by Cheryl Holt
"You should be," he warned, but he was so tired that he hardly sounded threatening. All he coveted was the opportunity to fall into his bed and get a good night's sleep so that he'd be refreshed on the morrow, when he had to decide how to
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respond to Harold Westmoreland, but apparently imminent rest was not to be.
Colette took a step closer, looking him up and down with her usual disdain, and he received the distinct impression that she was sniffing at him, at his clothes and person, but hoping to encounter . . . what?
"May I ask what you are doing?"
"I am trying to smell the other woman," she said baldly. "The one with whom you spend all your time."
"What?!" he gasped.
"I am curious about this American," she said pensively, tapping a finger against her lip and musing as though he weren't present. "This Pendleton, whom my lady deems so wonderful . . . why is he not here with her, eh? Where does he go? Who is he with when he is absent for so many long hours?"
"What are you babbling about?" he asked. She leaned in, searching for a female's scent or perfume against his shirt. "Stop that," he ordered, but she paid him no mind.
"At first," she said, "I am speculating that this Pendleton, perhaps he likes the men instead, non? For how could any real man resist Lady Penelope? Why would he try? Unless ..." She shrugged and let the impolite insinuation trail off. "But non, Colette can tell: Pendleton is a man who likes all the women. So . .. why does this Pendleton not like my lady? This is my question."
"I like Lady Penelope just fine," he said, attempting to slip around her, but she shifted as well, completely blocking his exit.
"Then why am I wondering when this wedding will be? This one for which there was such a rush? Why does this Monsieur Pendleton say that we must hurry, vite, vite, that we must escape the duke, but then there is no wedding?" She shrugged again. "Perhaps it has something to do with the man in the forest who Colette sees watching the house all the days, eh?"
Lucas felt his skin crawl. The blasted woman was much too
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astute. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about," he said casually. "If you saw someone in the woods, he was probably poaching. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm tired, and I'd like to go to bed." She didn't budge, so he added, "If you don't mind?"
Colette made a contemptuous sound low in her throat. "I am considering that something is ... how you say ... fishy?''
"Your imagination is running wild," he insisted.
"And I am deciding"—she continued as though he hadn't commented—"that if my lady is not married by tomorrow night that maybe I am leaving this place and taking her with me."
"Good night, Colette."
He grabbed her by her forearms, picked her up, and set her off the path, then hurried into the pantry, hanging his cloak on the hook by the door and letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. There was a candle burning in the kitchen, lighting his way, and he moved toward it quickly, lest the maid enter behind him and start her harangue once again.
In the dim glow of the kitchen light he stopped dead in his tracks. His breath caught, his ability to speak vanished, his heart skipped several beats.
Penny was taking a bath.
A copper basin sat in front of the hearth. A cozy fire blazed, warming the chamber and casting intimate shadows around the walls. There was a stool next to the tub, and a glass of wine, a bar of soap, and a cloth rested there. She'd disrobed in the room, and her clothes were scattered about. Her corset was slung over the back of a chair, the laces dangling down. A pair of finely embroidered stockings was hanging next to it. A silky chemise and a thin, lacy pair of drawers were tossed carelessly on the floor.
With her back to him, she was on her knees in the tiny, uncomfortable hip tub, the water lapping at her thighs. She'd washed her hair and brushed it out. It was damp and hung in a blond wave to where it skimmed her bare buttocks. His eyes
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traced a delectable line from the creamy width of her shoulders to the slim taper of her waist to the swell of her hips to the two rounded globes of her bottom.
Rising from the water as she was, she appeared to be a mythical mermaid about whom sailors often fantasized, and he wouldn't have been surprised in the least if she'd begun to sing the first bars of the siren song that would lure him to his doom. Perhaps she was already singing it. His body certainly seemed to recognize the silent tune. His phallus hardened instantly and ferociously, the swiftness of his erection astonishing him with its intensity, and he could barely suppress the groan of desire.
Penny's long, slender fingers reached for the washrag, dipped it in the water, then began sponging her stomach, running the cloth between her thighs, across her cleft, up her abdomen to her breasts. She raised an arm over her head, and he could just make out the soft down of hair nestled there, the faint curve of her breast viewed from behind.
A thousand alarm bells were ringing in his head, commanding him to flee. Immediately! Something dangerous and uncontrollable would happen if he remained, but try as he might to force a retreat, he couldn't move. In all his years of sensual activity he'd never seen anything as erotic as the sight of Penny washing herself. As though he'd suddenly turned to stone, he was rooted to his spot and staring like a voyeur.
In agony he watched her touching all the places he longed to touch, her hand running along the peaks and valleys. His fingers tingled in anticipation of doing the same, his unruly cock expanded to an aching readiness. He could smell her, all that hot, wet skin, and he yearned to dive into the water with her so that he could press his face between her breasts.
"Could you do my back?" she asked.
So weak did his knees become at hearing her request that he nearly fell to the floor. Her voice was low and husky, full of carnal intent, and she turned her head in order to glance over her shoulder. As she migrated, he was blessed with a spectacular view. Of a breast, perfectly rounded and just the
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right size to occupy a man's hand, the nipple erect, coral-tipped, and pouting.
