He supposed this was what it meant to be smitten.
Much to his surprise, finding this treasure had given him as much thrill as unearthing a Pharaoh’s tomb. Yesterday, had anyone told him he’d look forward to holding a woman as much as he looked forward to holding a treasure that had been buried for thousands of years he would have laughed in the person’s face.
He really ought to get a hold of himself and leave before she returned to the hotel. After all, he’d warned her that he may not be there when she came home. But the idea of walking out with no explanation and leaving her to the mercies of men like Westerfield just didn’t seem feasible. Instead, he decided to stay and tell her the truth tonight. She’d be livid when she learned that he wasn’t Lawrence Bailey. Breaking the news required some finesse and that was never his strong point, but tonight he’d soften her up a little and then he really had to tell her. He had to, no matter what the consequences.
“So I take it Miss Wellfleet is the flame-haired hussy in the painting you took from father’s collection.” Harry held out his glass for another brandy. “And suddenly here you are, holding down the fort for her. Knowing your preferences, Luke,” he chuckled, “she must be very old by now, dusty, missing a few parts, and possibly worth quite a bit of money.”
“A perfect description. Very perceptive.”
“What else could incite you to stay here for her, Luke? Where is she anyway? Do you keep her in a sarcophagus?”
“Only during the day.” He gave a grim smirk. “Sunlight corrodes.”
Harry’s laughter continued unabated, as did his teasing.
For once, Luke didn’t mind it. “Listen, Harry, while you’re here, if you should meet her, you don’t know me.”
Harry feigned outrage. “Not know my own brother?”
“How many times have I helped you out by feigning ignorance when one of your women came looking for you?”
There was no argument with that. Harry genially agreed not to say a word.
Chapter Six
She was home early. The dinner was uncomfortable, to say the least, with Guy continually questioning her about Lawrence while her own thoughts and feelings were so dreadfully askew. Fervently she wished she’d had more time to prepare before Guy met the man who was going to marry her, but it was too late now. And it was too late to back out of the arrangement. Poor Lawrence had nowhere else to go, did he? His threat to walk out, when viewed with a steadier mind cooled by a few hours apart, was evidently only bravado. He knew the situation walking into it, and he would accept the way things were, just as Guy must.
Back at the hotel, Guy didn’t get out of the carriage, too angry with her, clearly, and sulking like a small boy. He would recover, she thought, once he realized Lawrence merely had a mischievous sense of humor. She hoped that was the reason for his earlier display in the conservatory. It must be. Why else would he deliberately goad Guy’s temper?
By ten o’clock the doors of the hotel were always locked, so she used her key to get in, passing through the dimly lit foyer. At the counter, she paused to scan the ledger for any new guests and saw the name H. Blackwood.
Blackwood. Just when she was thinking about Randolph tonight. Oh well, surely there were many folk in the world with that name.
Her feet were aching. She kicked off her shoes meaning to carry them up the stairs making as little noise as possible. But as she passed along the darkened passage she heard a rattling sound in the kitchen at the end of the hall. She stopped, every pore pricked to attention. It was too late for the cook to be at work and too early for one of the maids to be up lighting the range. Robbers? Highly unlikely since there was little to steal and it seemed doubtful criminals would stop to prepare a snack before they fled the scene. Perhaps it was a guest taken ill.
Lawrence. He really was ill, suffering all this time while she was out having dinner. He must have staggered downstairs in desperation for water. Oh, she’d never forgive herself for leaving him alone that evening.
She quickened her pace down the tiled passage and pushed open the door.
She was right. It was him. But he wasn’t ill.
He turned to look over his shoulder. “Aha, just in time for my very special dessert. Won’t you sit down?”
The long table was lit with candles, and two champagne glasses waited beside a bottle in a silver ice-bucket.
“I’ve already eaten dinner,” she muttered, watching him from the doorway, her shoes dangling from one hand, gloves in the other. She should have asked why he was still up, but that didn’t immediately occur to her.
What did occur was that he was wearing a night-robe of deep blue velvet with a satin, quilted collar. And very probably nothing underneath. His hair, gilded by the candlelight, was a rumpled mess as if he hadn’t been up long, but she suspected he’d never been to bed. He’d been waiting for her.
Like it or not, she had a man to come home to now. They were certainly an unconventional couple, she mused. It should have been her waiting for him to come home.
“But this is dessert,” he said.
“I had poached pears.”
He shook his head. “This is better. You’ll see. A girl can’t go to bed on pears. She’ll have a sour stomach all night.”
Daisy watched him search in a drawer for spoons. “Pears never give me indigestion.”
“Then you’ve been lucky. They’re notorious for it. Surprised you didn’t know.” He came to the table with two small glass dishes filled with something dark.
“Chocolate?”
“Yes. But you’ve never had it like this before. This is a recipe I learned on my extensive travels.”
She wandered over out of curiosity, although a small voice warned her to go up to bed. “Your travels? I didn’t know you’d traveled.”
“Oh.” He hesitated, and then gave an enigmatic smile. “Here and there.”
“Working abroad? In mines?”
