by Barton, Anne
She grabbed a pillow from beneath her bum and swatted him on the side of his head. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so happy.
The swatting led to kissing, which then led to other sorts of wickedness. Ben tortured her exquisitely by trailing the fringe of her shawl over her breasts and across her stomach. Everywhere the fringe traveled, his mouth went, too. And the fringe went everywhere.
Her body was both relaxed and aroused when he lowered himself gently onto her, settling between her legs and pressing gently, insistently at her entrance. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me,” she said with more confidence than she felt. She’d just seen him in all of his naked glory, after all, and was now aware of the relative size of things. “I want this,” she reassured him. Of that, she was certain.
Slowly, he pushed at her entrance, and while she did her best to accommodate him, she began to despair of them ever fitting together properly. But then he began kissing her deeply and rocking his hips in the most wonderful rhythm. She ran her hands over his chest. His heart thumped wildly—hers did, too. His breath came in quick, hard puffs—just like hers. Their bodies worked together, rising and falling, thrusting and retreating, until at last he eased his way in. Stretching her, filling her. Completely.
He went still then, his entire body tensed. A sheen of moisture appeared on his forehead. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, smoothing the line between his brows, but her own hand trembled. “More than all right. How are you?”
He closed his eyes briefly and muttered something that might have been a curse. “I want this to be good for you,” he said, “but you feel so… right. I don’t know if I can last long enough to—”
“Don’t worry.” She brushed an errant lock from his eyes. His expression was dark and brooding and… hungry. “I want to give you the pleasure you gave me. I suspect I’ll like it, too.”
He began rocking again, moving slowly within her, stretching her more than she’d ever thought possible. “What makes you so sure?”
“I’ve liked all the steps leading up to this moment.”
“You’re amazing, do you know that?” He kissed her like he would die if he did not have her. He thrust harder and deeper. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him to bring him even closer, and he growled as though pleased. So she moved some more, arching her back to take him deeper and he moaned. Or maybe she was the one moaning, because the sweet, insistent pulsing had begun again and she could think of nothing but kindling it and letting it burn to its completion.
Ben lowered his head and kissed her neck and shoulder, the slight stubble on his face abrading her skin. The rocking grew more intense. Faster and faster he pushed, teasing the most sensitive part of her with every thrust.
Her breath came in short pants; little beads of perspiration formed on his brow. “Daphne.” It was a plea, but she didn’t know what for. “Come. Like before.”
She wanted to. Dear God, she wanted to. But how did one go about it? “I’ll try,” she said seriously.
He smiled. “Close your eyes.”
She did, and he touched her where their bodies joined, rubbing little circles until she squirmed with sweet, breathless anticipation. All the while, he continued moving in and out, harder and faster until—
“Oh my God.” Pleasure shot through her. Wave after wave overtook her and as soon as the last delicious one passed, Ben withdrew. Chilly air rushed over her as he pulled away, grabbed cloth—a handkerchief perhaps?—and spilled his seed into it.
Suddenly self-conscious, she drew the shawl over her.
Ben returned and sat beside her, so she sat up, too. He laced his fingers through hers but didn’t say a word. She wished he would explain what had just happened. Not the physical part—she understood that. For the most part. She was far more curious to know what it had meant to him—or what it hadn’t—and why he hadn’t spent himself inside of her. Well, obviously, he did not want there to be a babe. Still.
“How are you feeling?” he finally asked.
Glorious. Confused. Like I want to cry. “Fine.”
“We’ve made a mess of things, haven’t we?”
It wasn’t a mess to her. “How so?”
“I’m supposed to be helping you recover the portrait, not seducing you.”
“Can’t you do both?”
He grinned. “Yes.” He released her hand, stood, and retrieved her clothes, giving her ample opportunity to admire his backside. The hollows on the sides of his buttocks and the muscular lines of his back made her sigh.
“Did you say something?” He handed her the chemise and gown.
“No.” Feeling inexplicably modest, she turned away from him as she wiggled her arms into the chemise, pulled it down, and shimmied into her dress. When she faced him again, he wore his trousers and was pulling on his boots, wincing as he struggled with the right one.
“I’ll go speak to Charlton tomorrow,” he said.
Ah, it was much easier to discuss the portrait than any future plans they might have. Coward. “Thank you,” she said.
“I’ll let you know what comes of it.” His boots on, he stood, favoring his bad leg.
“I brought you some more comfrey.” She’d almost forgotten. Deep in the pocket of her gown was the bag that Mrs. Norris had procured from the apothecary. She handed it to him. “I’m happy to make you a poultice any time that you need one, but I thought you should keep some of this with you, in case I’m not available.”
He took her hands in his and gave a knee-weakening smile. “I thought you were my round-the-clock nurse.”
Lord help her. Any normal girl in her situation would be demanding a proposal of marriage. After one rakish grin, she was on the verge of happily accepting a full-time nursing position. “You are a difficult patient.”
“How can I compensate you?” A wicked gleam shone in his eyes.
“Take care of yourself and your leg.” She put the bag of comfrey in his palm, matter-of-factly.