Upon seeing him, her eyes widened with surprise, and she gave a sharp intake of breath, but to his dismay she did nothing to cover herself. Showing not a hint of the modesty he desperately hoped she'd display, she didn't slip down into the shallow tub, grab for a towel, or fold her arms awkwardly across her chest. If anything, she squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine, as though challenging him to look his fill, which he did without hesitation.
For many long, disturbing, sexually charged moments, he gazed at her, taking in her womanly form and deciding she was the most seductive female he'd ever laid eyes upon.
Finally she smiled and said, "I wasn't expecting it to be you."
"Obviously," he said, trying to make light of the encounter, but the hazardous blaze of lust in his eyes ruined the attempt. "I just arrived."
"I heard you come in, but I thought you were Colette." Like a practiced coquette, her tongue flicked out and nervously ran across her bottom lip, wetting it so that it glistened red and inviting.
Through sheer force of will he kept his hands at his sides. He tried to speak but no sound emerged. He swallowed. Swallowed again. Cleared his throat. "Ah ... I'll just go around to the front door," he said, but his feet had turned to granite.
"Could you help me first?" she asked. "I don't know where Colette's gone off to."
In slow motion she dipped the cloth, swirled it about, and brought it out, dripping. Like a supplicant, she offered it to him, her azure eyes begging him to reach for it. With her other hand she tugged her hair off her back and draped the long mass over her shoulder, covering the breast that had teased him so splendidly.
"I don't think so," he said, wanting nothing more in the
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world than to grasp onto the washrag and run it over all that smooth, pale skin. "We'd better not... I mean ... well ..."
"But we're goin
g to be married shortly," she said. "Surely it can't hurt at this late date."
"Probably not, but ..." He stumbled for an excuse, then decided on the truth. "You're so ravishing, I don't think I could stop with just washing your back."
"Maybe I don't care," she said boldly. "Maybe I wouldn't want you to stop."
Dear Lord, but this was quickly becoming the most excruciating incident of his entire life. How was a mortal man supposed to resist such blatant temptation? He felt as though he'd been thrown back in time and suddenly found himself standing in the Garden of Eden, confronting Eve. "But it wouldn't be right, Penny." He gestured around the small, simply furnished room. "It wouldn't be right to take you here. To have you like this. For your first time, you deserve a soft bed and candlelight."
She recalled hearing that once before. "In that case, let's go upstairs," she suggested.
This was absolutely more than one man should have to endure. "No, not till we're wed," he said. "It's important to me that we do it right."
"Then wash my back, Mr. Pendleton," she said, growing irritated and losing patience rapidly. "I'm certain you'll find yourself up for such a trivial task."
Daring him to grab it, she laid the cloth on the edge of the tub and returned to facing the opposite wall. Her hair was still pulled over her shoulder, so he was graced with a panorama of her entire naked backside.
For a lengthy instant neither of them moved, then slowly, imperceptibly, as though she were reeling him in with a sturdy rope, he took one heavy step, and another, until he was near enough to retrieve the cloth. He dipped it into the warm water, then, careful not to let his fingers so much as brush her skin, he skimmed it from neck to waist, crossing up and down in a thrice.
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Done, he tossed the cloth into the basin and promptly retreated, ready to make a mn for it, if that was the only means of escape. "There," he said. "All finished."
She nodded toward the table. ' 'Could you hand me a towel?''
Keeping his gaze averted, he lingered as far away as possible, draping the towel from his fingertips until she ripped it from his grasp with an angry yank. At the sound of sloshing water, he realized she was climbing out of the tub, and he closed his eyes in order to prevent himself from observing anything more stimulating than what he'd already witnessed. Miserable, his ears attuned to the slightest movement, he could hear her going through the motions of drying herself, briskly rubbing all her intimate spots.
Oh, how he wished he could become that towel!
She pitched it, and it landed at his feet, partially covering one of his boots, and the damning weight felt like a thousand pounds of trouble. Not brave enough to pick it up, toss it aside, or kick it away, he simply continued to stare out the window into the darkness as she puttered behind him.
Eventually her ministrations ceased, and she said, “I'm fairly decent. You may turn around."
He did so cautiously, relieved to discover that she'd slipped into a robe, that her clothes were bundled in her arms and the bulk of them shielded her from any of his untoward glances. She looked furious, spurned, hurt, and he wasn't certain what to do or say. He couldn't bear to see her unhappy.
"I'm sorry—" he began to say, but she abruptly cut him off.
"Spare me your explanations. I've listened to quite enough of them for one evening." Taking a deep breath, she held it, then let it out slowly, visibly calming herself. "If you would like to bathe, there's more hot water." Pointing toward the far wall, she said, "Cook showed me; there's a reservoir behind the stove. It heats the water when the food is cooking. So, there's more ... if you'd like to use it."
"I believe I would," he said, smiling in acceptance of her
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minor concession toward civil conversation even as he was kicking himself for handling the incident so badly. "Thank you for thinking of my comfort."
