Just as I grasped the squat cylinder, Hartfell barked, “You’re making a mess of it, woman. Let me do it.”
I hadn’t even opened the tinderbox yet. I did so and fumbled for the striker and flint nodule. While I pulled the damper off the tinder, Hartfell grunted in pain. Ha! I wasn’t the only person to bumble into the desk. I smiled. I hoped he’d hurt something a good deal more tender than his massive thigh.
Don’t think of his flesh. Or the bruise sure to form there. I poised to strike the flint and steel together. The first pass yielded only one small, pathetic spark that winked out before a full second passed.
“Give that to me. I’ll do it.”
I hunched my shoulders over the tinderbox, shielding it. “No. I don’t need your help.”
“Stubborn woman.”
I pressed my lips together. Unlike Mary, I didn’t succumb to tongue lashings regaling everything a woman was capable of—including the lighting of tinder. But, for once, I wanted to deliver a lecture to send him reeling. I pictured his smug expression in my mind as I struck the flint again.
Two passes later, a flare of sparks ignited the dry cloth in the tinderbox. Hartfell snatched it out of my hand.
“Give me that.” He lit a candle, snuffed the tinder with the damper, and used the candle to light a log.
I leaned back against the corner of the gargantuan desk with a smug smile. Let him think he lit the fire. My hard work had yielded the flame, not his.
The log caught fire reluctantly. After a few moments of dangling the flame along the bark, small licks of flame sprang into being. Thin tendrils of smoke curled off of the bark, a bitter but soothing scent. The fire crackled as it devoured the wood, growing stronger.
As I shifted away from the growing pool of water seeping from my dress, a shiver crawled along my exposed arms. The fire grew sluggishly, emitting more light than warmth.
Finished, Hartfell placed the candle on the mantle, still lit, and turned to me. He stretched out his hand. The tan leather of his glove glistened with moisture.
He rolled his eyes. “Accept my help, will you? I mean nothing by it.”
I held his gaze a moment more. With his eyes glinting from the fire, I couldn’t decipher his intentions. I slipped my hand into his damp palm. He lifted me to my feet with ease.
Rain splattered the glass of the door leading outside. The silhouette of tree branches tossed in the gale. The wind howled past to frequent rumbles of thunder and the occasional snap of lightning. Not even the lure of finding Frederick could entice me into that tempest.
At least the storm bought me more time. Frederick wouldn’t be able to leave in this weather, not unless he wanted to chance his death.
The rustle of cloth hailed Hartfell removing his jacket. Ignoring me, he laid it on the floor in front of the chuckling fire. Not a terrible idea. After unknotting and unwinding the cravat from his throat, he discarded it onto the gleaming desk. Then he went to work on his shirt.
I turned my back. “What in damnation are you doing?”
“My clothes are soaked. Yours, too. Even if you’d like to catch a chill, I’d rather avoid it.”
He sounded amused, not at all contrite or ashamed. And he’d called me shameless.
“We’re very much alone,” I reminded him.
“If we stood in the middle of a crowded room, it would hardly be appropriate for me to undress.”
At that, I whirled on him. “It is not appropriate now!”
His shirt hung over the back of the desk chair. He stood, utterly bare from the waist up, in nothing but his breeches and boots. The soft-looking mat of hair on his chest glimmered golden in the firelight.
He lingered far too close. A ballroom would not have been enough space between us, but he stood scarcely two steps away. With his ground-eating strides, maybe one.
Breathlessly, I added, “Anyone might walk in.” My heart beat frantically, restraining my voice to a whisper. If I were discovered with him in this state of undress, I’d have to marry him.
A more odious fate, I couldn’t imagine.
With a shrug, he crossed to the closed library door and locked it.
My mouth fell open. “What did you just do?”
“I ensured no one would interrupt us.”
“Interrupt us? You make it sound like we’re having a conversation. You are undressing.” I lowered my voice and hissed out the last word.
