’d misinterpreted her reaction in Richmond Park. She might have loved her daughter, but clearly the thought of having another child terrified her.
He would tread more carefully from now on. The very last thing he wanted to do was hurt her or scare her away. He wanted something entirely different and now he’d been granted the opportunity to reach for it.
To think—only yesterday he’d been the most miserable among men.
What a difference a day made.
Chapter Nineteen
Not a word.
Two days had passed since she made her deal with the devil.
Two days of nothing.
Well, that was not true; quite a bit had happened, Lily thought guiltily. The house was in an uproar and her parents in a panic. She’d known her parents’ finances were unsound, but she’d not realised they were disastrous.
She’d not been invited to take part in the discussion that followed Lord Sherbourne’s tête-à-tête with Annie yesterday, but that hadn’t stopped her from shamelessly eavesdropping, her ear glued to the drawing room door from the safety of the adjoining parlour. Her parents had done their best to protest, bully and beg, but luckily Annie had stood firm.
Or rather sat and cried, but still—firmly.
Lord Sherbourne had remained mostly silent, occasionally repeating in his languid drawl that he respected Miss Devenish’s right to make up her own mind and spend her own life with a person of her own choice.
These subtly emphasised reminders were well timed to bolster Annie when her resolve flagged. After half an hour of this tail-chasing, His Lordship appeared to lose his patience and he bade them farewell and good luck, assuring them he would settle the matter with society in the most advantageous way for the Devenishes—whatever that meant—and then he left.
Lily had to hold firm to the doorknob to prevent herself from rushing into the hallway to thank him—and remind him that she took her promises seriously and would of course honour their verbal contract.
Luckily, she’d held back.
He must have been funning with her. Punishing her a little, perhaps. She’d thought him serious, but why on earth would he be? He was known to have had several beautiful mistresses and, despite his protests and hasty offer, he had probably already compiled another List of London’s Most Eligible Ladies. Why on earth would he be interested even in kisses from a plain widow past her first youth and who reminded him of a fox?
Damn him.
Stupid her.
‘Mrs Walsh.’
Lily lurched out of her chair. She hadn’t even heard Annie’s maid enter the parlour. ‘Yes, Ailish?’
Ailish, her eyes bright with conjecture, held out a sealed letter. ‘A message for you, Mrs Walsh. The lad didn’t stay for an answer.’
Lily broke the seal, her heart thumping.
As far as clandestine missives went, it wasn’t impressive. It read:
First
Today
Noon
Hilliard’s
Natural Philosophy
M.
Lily sat down. Today. Noon. That was in an hour. Midsummer madness indeed.
First. Of three...
She surged to her feet. Thank God Annie had insisted on adjusting her old gowns for Lily’s use. She was damned if she was wearing her widow’s grey or even lavender to her first real kiss in five years.
* * *
When she was ready she stood before the mirror. The pale-primrose promenade dress and the bronze pelisse with the darker frogging across the chest wasn’t the first stare of fashion, but it suited her foxy colouring.
For the first time in many, many years she wished she was as beautiful as Annie. Or at least taller.
She sighed and turned away, making herself a promise. Whatever came, she would make the most of it.
* * *
She’s not coming.
Damn, he must have been mad to think she would. She’d secured her goal, after all.
She might at least have had the decency to send someone with a note so he didn’t have to skulk between the bookshelves like some lovelorn fool who...
‘Excuse me, could you help me reach Erasmus Darwin’s Botanic Garden?’
Marcus turned, his heartbeat scurrying ahead faster than a cat up a tree with Ombra at its tail. How the devil had she sneaked up on him? His instincts were shot to hell.
He did his best to keep his expression bland as she looked up at him. She wore a thin lace veil, but, though it covered her face, it was no real barrier. She wasn’t quite smiling, or rather her eyes were, but her mouth was a carefully controlled line. Her left dimple, however, was hovering at the edge of existence, which was a good sign.
Simply for something to do he reached for the book she’d mentioned and opened it. ‘A Poem, in Two Parts... The Economy of Vegetation? Good Lord. I’ve never heard a less poetic name for a poem.’
She plucked the volume from him. ‘It is an ode to scientific advances like the steam engine and men like Benjamin Franklin.’
‘What has that to do with vegetation?’
‘I admit the name is rather...unfortunate, but he has many fascinating ideas about what the future might bring, like submersible sea balloons that can carry people underwater, for example.’
‘Fulton built one in France twenty years ago. The Nautilus.’
‘Well, this was written thirty years ago so perhaps your Fulton stole the idea from him.’