"You're welcome," she said politely. "I'm simply glad to see that you've arrived safe and sound. There's a dry towel there on the table. Would you like me to bring you down anything else?"
"I'll be fine."
"Are you hungry?" she asked. "I had Cook show me where things are. I could dish you a plate of cheese and bread."
"It's not necessary." He voiced the lie even as his empty stomach rumbled in protest, and he hoped she hadn't noticed. "I ate in town."
"Well, then," she said, and she turned to leave, "I'll bid you good night."
Now that she was departing, he couldn't bear the idea of being alone in the room without her, yet what could he say? What could he do? He'd already hurt her enough for one night. For one lifetime. Still, he said to her retreating back, "Penny?"
"Yes?" Looking over her shoulder, she looked so hopeful and so very, very young.
' Nothing." He sighed. "Nothing at all."
Without another word she went on her way. He listened to her foot on the stair, finding it soothing and joyful, and was unable to prevent himself from wondering what it would be like if all of this were real instead of a fantasy of his own creation. What if they were really married? What if this were their home? Little Harry their son?
There was something immensely pleasant about picturing her dawdling in the kitchen, feeding him and helping him with his ablutions. What if he had such a moment to look forward to at the end of each day? What if Penny were actually his?
Cursing himself for a fool, he rummaged through the shelves until he found the cook's brandy. He poured himself a stiff shot of the dreadful stuff and drank it down as he struggled to gain control of his unruly emotions. He could still detect her
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overhead, and the urge to rush up the stairs and join her in her bed, as she'd invited him to do, was so strong that he actually grasped the table, needing the extra restraint in order to prevent himself from going to her.
Once he was calmer, he found the bucket hanging next to the stove and scooped the last of the water into the hip bath. Hastily he removed his clothing and stepped into the unpleasant contraption, wondering why such a well-proportioned house would have such a worthless contrivance for bathing. He was a big man, and he liked to sit back and relax when he was washing.
Still, the water felt good. It was no longer hot, but it was warm enough for comfort, and it smelled like the rose oil Penny had added. With any luck, the aroma would remain on his skin all the next day, and he would feel that he was carrying a part of her with him as he went about the odious task of dealing with her father. He shifted around as much as he could, immersing as much of his body as he was able. As he did, the idea occurred to him that only seconds earlier the very same water had surrounded the nude, beautiful Penny.
The realization was outrageously erotic. A vivid portrait of her naked form flashed before his eyes once again, and another jolt of arousal surged between his legs. Hoping to clear his mind, he maneuvered around and dipped under the water, holding his breath and scrubbing his hair. He came up, blowing out air and shaking his head like a shaggy dog, all the while thinking that if the abduction began to drag on indefinitely, he was going to have to start visiting a brothel before he returned to the country house for the evening. There was no help for it! He doubted he'd live through a second rendezvous with Penny like the one he'd just survived. Such unrelieved discomfort could very likely kill a man.
Just then he heard a noise, and more jumpy than usual, he whipped around. Penny was standing in the doorway, the dark parlor at her back, haloed in the bit of light from the kitchen's dying fire. She was wearing something that was probably meant
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to pass as bedtime attire, but it definitely wasn't a garment for sleeping.
It was white and sheer, and it hugged every delicious curve, leaving nothing to the imagination. On her shoulders were two tiny straps, barely wide enough to hold the bodice in place— not that it needed much assistance, for there was hardly any fabric to support. Her flawless, spectacular bosom was on display, the neckline cu
t extremely low, revealing her full breasts nearly all the way to the tips. Below, the flimsy material shielded no secrets. He could see the pink of her erect nipples. Lower down, the shadow of her navel. Lower still, the push of her woman's hair.
"Penny?" he asked, gulping.
This was not the same woman who'd left several minutes earlier, looking dejected and glum. Somehow she'd changed herself into a beguiling vixen. There was a female confidence about her, a seductive air that definitely had him thinking about Eve again—and poor Adam as well. If his encounter with the infamous biblical character had been anything like this, the poor bastard hadn't stood a chance.
"I forgot something," she said, floating across the room, heading directly for the tub.
The nightgown had a slit up the side and with each step he could see to the top of her leg. An extra inch and he'd be staring full-on at her mound. His cock swelled and rose in in the water, and he frantically grabbed for the washcloth and tented it over his privates, attempting to hide as much of himself as he could.
“What is it?'' he asked as she neared and settled her bottom against the rim. He gripped the edges so hard that his knuckles turned white, but he wouldn't allow himself any pleasure, not even the simple indulgence of running a finger across her arm or resting his palm against her thigh. If he so much as touched her, all would be lost.
"I used most of the soap, and I wanted you to have plenty." She leaned across to the stool and laid the bar on it. Stretching,
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she took her time, letting the lacy fabric pull and tighten against her bosom. Her fabulous cleavage was directly in front of his face, her hard, raised nipples clearly visible. All he had to do was give a tug, and her breasts would be fully bared for his delectation. In the snap of his fingers he could be squeezing one of the swelled, precious nubs. He would lick it with his tongue, then suck it far inside. She'd squirm and groan....