He scooped up the lantern and handed it to her. “You go first. Be careful,” he said, kissing her forehead.
Her legs wobbled a little as she walked away. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Of course.” He glanced away, making her doubt the truth of his words. “Good night.”
She skulked back to her room, hoping that the night she’d spent with Ben was the beginning of something wonderful… and not the end.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’m sorry, Lord Foxburn. Lord Charlton is not receiving.”
Ben launched a dazzling smile at the housekeeper. At least, he hoped it was dazzling. It might have been desperate. “Receiving? At this time of the morning? I should think not. This isn’t a formal call, just a friendly visit. He seemed to respond so well the last time I came by, and I wanted to pay my respects once more before I head back to town. I’m leaving in a few hours, you understand, so it’s not as if I plan to set up camp. I just want to say farewell to the good fellow.”
Mrs. Parfitt shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Lord Charlton hasn’t been conscious for two days.”
Jesus. “What happened?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. He’s been quite ill.”
Odd that Hallows hadn’t mentioned his father’s sudden turn for the worse during his visit yesterday. He’d been drunkenly jovial throughout the game of cricket. “What does the doctor say?”
“There’s nothing to be done, except to spoon broth down his throat when we can. I asked my sister to come and care for him. I sit with him when I can, but too many duties call me away from his bedside. I feel better knowing that someone’s there in case he wakes. Agnes is keeping him as comfortable as possible.”
“Lord Charlton is fortunate to have such a resourceful and thoughtful housekeeper.” He stroked his chin idly. “Mr. Hallows must be distraught over his father’s condition.”
She frowned, puckering her chin
like a strawberry. “One would think so, but no. Mr. Hallows is preoccupied with other matters.”
“Such as… gambling and drinking?”
Mrs. Parfitt pushed her spectacles up her nose and glanced over her shoulder. “Precisely.”
Ben still stood awkwardly in the foyer, neither in the house nor out of it, and his leg was beginning to ache. But he suspected that the housekeeper might be an ally. “Could you spare a moment to sit and chat, Mrs. Parfitt?”
She wrung her small hands. “I am certain Mr. Hallows would not approve.”
“He’s still sleeping?”
She nodded.
“I won’t impose for long. I have an idea about how we might help Lord Charlton.”
“Follow me, please.” She toddled down the hall to her tiny office in the back of the house and waved him in. “Please, sit.”
Jars and tins filled the shelves above the table where he sat, and the comforting aromas of coffee and peppermint permeated the air. Mrs. Parfitt stuck her head into the hall and looked both ways before closing the door and sitting in the wooden chair across from his, her back as straight as an elm, her hands in her lap. She looked at him expectantly.
“During my last visit, Lord Charlton mentioned that some of his possessions had gone missing—cuff links, a watch, items of that nature.”
Her face flushed red. “There’s not a member of my staff who would stoop to stealing.”
“I didn’t mean to imply they would.” He paused to let the truth of that sink in. “Mr. Hallows, however, could be responsible.”
“I would not dare to make such an accusation.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” But Ben could tell from the look in her eyes that she had her suspicions about Lord Charlton’s reprobate son. “I’m merely suggesting that while the baron is ill, you keep a close eye on Mr. Hallows. Don’t give him access to valuable items like jewelry, collectibles, silver… treasured paintings.”
Mrs. Parfitt blinked behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. “We cannot dictate where Mr. Hallows goes or what he does. However, I do feel better knowing that Agnes is stationed beside Lord Charlton. She is not a small woman, and it would take a very bold sort of person to waltz into his bedchamber and remove his personal articles.”
The problem was that Roland Hallows was bold. And stupid. And, very likely, desperate. “You might mention something to the male members of your staff as well. Instruct them to be discreet but watchful.”
“I agree that would be prudent.” Mrs. Parfitt’s gaze flicked to the clock on wall. “Forgive me, Lord Foxburn, but I have a rather forward question to ask you.”
“The only kind worth asking. What do you want to know?”
“Why have you taken such an interest in Lord Charlton’s well-being?”
By getting directly to the heart of the matter, she’d spared him the trouble. He was prepared to tell her a little about his dilemma… as long as he could protect Daphne’s anonymity. A delicate balancing act.
“There are two reasons. The first is that Robert considered him a friend and would have offered to help if he could. The second reason, as I’m sure you have guessed, is infinitely more self-serving. Lord Charlton owns a painting that I wish to purchase—for reasons of a very personal nature. I don’t want anything to happen to the painting before I have a chance to speak with him about it.”
“The English Beauty portrait.”
The small hairs on the back of Ben’s neck stood on end. “You’ve seen it?”
“Indeed. It’s one of Lord Charlton’s prized possessions. He won’t want to part with it.”
“When he hears the sum I’m willing to pay, he’ll agree to sell it. Do you know where it is?”
The housekeeper stiffened slightly. “Of course I do. Lord Foxburn asked me to have the footmen take it down and move it to a safe location. I confess to being perplexed at the time. However, I now see the wisdom of his request.”
“I don’t suppose you’d reveal the hiding spot to me?”
“I would not,” she said primly. “But you may rest assured that it is secure.”