“A little of everything.” He took her shoes and gloves away, setting them on a chair, and handed her a spoon. “Don’t spill any on your fancy frock.”
She liked the way he took care of her because no one had ever done that before. Not like this. Cautious, she took the spoon, dipped it into the creamy pudding, and had her first taste of heaven. What was a girl supposed to do when a man like this tipped up in her life and turned it all upside down? Eat an extra dessert perhaps.
“I thought you’d like it,” he remarked dryly, watching her face. He held out her chair and she sat, already digging in her spoon again. Pears poached in wine were quickly forgotten in favor of this rich decadence.
“Feet hurt?” He motioned at her discarded shoes and she nodded. Swiftly he knelt—surprisingly limber for a man of his stature —and took her foot in his hand. Placing her heel on his thigh, he massaged her aching toes. She merely watched him do it, knowing it was wrong to let him touch her this way.
Wrong because—why exactly? Perhaps it wouldn’t do any harm to let him put his hands on her feet. After all, they were just feet and he was very…oh, very skilled. He bent his head so she couldn’t see his face. Instead she observed his agile fingers and wondered how they might feel elsewhere about her body. Her mind suddenly flirted with the idea that he was her guardian angel sent from Heaven to take care of her. There was a certain otherworldly look about him.
“Your cousin Lizzie never told me you’d traveled abroad.” She smiled at him from her chair and he raised his head, their eyes level. “Or that you liked to cook.”
“Didn’t she?”
“Or about your talented fingers.”
“I expect she wanted to let you find out for yourself.” An uneven grin worked across his lips as if he wasn’t sure he could allow it because she might admonish him for it. Suddenly Daisy was all warm inside and distinctly feisty.
The man was completely and utterly delicious. Just like his special chocolate dessert.
He stood, opened the champagne with as little noise as possible, and poured some i
nto each flute. “Here’s to our marriage. May we have many happy years together.”
If she hadn’t just filled her mouth with more chocolate, she would have reminded him this was temporary and in name only, but it didn’t seem terribly urgent just then and she didn’t want to rush her dessert. Whatever Lizzie hadn’t told her about Lawrence, she’d clearly told him a few things about Daisy, including her love of hot chocolate. But this wasn’t hot; it was cool, creamy, and decidedly wicked. She could feel it testing the laces of her corset already.
They gently clicked glasses and she sipped the sweet, bubbling champagne, which went so perfectly with the smooth pudding.
“I’ll pay for the champagne, of course,” he said. “And all the ingredients I used from the pantry.”
“Really, that’s not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is.” He pulled up a chair next to hers. “I’ve seen the state of your books, Daisy.”
So he’d been prying while she was out. There was no point trying to hide it any longer. “I inherited a bit of a mess, didn’t I?”
“Just a bit.”
That was an understatement. The hotel had run at a loss for some time, and her grandfather died in debt to almost every merchant he worked with. Those he wasn’t in debt to were in debt to him.
“And you won’t consider selling the hotel?”
“Definitely not! Jonas Carbury can go hang himself.”
Lawrence laughed softly. “His might not be your only offer.”
If he said anything after that she didn’t hear it, too busy scraping the last of the chocolate out of her dish. “I won’t sell to anyone, no matter what they offer,” she declared. Apparently he wasn’t eating his dessert. It still sat untouched before him. She cast an envious glance at it.
His fingers splayed around the foot of his glass and she noticed, for the first time, how long they were, and quite darkened by the sun, which seemed unlikely for a man who worked underground most of his life. His hands were large, strong, and surprisingly sensual. Something about the way they moved…
Quickly, she looked down at her dish again, licking her spoon clean. Had he just moved his chair closer or was it her imagination? She wouldn’t have minded if he had. His nearness made her skin come alive with anticipation. It was almost as if she was on the verge of a fever. Perhaps she’d had too much to drink tonight and the champagne bubbles put her over the edge, but everything they said suddenly seemed so much more significant, every gesture he made toward her more deeply felt. Or was it his dangerous dessert that put her in this mood?
A man capable of making a swoon-worthy dessert like this was surely capable of any naughty trick. She slowly licked the bowl of her spoon.
Guy wouldn’t know his way around a kitchen, but then he’d never needed to know and never would. There were always people standing by to do things for him. She supposed in many ways she was simply another of his minions. Certainly the way he talked to her tonight, that was how he viewed her.
Lawrence Bailey, on the other hand, was a survivor who knew how to take care of himself. He relied on no one else. Knowing all about survival, she’d felt that kindred spark the moment they met. His attempts to seem sickly and weak had failed miserably because she’d seen through him. I need you, he’d said to her. But he didn’t need her at all. He wanted her. That was different.
And she wanted him.
“Kiss me,” she said suddenly, dropping her spoon, pushing her chair back across the flagged stone floor.
Startled, he looked at her, his glass paused halfway to his lips.
She stood, finished off her champagne with one unladylike gulp, set her flute down, and repeated, “Kiss me. What are you waiting for, man? Christmas? An embroidered invitation?”
