Chapter Seventeen
Guy jolted awake, gloomy darkness greeting his narrowed gaze. He listened for a moment, but his heart thudded too hard for him to hear anything. Rolling, he peered up at the wooden canopy above his bed until he could make out faint squares.
Damn it, now he was wide awake for no reason and he can’t have fallen asleep many hours ago.
He stilled. There it was again. A decidedly feminine cry. He bolted from his bed, sheets tangling around his bare legs. “Bloody...damn...stupid...thing...” He disentangled himself with an aggressive rip then shoved his legs into the breeches he’d discarded over the back of a chair the previous evening.
Barreling out of the door and into the hallway, he realized he hadn’t lit a candle and the hallway, with its lack of windows, was darker than his room. Still, he didn’t slow his pace and paid for it when he slammed his toe into a console table he should have known was close by.
“Bugger.”
One would think years of traversing this short hallway would be enough for one to know where a blasted table was.
“Lord Huntingdon?”
He spun to find Miss Haversham emerging from her mother’s room, a candle in one hand. Her loose hair curved around her nightgown, landing nearly to her hips, and her eyes were lidded and sleepy. He swallowed hard and gestured toward her door. “I thought...that is...” He frowned. “Did you hear a cry?”
She nodded. “My mother. A small nightmare but nothing terrible. She has settled now.”
“I see.” He drew in a lengthy breath. Why did his heart insist on pounding still? The suspected danger was gone.
Well, he supposed if one considered a fair-haired, sleepy woman dangerous, that would explain his racing heart that had seemed to jam itself up into his throat.
She lifted the candle a little and her eyes widened. He let his scowl deepen then noted the way her gaze travelled the length of him. His feet were cold on the wooden floors and he recalled his bare shoulders and torso. In his haste, he’d failed to throw on a shirt and he rather loathed sleeping fully clothed. A silly thing to do considering he had company.
Her lips parted.
Hell fire, there was the danger. In her wide eyes and sweet, slightly open mouth. It stirred his insides, making every inch of him tight and hot. Including his damned cock. If he wasn’t careful, he’d make a fool of himself. A big fool of himself. And she would run for the hills.
He forced himself to look beyond the pale outline of her figure toward the shadowy painting to the right of her. Great-great Aunt Edith. Hardly an attractive woman. Not to mention his aunt. Her long nose, practically invisible chin and beady eyes were a combination that not even the most talented painter could make look attractive.
“Lord Henleigh, is all well?” She moved to the right a little, directly into his line of sight.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. No ugly aunts would solve this situation. He needed to turn around immediately and return to bed. A simple task really. One that could be achieved with but a few mere footsteps. If he just twisted a little...
Guy stepped forward.
No, damn it, that was not how it was done.
Her gaze fell upon his chest again, and now he had closed the gap a little, he saw her chest rise and fall quite rapidly.
Very well, if he could not turn away himself, he could at least tell her to return to bed. That would be easy. Just utter the words.
“Bed.”
He winced. Now he sounded as though he was demanding to take her to bed. And now images assailed him. Her hair brushing her naked body. Then brushing his. The delicate breasts he could just make out beneath the fragile fabric of her nightgown filling his palm. The indent of her waist and his hands curved around it.
He would be hard pressed to make this any worse.
“That is, you should return to bed,” he managed to croak out.
She lowered the candle onto the console table and the glow caressed one side of her, affording him a fine view of the shape of her waist against the basic cotton chemise. He’d seen women in garments more tantalizing and complex, covered in ribbons and lace with low-cut necklines. Of course, none of them had let him touch them after they realized quite what he had to offer them, but none could compare to Miss Haversham in this dull length of fabric. It allowed him to peruse her without distraction.
Jaw clenched, he waited for her to do as she was told.