He turned. “Maybe we are, and you’re just too blasted stubborn to hear it.”
His chest loomed within an arm’s reach now. I’d stalked toward him without noticing. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the unadorned flesh of his body.
He was what Francine would call an agreeable specimen. Of course, she referred to plants rather than people when she spoke those words, but no other description fit him. I hadn’t had the misfortune of seeing many men bare-chested, after all. My experience was limited to one.
The breadth of his shoulders devoured the space in the room, closing in on us until he seemed to surround me. The downy hair on his chest beckoned. Would it feel soft? Raspy? I clasped my hands behind my back to keep from finding out firsthand. My gloves, a bit damp, squelched softly. His muscular physique surprised me. What did he do to stay so supremely fit?
“Do you like what you see?” he asked in so low a rumble, I nearly mistook his voice for the thunder outdoors.
I raised my gaze. My cheeks roasted. I fought the urge to cover them. “You’re a boor,” I spat.
He smiled. A slow, lethal spread of his lips containing more amusement than mirth. His hooded gaze never left my face. He leaned back against the door. “Feel free to discard all pretense at civility.”
I jabbed my finger into his chest. “You are the one acting uncivilized by taking off your clothes. A gentleman would persevere.”
He caught my hand, but I twisted to leave him with my glove instead. I scampered back.
He straightened to his full height. Even from over a pace away, he loomed above me. I didn’t care for the feeling. I liked to look a man in the eye when I spoke to him, not at his collarbone.
I felt exposed with only one glove on. I thrust my bare hand behind my back.
He advanced with all the lethality of a crouched tiger. I staggered back. If I had to, I would run from him. Could I make it to the door in time? Heat radiated from him as he crossed the distance to me. It banished the last tremors from the icy rain. A flush crept over my body in more places than only my face. Secret places.
The backs of my thighs brushed against the desk. Hartfell hemmed me in, laying his big hands on the wood’s surface. His legs bracketed mine. The strong scent of sandalwood surrounded me.
I threatened, “Lay a finger on me and I’ll scream.”
He raised one eyebrow. The firelight cast an odd array of shadows over his face to make him seem at once disbelieving and frightfully murderous.
“You won’t,” he said, his tone low and intimate. Nothing violent in his tone of voice—only promising.
I fought the urge to squirm.
“If we’re discovered, we’ll have to marry. You don’t want that.”
It wasn’t a question, but I responded nonetheless. “You’re the very last man I’d accept.”
“Is that so?”
I lifted my chin. We stood so close, my breasts scraped over his bare skin with every breath. I leaned back. The movement brushed my hips against his instead.
“You hide your interest very poorly, Miss Wellesley.”
“I am not interested in you in any way.”
“Then why did you admire my form so openly?”
I balled my hands into fists. “That wasn’t interest. It was…scientific curiosity.”
He barked out a laugh. His gut rumbled with the force of it, so close, the tremors spread to mine. My breath caught at the peculiar sensation.
“You have an interest in science?”
Not in the least, but my dearest friend blathered on and on about it. I ought t
o have enough knowledge to fool him. “I do,” I bluffed.
“And what do you deduce from my form?”
I glared at him, but he maintained his relaxed stance. He didn’t budge an inch.
“Only that you are male, and obviously at ease with your nudity in front of women.”
“You call this nudity?” He lifted one hand to indicate his bare torso.
Naturally, my eyes shifted to that part of his body. I cursed myself and bit the inside of my cheek as punishment. The bite of pain quelled a sudden wave of giddiness.
Then he leaned closer. “I haven’t even removed my breeches yet.”
Yet? Heaven help me. I would perish from mortification if he did so.
In a strained voice, I said, “And I thank you for your restraint, sir.”
He laughed. Another belly-rumbling, quiver-inducing sound. His eyes narrowed with intent.
“You’ve kissed men before.”
The lilt in his voice made it as much a question as an accusation. I lifted my chin in challenge. “Dozens,” I lied. The truth was a smaller number, a handful of stolen kisses, no more.