‘And then there was Bushnell’s submersible almost fifty years ago. It went by a slightly less edifying name—the turtle. And one hundred years ago there was a Russian design with flame throwers. And then two hundred years ago there was the Dutchman, Drebbel, who—’
‘Now you are merely showing off,’ she admonished.
‘Guilty. Are you impressed with my esoteric and utterly useless knowledge?’
‘Terribly. A little puzzled how flame throwers worked underwater, though.’
‘They didn’t. The poor fellow never did succeed, though to his credit he almost died trying.’
Her left dimple was in full bloom now and he plucked the book from her hands and returned it to its spot safely out of her reach.
‘There’s a newer edition in the back room,’ he suggested, taking her arm.
‘I happen to prefer older editions,’ she said primly, but both dimples were in evidence now and he gave in to his relief and smiled.
‘I’m glad to hear that. Nevertheless...’ He took her arm and with a glance down the empty aisle he guided her swiftly through the door at the end and shut it behind them, turning the key in the lock.
Her eyes widened and he held up his hands and hurried to reassure her.
‘Please don’t worry. I locked it so we won’t be disturbed. I’ll leave the key in the lock if you wish to leave at any moment. That is always your prerogative.’
She gave a faint laugh and looked around. ‘I’m not worried.’
She truly didn’t sound worried and that both calmed him and made him tense all over again. This seemed to be the pattern of his responses to this strange woman—whatever she did, he seemed to be plagued by two opposing forces that did nothing to cancel each other out.
‘This is Anszel’s private room,’ he explained. ‘He meets here with printers and publishers to review upcoming book lists. He agreed to...uh, lend it to me.’
‘Anszel?’
‘Mr Grozny. The proprietor.’
‘Mr Anszel Grozny? Then why is it called Hilliard’s Bookstore?’
‘Anszel felt the name Hilliard would draw a larger crowd than Grozny. He is probably correct in our narrow little world.’
‘Probably. Unfortunately.’
She went to look at one of the many stacks of books reposing on a table long enough for a knight’s dining hall. ‘You appear to know him well.’
‘I dare say I do. I knew his son. We were up at Oxford together.’
‘Knew. What happened to him?’
Damn, he didn’t want to touch any nerves. But lying wasn’t possible when she was looking at him like that. ‘He was a soldier.’
She gave a slow, grave nod.
‘He was excellent with languages. Spoke ten of them,’ he added by way of distraction.
‘That must have been useful in Spain. Was he in Spain?’
‘Yes.’
‘What regiment?’
Ah, hell.
‘He served with Wellington. Ah, good, Anszel even left some brandy in the decanter. Come, we need to toast our pact.’
She cast him a look that said clearly she knew a diversion when she saw one. She was a damned suspicious woman.
‘Do you often hold your...meetings here, Lord Sherbourne?’
‘Never. But I needed some place...neutral where we won’t be disturbed. And I’m too old to collect the kisses I’m owed in carriages.’
She laughed, that tumbling joyous sound that had caught his attention from the beginning. He should have known he was in trouble when every time she laughed he had to struggle to stop himself from searching for her face in the crowd. And now he was not only free to look his fill, he was about to taste as well...
‘Come. A toast. To midsummer madness.’ He kept his voice quiet and clean of triumph.
He handed her the glass carefully, trying to fight the surge of heat that coursed through him as her grey eyes met his, her mouth still curved in a tentative smile.
He looked away from her lips to the slight scars that zigzagged up her jaw and ended near the lobe of her ear. He wanted to know how they had happened, whether it had hurt, what...
Not yet.
‘I thought you were jesting,’ she said. ‘About the kisses. Punishing me a little.’
‘Did you? I rarely jest.’
‘You always jest. It is a perfect façade.’
His smile widened against his will. ‘I’ll amend my statement. I rarely jest on matters of importance.’
‘And kisses are important?’
‘Of course. What is more so?’
She considered. ‘Loyalty? Duty?’
‘Important, but very dull. I have enough of those without seeking them out.’
‘Rumour indicates you have enough of the other. Without seeking them out.’
‘Rumour is wrong. I am far more discerning than you give me credit for, Lily. Are you here only out of loyalty and duty? If so, tell me and I shall return you to Brook Street, your debt repaid in full.’
It was a risk and even as he said it he cursed himself, but she merely shook her head.
‘It is not merely that.’
He waited for her to add something, but she sipped her brandy and looked about the room.
‘Will we meet here for all three kisses?’
