‘I am a hedonist.’ He kept pace with her. ‘I take my pleasures where I find them. Life is too short to deny oneself.’
She snorted. ‘I believe I heard that explanation earlier.’
‘Because it is true.’
Something in his voice caught her. She stopped and looked at him. He met her scrutiny without reaction.
‘You truly do mean that, self-centred as the philosophy is.’
He nodded. ‘If I did not, I would not have said so this afternoon, let alone just repeated it. Remember that.’
He lifted a hand to her face. She stepped back, but the wall kept her from going far enough. One long, elegantly strong finger touched the bow in her upper lip. Her reaction to him was swift and intense. Her legs weakened, and she was thankful the wall supported her back and kept her from slipping to the floor.
He closed the already too-small distance between them. ‘Why should I deny myself life’s physical pleasures? Particularly when they don’t harm anyone else.’ He paused and his eyes met hers with a hunger that made her senses whirl. ‘And even give another person equal or greater pleasure?’
She swallowed hard and wondered fleetingly how she had got into this situation. Then his finger fell away from her. The hunger that had sharpened his face seconds before fell away also and was replaced by another emotion she couldn’t read.
‘You are leaning on my bedchamber door.’
She jumped, her eyes wide. ‘Your door?’
He nodded. ‘Very close to yours.’
She stood mute, chills chasing flames down her spine.
‘No comment?’ His voice was low and provocative, with a hint of barely concealed sardonic amusement.
She made herself shrug. ‘What is there to say, Sir Hugo? You are on the same floor as I am. That is not unusual.’ She wished her voice sounded as blasé as her words.
‘True.’
He stepped back enough for her to slide away from his door. She took a deep breath of relief, ignoring the sudden urge to turn the handle to his room and look inside. As decadent as he was, his rooms were likely opulent and seductive. A silly thought that had no relevance to her. Silly it might be, but her stomach did somersaults at the thought.
She forced herself to continue down the hall to her chamber. She sensed him behind her and could swear he laughed at her, but she could hear nothing.
She reached her door and kept herself from dashing inside to safety by squaring her shoulders and reminding herself she was a woman who met life’s challenges head on. To do otherwise was to be weak and usually at the mercy of someone who was physically or emotionally stronger. She had been in that position. She would never be there again.
She turned and faced Sir Hugo. ‘Thank you for walking me here.’
He stopped, one brow lifted. ‘Polite now that you are about to get rid of me?’
She refused to let him embarrass her. ‘Rudeness has not deterred you.’
‘Nothing keeps me from a goal, Lady Fenwick-Clyde.’ He studied her, his gaze travelling from her eyes to her lips and lowered. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ She met the challenge of his study.
He watched her with an intensity in his green eyes that made her jumpy. She felt breathless and hot and excited and nervous and all manner of things that were not comfortable and yet were not uncomfortable either. He aroused emotions in her she had never experienced. It took every ounce of determination not to turn the handle and bolt into her room.
He continued to watch her, his gaze lingering on her lips. ‘I didn’t kiss you for long enough.’
‘What?’ What was he talking about? What was he doing?
‘I didn’t kiss you for long enough earlier today.’
She felt the heat rise up her neck and stain her cheeks. ‘You shouldn’t have kissed me at all.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion. Mine happens to differ from yours.’ His voice lowered to a husky rasp. ‘I should not have stopped kissing you.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you are saying these things, Sir Hugo. You are much too forward.’
He smiled, slowly and seductively. ‘Then go into your room, Lady Fenwick-Clyde. I won’t follow unless you invite me.’
She gasped. But she didn’t turn the handle. She wasn’t sure why not. He fascinated her, even in his aggressive pursuit of her. She belonged in Bedlam, surely, or worse, Bedlam in a straitjacket.
‘Be assured, Sir Hugo, I won’t invite you.’
His smile turned predatory. ‘Not tonight.’
‘Not ever.’
He reached out and she flinched, afraid of what he intended to do, but more afraid of what she would do. When he laid a single finger on her jaw and nothing more, she remembered to breathe.