More fool him. When had Miss Haversham ever done what she was told? She moved toward him, almost like a ghost, her footsteps scarcely making a sound on the floorboards. Palm outstretched, she ceased moving when her hand connected with his chest. He hissed out a breath, aware a tremor ran through him. God damn, he was so sex starved that a mere palm had the most ridiculous effect on him.
Or perhaps it was more to do with the owner of the palm. He certainly could not recall this kind of reaction to Amelia’s touches. He let his frown deepen when she added her other palm and splayed her fingers.
It would be quite easy to snatch her wrists and ease her away from him. Tell her to be a good girl and send her on her way. It would certainly save him from the risk of her noticing how stupidly well-endowed he was.
Apparently, he liked doing things the hard way.
Correction, the very hard way.
FREYA SUPPOSED PLENTY of women wanted to touch the earl’s chest. That was why he didn’t react as though she needed to be bundled up and chucked into the nearest asylum. He allowed her exploration of the hard planes of his chest as though this was a common occurrence.
She did not much like the thought of other women touching him, but she did not blame them. Especially whilst the candlelight gilded his muscles, drawing attention to the dips that lined his stomach and the line of dark hair that went from his bellybutton down into his breeches.
Sucking in a harsh gasp of air that felt more heated than it should, she jerked her head up and away from what she had just seen. It had to be a trick of the light, but it appeared there was a significant bulge in his breeches.
Her body pulsed at the idea, leaving her hot and wanting to tug open the buttons of her nightgown. It might as well have been the height of summer in this dark, gloomy and cold hallway or perhaps someone had lit a fire beneath her feet, because every part of her enflamed at the idea he might, just might, be feeling aroused at her simple touch.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, matching the quickening of her own breaths. She marveled at the sheer strength of him. It was quite one thing to feel the hardness of his body beneath his clothing but an entirely different matter to have it spread out in front of her, apparently for the taking. She suspected she could while away many an hour merely touching him.
Something she should most certainly not be doing. But it seemed her hands had a mind of their own.
She traced down past his pectorals, further and further until—
He snatched her wrists. She met his gaze and he held her firm. Her mouth dried as his gaze searched hers. Somewhere in the distance, a carriage rattled by and an owl hooted. Hours might have passed, or it could have been seconds, she wasn’t certain.
Then he moved suddenly. She waited to be cast aside, steeling herself against the disappointment.
His mouth came upon hers in a sudden rush. He released her wrists and shoved a forceful hand under her hair, gripping the back of her neck. His other hand snatched her waist and she released a brief squeak of surprise that he quickly swallowed with his kiss.
He gave her no quarter and she did not desire it. Everywhere there was hardness. His body flattened against hers and his mouth urged hers open with no delicacy. His tongue swept forcefully into her mouth. Freya met his kiss with similar intensity, unable to respond in any other way. Her stomach twirled and tensed, her mind raced but landed upon no other firm conclusion apart from needing more.
More kisses, more touch.
She stumbled back a few paces, her back meeting wall. He used the opportunity to take everything
she had to give, kissing her over and over until she had little idea where she ended, and he began. The hand on her waist moved up to cup a breast and she moaned against his mouth while he palmed it roughly. He continued his exploration of her, moving over her waist while stealing her breath with his every kiss. He curved his hand down to her hip, and she flexed into the touch, the ache at the core of her building. If he could kiss her like this...
Just imagine what he could do to your body.
“Freya,” he murmured, breaking away oh so briefly. The sound of her name on his tongue had her practically collapsing in a mess of desire.
“Please,” she begged, shifting her hand down between them.
He grabbed her wrist and moved it away, then snatched the fabric of her shift. He hauled it up and cool air touched her heated thighs. She tilted her head back and rested it against the wall while he kissed his way up and down the arch of her neck, nibbling her earlobe and lips and back down again, sending shivers of pleasure through her.
He continued to draw up the fabric until she felt herself revealed to him. His fingers slid over. Slowly. Far too slowly. She lifted her hips toward him in invitation. Every inch of her pulsed in expectation.