His grin turned amorous. “Then one more kiss won’t tarnish your reputation more than you already have.”
He swooped in. My breath caught. I simultaneously hoped and feared he would meld his mouth to mine. But he stopped, hovering a scant inch away from my mouth. His breath mingled with mine, hot and ardent, sweet with the smell of wine.
“Kiss me,” he said.
Because he asked when he could have taken, I almost did. I swayed toward him.
I recoiled as someone jiggled the doorknob to the room.
Chapter Five
I froze in place. My body tingled where it pressed intimately to Hartfell’s form. Hartfell’s bare-chested form. By Jove, what was I doing?
The big bear of a man shoved away from the desk as someone pounded on the door. “Why in the blazes is it locked? Hello, is someone in there? I’d be much obliged if you opened the door, please.”
I recognized that irritated shout. Francine. Of course she would come seeking a book at a time like this.
Hartfell scrambled to collect his garments. I shooed him to the farthest corner of the bookshelves as I approached the door. He shook his head vigorously and stepped forward to bar my path. I dashed around him and rested my hand on the key protruding from the lock.
He narrowed his eyes. Although he didn’t speak aloud, I deciphered his plain message: don’t you dare. I smirked. Without breaking eye contact, I unlocked the door with the deft twist of my fingers.
A low sound issued from his throat, something like a warning growl. Amusement welled in my throat. I sank my teeth into my lower lip to suppress a laugh. I opened the door by a sliver, just enough for Francine to recognize me but not glimpse inside. Muffled strains of music spilled into the library from elsewhere in the house, along with soft yellow light framing Francine’s form.
She froze, mouth agape and hand poised to deliver another sharp knock. “Rose? I hadn’t expected you here.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but she didn’t appear to notice.
She added, “Is there an animal in there with you?”
When she stood on her tiptoes to try to see past me, I drew up to my full height. “No.”
“Oh. I must have misheard.” She studied me from head to foot. “You look dreadful.”
“Thank you.”
She studied me with a frown. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking worse.”
“I might expire from the effusive compliments you’re giving me,” I said drily.
She ignored me. “Your hair looks like a bird’s nest and your dress… What have you done to your dress?”
I spared a glance down and grimaced. My dress sported more holes than Swiss cheese. “It was that bloody Prune-aux-Spindoza of yours.”
“Prunus spinosa,” she corrected absently. She cocked her head to one side. “Have you been out in the rain?”
My eyes might have fallen out of my head from shock. Surely she could not be so bacon-brained? “Why yes, Francine, I have been out in the rain. You helped me climb out the blasted window.”
Movement to my right caught my attention. Hartfell. By Jove, we conducted this conversation paces away from him in an open doorway. With Francine’s attention on me, I squeezed through the door into the hall and shut it behind me. Oil lamps at regular intervals in their sconces lit the full length of the hall. They wouldn’t be doused until the conclusion of the impromptu ball.
Francine wrinkled her nose. “I knew that. When the storm set upon us, I hoped you had found Frederick and holed away for the interim beneath a sturdy tree. Perhaps an oak.”
“It doesn’t matter what species the blasted tree is,” I snapped. “I didn’t find him.”
“Oh.”
I linked arms with Francine and dragged her down the corridor. Away from the library and the scantily-clad lord hiding within. She glanced behind her with longing. Oh no. I had to keep her talking, or else she would bully her way in to returning for a book.
“Oh? That’s all you can say. What am I going to do, Francine?”
“Take a bath and wait to speak with him tomorrow?” She brightened, as though hoping to rid herself of my presence and retreat to the library again. Unacceptable. How would she react to finding a man half-dressed? She took after Mary too much, some days. Wouldn’t that be a surprise? For both parties. I bit my cheek to contain a smile.