‘We shall see about that.’
It was a challenge and she rose to meet it. ‘Yes, we will.’
He chuckled low in his throat. ‘Spitfire. Lady Spitfire.’
He continued to look at her, his gaze going back to her mouth. Was he going to kiss her? Here in the hall where anyone could see? Was she going to be able to resist him? Did she want to? This was crazy.
His finger traced up her jaw before falling away. She took a deep breath. He chuckled again. Without another word, he left.
Annabell stood rooted to the spot and watched him saunter down the hall and enter his room without looking back at her. She wasn’t sure whether to be hurt that he’d put her from his mind so easily or glad that he’d done so. If he wasn’t thinking about her then she was likely to be safe from his dangerous advances. Even if he was dangerous only because she was susceptible, it was the same danger.
She sighed and slipped into her room, no longer sure of anything. She needed a good night’s sleep—with no dreams of her disturbing host.
Hugo resisted the temptation to look back. She had already tempted him too much this night.
He entered his room and went to a large, comfortable leather chair pulled in front of a roaring fire. He sank into it.
‘M’lord, do you wish to prepare for bed?’
He had not seen Jamison. The valet had a knack for being unobtrusive. ‘Very proper tonight, aren’t we?’
He smiled as he said the words. The two of them had been through a great deal and forged a bond that went beyond employer and employee.
The valet came to stand near the fire. Jamison was a short, bandy-legged man with a bald pate and a twinkling eye. He didn’t carry an ounce of extra weight and, Hugo knew very well, could handle himself in any fight.
‘I’ll put myself to bed, Jamison.’
‘That’s a shame, sir. But, for meself, there’s a new barmaid at the Horse and Donkey. If you don’t need me, I’ll make my way there.’
Hugo laughed. ‘You old reprobate.’
His valet, who had been his batman during the wars and before that had been a sergeant in Wellington’s Indian army, grinned. Jamison was a farmer’s son and believed in ploughing any field he encountered.
‘Like I always said, sir, it takes one to know one.’
Hugo shook his head. ‘It’s a good thing for you I appreciate frankness.’
‘That it is, sir.’ For a moment only he sobered, then the look was gone as though it had never existed. ‘Well, I’ll be on me way then.’
‘But,’ Hugo said to his valet’s disappearing back, ‘I will be needing hot water tomorrow morning to shave. It was a little lacking this morning.’
Jamison almost looked sheepish. ‘Didn’t feel up to snuff after courting the lady last night. I’ll be sure to do better tomorrow, sir.’
Hugo shook his head. If the water wasn’t here, he’d ring and have some brought up. That’s what he paid good wages for to the house servants. Jamison, he owed more than money could buy. Jamison had saved his life at Waterloo.
‘Enjoy yourself, old man.’
‘I’ll try, sir.’
Hugo laughed. Nothing like a bout with Jamison to put everything into perspective. Miss Pennyworth migh
t drive him to the consideration of murder, and Lady Fenwick-Clyde—Lady Spitfire—Annabell—might drive him to the point of physical pain, but both were something he could deal with. He could hand Miss Pennyworth over to Tatterly, and he could join Jamison at the pub and find a willing wench to ease the ache caused by Lady Fenwick-Clyde.
He rose and shook his head as he made his way to the bed. No, he couldn’t ease this particular ache with anyone but the woman who created it. He was experienced enough to realise that about himself.
With nimble fingers, he undid his clothing and stepped out of them. From force of habit, he laid them neatly across a nearby chair. He added the nightshirt to the pile. He enjoyed his luxuries, but required that they be neatly compartmentalised. Clutter was as uncomfortable as being cold.
He snuffed the bedside candle and climbed between the satin sheets with nothing between him and them to diminish the pleasure. The smooth silky material slid along his skin. They were cool, but the warming pan had made them tolerable. Soon the hot water bottles and heated bricks would make them nearly toasty. Jamison might be rackety in some areas, but he knew to warm the bed.