The earl met her gaze as she eased a leg up and over his hip and she gasped at the first touch, widening her eyes. Desire flared in his eyes. He touched her wet heat and pulses of pleasure rocketed through her. Then he slipped his finger between her folds.
Her breaths came hard and fast in anticipation. He groaned when he sank a finger in her and kissed her ardently, swallowing a tiny whimper from her. He moved in and out of her, flicking a thumb over her most sensitive spot then added a second digit, moving faster. The pace grew frantic and she writhed against his touch, drawing out each fragment of pleasure while he kissed her face, her lips, her body, even drawing her nipples into his mouth through the fabric of her chemise.
Pleasure caught up to her suddenly. It overtook her unexpectedly and she dug her nails into his arms, leaning her head back for support. Eyes clenched shut, she rode out the last waves until it left her warm and faintly pulsing. When she eventually opened her eyes, she found him staring at her intensely. He inched his hand away and she rather expected him to abandon her, but he helped her roll down her shift then pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“Go to bed,” he murmured, his voice gritty. “Be a good girl for once in your life.”
Freya nodded numbly and hastened back to her room. She shut the door and pressed a hand to her racing heart. What on earth had they just done?
Chapter Eighteen
“You look a little tired, Guy, are you sleeping well?” Rosie asked as Russell aided her with her coat and hat.
Tired. Ha! Tired didn’t even describe it. He was caught in that strange agitated version of tired when one hadn’t slept a wink and felt groggy yet entirely too stimulated by life.
Stimulated? What a terrible choice of words. It was bad enough he failed to forget the feel of Freya beneath his fingertips, or the sound of her reaching her peak without adding words like stimulated into the mix.
Russell eyed him. “You are not wrong, Rosie. You haven’t even shaved this morning, Guy.”
He put a hand to his jaw automatically and grimaced at the roughness there. How had his valet let him leave his bedroom like this? Though, truth be told, Long could have told him he had a forest sprouting from his chin and he wouldn’t have paid him any notice.
How could he when a few hours before he had been touching Freya, kissing Freya, damn near taking her to bed? He hissed out a breath. What a fool he was, so damned close to revealing himself. If she had not been wrapped up in the pleasure, she would have noticed the size of him surely? And then she’d want nothing to do with him.
“Did you forget we were visiting today?” Rosie asked, putting a hand to her hair to ensure the dark curls were still perfectly coiffed.
“Not at all,” he said quickly. “I’ve been busy, that is all.”
“I was hoping to address this problem we are having with Lady P—” Russell clamped his mouth shut and peered around Guy, a brow raised.
Guy swiveled and found Freya standing at the rear of the hallway, her hands twined together. She shifted from one foot to the other.
He tried not to think on the figure he’d felt underneath the simple pale gray gown.
Tried and failed.
“Miss Haversham, what a delight!” Rosie hastened over to her. “Whatever are you doing here?”
She glanced to the floor. “Well, um...” Her gaze moved to Guy’s, her expression helpless. “Lord Huntingdon?”
“Miss Haversham and her mother are staying with me for a while.” He tried to keep his expression as neutral as possible, especially when he felt Rosie eyeing him closely.
“Oh, I see.” Rosie tilted her head. “Well, no wonder Guy forgot we were visiting with him today. He has a household full.”
“Hardly,” he said dryly. “And I did not forget.”
“Yes, you did.” Rosie grinned. “But we shall not blame you, I promise.”
“My mother is unwell,” Freya explained hastily. “We would not be here unless it was absolutely necessary.”
“Absolutely necessary,” Russell repeated with a twist of his lips. “So I take it her mother could not be nursed in Miss Haversham’s home?” he murmured to Guy.
“No, she could not,” he replied through his teeth.
Damn it. He’d thought briefly having his brother and Rosie here might be a welcome diversion from the distraction that was Miss Haversham, but it seemed not. Neither Rosie nor Russell were fools and likely saw straight through all his excuses.