His heart hitched and he set down his glass. He’d never felt so gauche in his life. Or if he had, he couldn’t remember it. ‘To be honest, I haven’t thought that far ahead. I didn’t know if you would come. For all I knew you might have accepted your victory and hared back to Birmingham.’
The frown line appeared between her brows. ‘I would never have done that. At least not without informing you. And I could hardly leave Annie now. Not while the household is still...seething.’
Annie. Of course.
‘Why not? She has what she wanted. Freedom from the odious attentions of the reprobate.’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘Nonsense. In any case, I didn’t wish to leave. And I find it rather insulting you think I would go back on my word.’
‘I didn’t mean it in that way. Merely that you might have changed your mind about the terms of our agreement. I meant what I said, Lily. If at any point you do change your mind you tell me, yes?’
‘Very well. But I shan’t.’
Her voice was light and she looked younger, too, like a girl on an excursion. She certainly didn’t look like a sacrifice chained to a rock, awaiting a dragon.
His nerves slackened a little more and he gave in to temptation and took her hand. Her fingers curved over his palm, settling so naturally that for a moment he merely stood there, watching the tan-coloured glove against his skin. He’d wanted to kiss her but right now what he wanted most in the world was to feel the soft slide of her palm shaping itself against his, her fingers pressing between his, tightening as he moved towards her...
When she pulled her hand away his breath caught and he had to stop himself from taking it back.
Rules. Boundaries. He rarely had to remind himself, but he rather thought today he would have to do quite a bit of that.
When she unfastened the button, he wasn’t quite certain what she was doing. It took him three buttons and two fingers to realise she was pulling it off. Then she held out her hand once more and he took it.
Tingling heat spread through him like fire in dry hay—snatching cell after cell, licking and burning its way along nerve ends, deep into his muscles, making them stretch and ready as if he was about to enter the boxing ring—or head into battle.
Absurd.
Undeniable.
He was on fire from holding this woman’s hand. A kiss from her would likely incinerate him.
‘I don’t like gloves,’ she said, her voice low, almost dreamy. ‘I like to feel the world.’
‘Yes.’ He held on to her hand and brushed his knuckles along the line of her cheek with the other. The twin scars were a little puckered and he wanted to touch his mouth to the contrast between the velvety skin and those ridges. He touched his thumb to the line of her lower lip, settling on the soft, deep rose-coloured pout.
Her lips parted a little, her breathing shallow.
So was his. He hadn’t even done anything yet and his insides were already caving, his skin in flames.
One kiss today. Only one. Don’t be greedy.
He bent, touched his mouth to hers and had to stop, holding tight against the need to groan.
He proceeded carefully, brushing his lips against hers, buffing them like a cat. Her hand fluttered against his waistcoat before settling, her fingers curling into the fabric, dragging it against his skin. Cascades of sparks spread over his chest and downwards, adding to the growing heat in his groin.
God, he’d known it would feel right. He’d known it.
‘The day I came,’ she whispered, ‘you weren’t wearing a waistcoat.’
‘How improper of me,’ he whispered back and touched his tongue to the succulent middle of her upper lip. Her body shivered against him, her hands twisting deeper into the fabric of his coat.
It was going to kill him to go slowly.
‘I want you to be improper again,’ she whispered against his mouth. ‘Take it off.’
He drew back. ‘Take it off?’
‘Off.’
‘Here? Now?’
She flicked a button. ‘Here and now.’
He didn’t wait for further invitation. He tossed his coat and waistcoat on to the table and she laid her hands gently on his shirt, the corners of her mouth picking up.
‘Better.’
He locked his legs. Steady on, now. ‘Your pelisse. Tit for tat.’
Her dimples deepened. There were only six buttons worked into the dark frogging and she slipped them off without coyness and laid her pelisse in a rather more orderly fashion on the back of a chair.
‘This doesn’t mean I agree to anything else,’ she said with a quick look and he shook his head.
‘Nor I. Just a kiss today.’
‘Just one?’ she asked.
‘I prefer to space out my treats. Come here.’
She laid her hands on his chest as she had before and raised her chin. There was so much in her eyes when she wasn’t being cautious. Excitement, worry, laughter. He gave up trying to understand either of them, cradled her face in his hands and kissed her.
And lost himself entirely.
Her lips opened under his, soft and pillowy and fitting to his as if they’d practised this a dozen times.
To be fair, he’d fantasised about kissing her often enough recently. Practically every time he’d come within two yards of her or had to hand her up into a carriage or take a cup of tea from her or in that treacherous time in his bed between waking and sleep... That had been the worst. But those dreams had been nothing more than a soldier’s drill and now finally he was going into battle. But war was hell and this...this was pure heaven.