Hugo rolled on to his back and stared at the ceiling of his canopied bed. Lascivious cherubs frolicked with sylphs, doing things no innocent could imagine. He imaged himself doing those things to and with Annabell Fenwick-Clyde. He was instantly, painfully aware of how much he wanted that.
Soon.
Chapter Four
Annabell woke the next day with an aching head and shoulders that felt as though she’d been carrying the weight of the world on them. She closed her eyes and wished she could go back to sleep, but that would solve nothing. Sir Hugo Fitzsimmon had figured prominently in the dreams she hadn’t wanted to have.
He had done things with her and to her that made her blush to remember. Things her husband had forced her to do with him, which she had not enjoyed. With Sir Hugo— Hugo—she had revelled in the sensations. She scowled. Sir Hugo had not bound her.
To put paid to the unwelcomed thoughts, both memory and dream, she clambered out of bed. The sooner she moved about, the sooner she would be at the site and the sooner she would forget the disturbing dreams that were becoming nightly visitors.
She dropped her nightdress to the floor, planning to pick it up later. She dressed without help, a skill she had mastered in her travels. Then she went to the dresser and rummaged around the bottles and vials, looking for her brush. She knew she had left it here, but…
She found it on a table beside the chair where she normally read. A copy of Jane Austen’s latest book lay beside it. She brushed her thick, silver-blonde hair quickly and secured it in a long braid, which she wrapped around the back of her head. Now it would stay out of the way while she dug.
She moved to the mirror to examine herself. She wasn’t fashionable, but she was practical. That was more important.
The sound of wheels on gravel drew her to the window. She pulled back the heavy blue-velvet curtain and peered through the many-paned glass.
A post-chaise stopped in the circular carriage drive and two young children erupted from the vehicle. The boy’s head glinted like a newly minted penny. The girl’s shone like summer sunshine. They must be Sir Hugo’s half-brother and half-sister. It had been some time since he had told her they were coming. Presumably, they had stopped someplace for the night on their way here.
Seconds later, a woman emerged, moving more sedately than her offspring, but still with a buoyancy that made Annabell think she must be a happy person. She wore a royal blue pelisse with epaulets in the military style that was all the rage since Waterloo. She was much shorter than the footman who helped her.
The woman entered the front door and passed out of Annabell’s sight. She turned from the window. Likely, she would meet the three of them at dinner.
Things would be less strained with more people. Sir Hugo wouldn’t watch her as carefully as he currently did. Somehow, that thought did not comfort her no matter how she told herself it should. She was not interested in him, or only a little. She couldn’t help that her body desired his, she could only make sure she did not give into temptation.
Having his stepmother and two young children around them would help.
Hugo strode to greet his stepmother. ‘Juliet. Welcome.’
Two whirling dervishes attacked him before Juliet could reply. He grabbed the smaller package and lifted her high.
‘Hugo,’ Rosalie Fitzsimmon squealed.
Hugo laughed. ‘Rosalie!’
The larger of the two slowed down so he wouldn’t get hit by his sister’s feet as Hugo swung the girl around. ‘Hugo,’ Joseph said more sedately, but with the same thread of excitement his sister had exhibited. ‘Put her down.’
Hugo smiled at his half-brother, catching the unspoken and pay attention to me. He set Rosalie down in spite of her pout.
‘Joseph, I am glad to see you. It will be nice to have another man around here.’ Hugo extended his hand.
Joseph took Hugo’s hand and broke into a smile that nearly split his face. ‘Hugo, can we go talk about Waterloo?’
Hugo glanced at Juliet, saw her frown and said, ‘Perhaps later we can discuss some of it, but right now I wish to speak with your mother.’
‘You always talk to her.’
Hugo ruffled the boy’s fine hair. ‘Not always. Sometimes I talk to Rosalie. You have to learn, Joseph, that women are worth talking to.’ He grinned at the boy’s unconcealed disbelief. ‘I know it’s hard to believe at your age, but trust me.’
Joseph scowled. ‘I will accept what you say, but I do find it hard to believe.’