I urged Francine up the first set of steps I found. The narrow staircase, worn down the middle, must be a servants’ stair. The first landing should be on the second floor, where Lady Dunlop had situated all her guests. Hopefully, most danced to the sometimes-discordant music wafting from the makeshift ballroom. With so many walls between, my eardrums were unharmed, but enough sound wafted to alert me to the continuing revelry. No one must witness my disheveled state. Although Francine had dismissed my state as a by-product of the sudden storm, the gossips wouldn’t be so forgiving.
On the stair above me, Francine stumbled and almost fell. When I lunged to catch her, we slammed into the wall. The impact knocked the breath out of me. I scrambled for footing, and supported my friend until she did the same.
“Slow down, Rose. My legs aren’t as long as yours. What has gotten into you?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” My voice emerged so weak I barely heard it over the music approaching its crescendo. Light beckoned at the top of the stairs, but the staircase itself was dangerously dark. I moaned. “An hour ago, I was in love. And now he’s off with that dreadful Miss Johnst—Miss Catkin probably proposing marriage.”
The thought threatened to make me swoon for the first time in my life. I firmed my knees. I refused to become a watering pot like my older sisters.
Francine coaxed me up the steps with a light touch to my elbow. “Actually, I find her rather pleasant.”
I frowned in confusion. “Who?”
“Miss Catkin. I’ve spoken with her on more than one occasion. I find her polite and pleasant.”
I sighed. “I know she is. She’s lovely, really.” Spots of shame bloomed on my cheeks, and I was thankful for the dark. What had gotten into me? I didn’t malign other debutantes on principle. Too many said unkind things about me, and I didn’t care to contribute to the bitter pastime.
I straightened my shoulders. “If she wasn’t so lovely, I wouldn’t be afraid. What if Frederick falls in love with her?”
We reached the top of the stairs. The corridor, lit sparsely by four lamps along its length, was empty. Francine led me to her bedchamber, closer than mine. I hurried after her, eager to hide from sight.
“He might fall in love with her,” Francine said as she opened the door. “But it won’t be this evening. He’s a captain. He’s too sensible to fall in love in less than a day.”
I stiffened. In a way she didn’t even notice, she insulted me. I’d brought greater men than Frederick to their knees, declaring their lov
e for me.
“And what of your friend, Captain Beckwith? I bet he would fall in love in less than a day.”
Francine shot me a dry look as she entered the room. “Jeremy would fall in love in an hour. They’re very different men. He’s much less…guarded.”
I didn’t know about that. His outward humor deflected any deeper connection. But I didn’t set my sights on him, so I dropped the topic.
I shut the door behind me. Light from the hall cut off, leaving the interior lit only by a single candle, burned almost down to the quick on the bed stand. It shed light into a room almost identical to mine, from its single bed stand and narrow bed, to the small wardrobe, insultingly tiny vanity, and dressing screen. Francine’s maid stirred from where she napped on a cot by the screen.
As the woman started to rise, Francine waved her away. “Go back to sleep. We’re only talking. I can undress myself.”
The young maid was so exhausted, she murmured, “Yes, Miss Francine,” as her head drifted toward the pillow.
Francine sat on the bed. She shifted the candlestick to pull a heavy tome from underneath it. The light flickered as she replaced it on the stand. She opened the book, reached into the reticule dangling from her wrist, and liberated several leaves and a flower blossom. When had she found the time to pick those? She laid them carefully in the book and pressed it closed.
Clutching the book in her lap, she said absently, “That isn’t why you’re worried.” She shifted to slide the book under her bottom as though the plants wouldn’t preserve between the pages of the book without her added weight.
I sighed. Sometimes, she conducted conversations as much in her head as she did aloud. “I don’t follow, Francine. Were you talking to me?”
“Of course I was talking to you.” Hurt flashed across her face. “There’s no one else here.”
I glanced pointedly toward her maid.
“No one else who is conscious,” she amended.
“Why am I worried?” I asked, steering her back toward the conversation at hand. She might be absentminded, but she often expressed insights that proved uncannily correct.
How to Play the Game of Love (Ladies of Passion) Page 5