“For now,” he added. “Hallows wants it. He said as much when he was at Biltmore Manor yesterday. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tore apart the house looking for it.”
A serene smile softened her face. “He won’t find it.”
Her confidence was heartening. Ben hoped that Charlton recovered soon and wasn’t so addled that he’d refuse the exorbitant sum he was prepared to offer. “Then I suppose there’s nothing more to be done—for now. I appreciate your time, Mrs. Parfitt. Would you keep me informed as to the baron’s condition?” He withdrew a calling card from his pocket and handed it to her. It disappeared into the folds of her apron.
“I will notify you if there is any change.”
With the help of his cane he heaved himself to his feet, wincing at the stiffness of his leg muscles. “I would prefer to keep my interest in the painting between us.”
“I understand, my lord.” She cracked open the door and peered into the hallway. “I’ll see you out.”
And then, because he couldn’t resist, he asked another question. “What is it like? The painting, I mean.”
“You haven’t seen it? And you intend to buy it?” she asked, her tone suggesting that she’d never understand the ways of gentry.
“It’s for a friend.”
Her eyebrows rose as if she were skeptical. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she inhaled deeply and stared over his shoulder. “The painting is remarkable.” If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought the portrait hung on the wall behind him. “It’s unlike any portrait I’ve seen—wistful and ethereal and uplifting, all at the same time. The young woman is very beautiful,” she said. “She’s not a lady—that much is obvious from her manner of dress.” Color gathered in the apples of her cheeks. “And yet, she has a quality about her that is almost… regal.” She shook her head slightly and blinked as though the picture had suddenly disappeared, then shifted her focus back to him. “Lord Charlton hung it in his library, along with the other one, which disappeared some months ago. He vowed he’d never have it in his bedchamber, out of respect to his dear, departed wife.” The housekeeper’s chest swelled a little at that.
“Are there any rumors about the identity of the woman in the portrait?”
“Not that I know of. Lord Charlton seems to think that she is a product of the artist’s imagination.”
“And are you of the same opinion?”
She seemed to contemplate the question, then shook her head. “The artist may have taken some liberties with her features, but I suspect she is real. Her expression is too complex—too uniquely feminine—to be conjured up in the mind of a man.”
“We are a simple lot,” Ben admitted.
Her round cheeks dimpled. “I’ll see you out now, before Mr. Hallows comes down seeking a cure for last night’s overindulgences.”
“Have you forgotten how to play chess?” Olivia leaned over Daphne’s shoulder, shaking her head with ill-concealed disgust. “You moved directly in the path of Rose’s rook.”
Sure enough, Rose captured her bishop. Daphne did not expect to win against Rose, but she usually managed to employ some feeble strategy.
“It’s as though you’re in a daze,” Olivia said. She narrowed her eyes. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“I’m just a little preoccupied.” She hadn’t seen Ben all day, and Lord Biltmore said that he’d taken his coach somewhere—probably a drive into the village.
But Daphne knew he’d planned to visit Lord Charlton. She prayed Ben would be able to convince him to part with the painting. Her whole future depended upon it.
And that was why she could not play chess to save her life.
“We can postpone the match,” Rose offered. “Would you like to take a stroll? There’s a lovely path near the lake.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be good company. Why don’t you and Olivia go? I think I�
��ll read until dinner.”
“I know what the problem is,” Olivia declared.
Daphne swallowed hard. “You do?”
“You’re missing Anabelle. I’m sure she’s doing just fine. It’s only two more days until we return to London; then you shall see for yourself.”
Daphne did miss her sister—desperately. She wished she could go to her and tell her everything so that she could somehow fix it. But there were no easy answers to her predicament, and she had the sinking feeling that things were about to get much worse.
“Yes, it will be good to be back in town.” Unless she returned to find that her portrait was made public and put up for auction.
“Why, good afternoon, Lord Foxburn.” Lady Worsham’s singsong voice cut through the conversations in the drawing room. “You have been the subject of much speculation. Your ears must have been burning.”
“My ears were blissfully unaware,” he said dryly.
Daphne’s pulse quickened at the sight of him. His buckskin breeches showed off his narrow hips, and his dark green jacket fit snugly across the breadth of his shoulders. Of course, she now knew precisely what lay beneath his expertly tailored clothes, and the memory of his hard body gave her a little jolt. His gaze swept around the room and lingered on her for a moment longer than it should have. She didn’t think anyone else noticed, but she had. And she realized just how difficult it was going to be to pretend that there was nothing between them. That he had never stroked her skin or kissed her… everywhere. That she hadn’t given herself to him with reckless, adoring abandon.
“Do put an end to the suspense,” Lady Worsham pleaded, “and tell us where you have been.”
“Nowhere worth mentioning. Besides, I would be remiss if I didn’t greet everyone before launching into boring accounts of my day.”
He ambled around the drawing room, making polite conversation with Mama and Lady Worsham for a few moments before joining Lord Biltmore and the other gentlemen who were discussing politics. Finally, he made his way toward her, Olivia, and Rose, limping slightly. “Good afternoon, ladies. You’re all looking very well today.”