He was on his feet before the last word was completely out of her mouth. Her arms went around his broad shoulders and she gave herself to the kiss as if she needed it to sustain her life. His tongue tangled with hers and the table groaned as it moved across the flagged stone. The candles trembled just as she did and dimly she was aware of her empty glass tipping as her hip knocked into it.
Lawrence caught it in one hand. “If I keep kissing you like this, you know what will happen?”
She nodded mutely, grabbed the collar of his robe and pulled him close again, her head falling back, the pins loosening, hair falling free.
* * * *
So she liked chocolate. Lucky guess. He hadn’t quite anticipated this effect, however, and doubted it could all be contributed to the pudding. Her evening with Guy Westerfield must not have gone well. He dare not think it was anything he’d said to her earlier in the conservatory. He was only surprised his saucy questions hadn’t earned him a slapped face.
Lifting her onto the table, he pressed another kiss to her mouth, his hands quickly discarding hairpins, tangling his fingers in all those luxurious copper curl. He’d dreamed of this since he first saw her in his father’s painting with her hair long and loose about her naked body. He wanted to devour her as she’d devoured that dessert, licking her bowl clean. But he wasn’t accustomed to women making the demands. Luke Blackwood was always in control. He’d have to get a firmer grip of the situation before it got out of hand. He reminded himself that he was supposed to tell her the truth tonight. The chocolate dessert and the champagne were meant to smooth the way for a confession.
It wasn’t working out that way.
Tongue plunging deep, he moved her back across the table while her fingers hung on to his collar. It couldn’t have been very comfortable lying on the rough wood, but she made no complaint. Her eyes were hot, a few shades darker than usual, her bronze lashes half-lowered. He felt every excitable breath she took, her splendid breasts almost popping out of the flimsy gown. Lowering his head, he nibbled her ear, the side of her neck, and then the warm curve of her bosom until she purred like a playful kitten, arching under him, her hands fumbling for the belt of his robe. He grabbed her questing hands and stood straight, looking down at her. He ought to tell her the truth before they were both in over their heads.
Instead he asked, “Do you want some more chocolate, Daisy?”
She blinked. “Ummmm.”
He transferred both her wrists to his left hand and pulled them up over her head, holding them to the table. With his right hand he reached for the dish of sweet dessert he’d left uneaten. “Are you sure? You shouldn’t over-indulge.”
“I want some more,” she purred. “Please.”
Swallowing a chuckle, he dug his forefinger into the creamy, whipped pudding and brought it to her lips. She almost bit his finger off at the knuckle.
“Now say ‘thank you, sir’.”
His finger still in her mouth, she turned her head to look at the dish.
“You want more? Greedy aren’t you?” He reclaimed his finger and it made a slight pop as it slid free of her pouting lips. “I suppose I can let you have a little more of mine.”
“Yes, please.” She sounded breathless and he felt her pulse racing where he held her wrists in his firm grip. Unable to resist temptation, he bent his head to lick her heaving breasts, trailing his tongue across her warm flesh and into the deep cleavage between. With his free hand, he slid her skirts and frothy petticoats up over her knees and she parted her legs.
“How much more do you want?” he murmured huskily into her skin, breathing in her light, sweet scent until it flooded his veins.
* * * *
She couldn’t answer, because his hand had wandered further and now his finger, the one she’d dampened with her own sucking, found the slit in her lace drawers. He teased her, running his fingertip lightly up and down the slit, occasionally sliding it through to touch her sex, almost as if by accident. Under her gown, her nipples puckered. Every brush of his lips and his unshaven chin against her smooth skin caused blissful throbbing and a tight ache that vibrated all the way down her body to the apex of her thighs. She lifted her heels to the table edge, groaning out his name. His head rose briefly f
rom her bosom.
“Don’t call me that.”
Perhaps he preferred Larry to Lawrence. She’d find out later. What did it matter now?
With his teeth, he pulled on the gossamer chiffon around her décolletage and she heard the thin stitches breaking, ill-prepared for this fevered assault. It freed a little more bosom, but she was still trapped under a ruthless corset. She longed to have her hands free, to help him undress her, but he kept her wrists out of the way, pinned to the table. She wriggled and writhed, but he was a merciless captor and apparently intent on doing this his way, the hard way.
His robe had fallen partially open, and when she glanced down, she saw his chest and knew she was right before. He was naked under the robe. As if she needed any further proof, he rubbed his marble-hard cock against her quivering inner thigh and she remembered the sight of his gloriously well-equipped, nude body earlier that day, how shocked she’d been.
Well, she was supposed to be shocked, but really she’d been more inquisitive than shocked. And, above all, aroused.
She wanted him inside her now.
But his finger retreated, leaving her frustrated.
“What are you doing?” she snapped, arching again to see what he was up to. He was busy with the chocolate dessert again, loading a great dollop on his finger. Oh lord, what was he going to do with that? Anticipation rocked her spine and liquid desire dripped out of her, left her limbs weak, made her heart pound. She tasted blood in her mouth and knew she’d bitten her tongue.
Entangled (A Private Collection) Page 7