“I shall go attend to my mother,” Freya said, dropping into a brief curtsey. “Do excuse me.”
“Oh no.” Rosie stepped in front of Freya. “You must join us for tea.”
Goddamn it. Freya met Rosie’s gaze and Russell gave Guy a nudge with his elbow.
“I wonder who will win,” he whispered. “My bet is Rosie. She’s the most persuasive person I know.”
“And Miss Haversham is the most stubborn,” Guy replied.
“I really should be...” Miss Haversham thrust a thumb toward the stairs. “My mother needs me.”
“I need your company more,” Rosie insisted. “We can talk whilst they speak on whatever boring brotherly thing they enjoy conversing about.”
Guy ground his teeth together. Usually, it contented Rosie to join in with whatever conversations they had. The woman wasn’t one for idle gossip or silly chit chat. If she was, she would have never married Russell.
Whatever game she played here, Guy did not like it. He had a sneaking suspicion his new sister had designs on them being together, which was utterly preposterous but there was no way to explain to Rosie that firstly, Miss Haversham was an independent woman who did not much care for the nobility, and secondly, he could not have a woman anyway. The latter part would be the hardest part to explain. He’d rather not have to reveal to his brother’s wife the true nature of his...issue.
Not to mention, how the hell did one have anything with a woman that one could not tell the truth to?
“I do believe Mrs. Haversham is sleeping, miss,” Brown piped up from his position by the front door. “She asked not to be disturbed.”
Wonderful. Was the whole world against them?
Freya narrowed her gaze briefly at Brown and Guy swore he heard her sigh. “Looks like I am able to join you then.”
“Wonderful.” Rosie clapped her hands together.
“Told you Rosie would win,” Russell said with a grin.
“Miss Haversham is at a disadvantage with the three of you against her,” Guy muttered. “It’s hardly a fair win.”
“I’d wager when she goes up against you, she wins every time.”
If one counted being kissed and touched until she cried out in pleasure winning then she had certainly bested him last night.
Guy shook his head and motioned to Brown. “We’ll be ta
king tea in the second drawing room.” He motioned to the four of them. “For all of us.”
Brown’s expression grew smug and Guy glared at him. Did he really have to suffer his brother and sister attempting to matchmake as well as the help? Much more of this and he was going to leap up on the coffee table and announce to everyone he had an appendage of abnormal size and no bloody woman wanted him so could they leave it at that?
With Freya in the same room as him he would be lucky if he did not end up sent to the asylum by the end of the day. Somehow, he needed to keep his wits about him.
FREYA LIKED ROSIE. It frustrated her as she did not want to. She’d already concluded the woman was pleasant after their meeting at the coffeehouse, but she really, really liked her now. It made wanting nothing from Lord Huntingdon all the harder.
It also made this whole kidnap story more difficult to follow. If the earl was involved in anything untoward, it would impact his brother’s wife to be certain.
If only Rosie behaved like other women of the ton. It would make this situation much easier.
Of course, Freya’s story was beginning to wither like a neglected houseplant. With her mother staying here and the distraction that was the earl, she had failed to follow up anymore leads or gain more information from him.
Leads? She nearly snorted to herself. Her one lead had been Lord Huntingdon, and she had let him touch her in a most intimate manner. No wonder her investigation was grinding to a stop.
Freya glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room and set down her cup. She should cease pretending these people were her friends. They had been her living for quite some time and would continue to be if she could not complete her story of the missing women. If she ever wanted to move away from writing that blasted awful column, she needed to gain some perspective.
“Oh you are not leaving us, are you?” Rosie said.
“I really must check on my mother,” Freya lied.
Well, half-lied. She hadn’t seen her since this morning and did like to check on her at least twice a day. However, her health had recovered so well of late, she suspected her mother did not need her, especially with how well the earl’s servants had looked after her.
Taking the Spinster (The Kidnap Club Book 3) Page 12