Hugo laughed at the look on Juliet’s face, the mingled humour and resignation. ‘You will.’
The young governess made her way through the entrance, saw them and realised it was time for the children to go to their rooms and the nursery. ‘Come along,’ she said, nodding her head shyly at Hugo’s smile. ‘We must get ready for our nap.’
‘Oh…’ Joseph complained.
‘Don’t want to,’ Rosalie protested.
She herded them anyway.
‘Would you like refreshments?’ Hugo took Juliet’s cape before the footman could reach them. He handed it to the strapping young man.
‘I would die for a hot cup of tea.’ Juliet undid the bow of her chip bonnet. ‘In the library?’
‘Where else?’ Hugo smiled and waved his stepmother ahead.
She smiled back and made her way to the familiar room. She settled into her favourite chair, the one Lady Fenwick-Clyde always sat in. Hugo wondered what it was about overstuffed chintz.
He sat beside her. ‘Why did you pick that chair?’
Juliet gave him a quizzical look. ‘What brought that up?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘I am curious. It seems to be a favourite with the ladies.’
She took off her bonnet and set it on the table beside her seat. ‘What a queer observation, Hugo. Are you sure you aren’t ailing?’
He laughed. ‘Not in the way you suggest.’
She sobered. ‘Really?’
Tea arrived and they spent several quiet moments while Juliet prepared herself a cup. He declined any.
‘I have two women here, Juliet.’
She choked, nearly spilling her tea. ‘Hugo! How could you dare?’
He frowned. Even Juliet thought him an unprincipled rakehell. ‘They are not my mistresses.’ Honesty made him add, ‘At least, not yet.’
Her expression went from relief to alarm. ‘Yet?’
‘That is why I am especially grateful to have you here.’
‘You are?’ She took a hasty sip, as though she needed it to fortify herself.
This time his smile was that of a wolf, anticipating a very good meal. ‘That is what I tell myself.’
She shook her head. ‘You are talking in riddles.’
‘Miss Pennyworth must be rubbing off on me.’
‘Hugo?’
‘Lady Fenwick-Clyde and
her companion, Miss Pennyworth, are staying here while Lady Fenwick-Clyde excavates a Roman ruin.’
Juliet paled, then flushed, her fair complexion coming as close to mottled as it was capable. ‘Lady Fenwick-Clyde?’
Hugo watched the emotions flit across her face and wondered how she even knew Annabell Fenwick-Clyde. He had moved in the ton’s rarified stratosphere as a crony of Prinney’s, and he had not met Lady Fenwick-Clyde until he kissed her on his property just days ago.
And what a kiss. Her lips had been soft and yielding, drawing him into an inferno he had not known existed. Now it was hell every time he saw her and couldn’t kiss her. Even now, sitting in front of the roaring fire in his favourite room with his stepmother, just the thought of that kiss aroused him to the point that he was grateful to be sitting down and not standing in front of Juliet. He was many things, but he had never flouted his interests before anyone but the women who created them. Until now.
He snorted. ‘Yes, Lady Fenwick-Clyde. It seems she is something of an amateur antiquarian.’
‘Does she have a stepson?’ Juliet’s tone was innocent, but there was an intensity in her gaze that told Hugo the question meant more to her than she wanted to divulge.
‘I believe so. At least I know the late Fenwick-Clyde had a son by his first wife. Don’t remember the boy’s name.’
Juliet’s blush deepened. ‘Timothy. His name is Timothy.’ Her fingers twisted in her lap. ‘And he isn’t a boy. He is a widower. His wife and babe died in childbirth over a year ago.’
‘My mistake.’ Hugo watched his stepmother with great interest. ‘Do you know him well?’
‘No. That is, some. We met during the Season. The children like him.’
Hugo caught himself before he frowned. He did not like the sound of this. Fenwick-Clyde’s son was not someone he wished his sweet stepmother to associate with. In his experience, the apple never fell far from the tree.
‘Are you seeing him?’
An Unconventional Widow Page 5
