“Yes, well, I should not have said those things about you yesterday either.” She offered him a tentative smile. “I only said it to hurt you, and I regret it now. I know all too well how disastrous the outcome may be when you are forced to do something you are not ready for.”
“You only stated the truth.” he said. His jaw hardened. “I should take my seat in the House of Lords. You’ve made me think, perhaps, that I have been neglecting my duties. That staying away from London so long has carried a price I hadn’t considered.”
She took a sip, grateful that the tea was cooler now. “Well, I should have visited my aunt instead of expecting her to come to London. But after my father inherited the title, all contact with her ceased, and I gradually began to think of her as someone who didn’t care.” She frowned. “I still can’t understand why she didn’t just come to London. She could have made an effort to know me. But she never did. We only got a card from her, once a year at Christmas.”
There was a cramped moment of silence, punctuated by the pop and crackle of the flames. “I don’t know why either, but I do know Miss E cared about you,” he said slowly. “She told me several times how much she wished she could know you better. But if I know anything about your aunt,” he added, “she had her reasons for staying in Lizard Bay, and for staying away from you.”
“Perhaps. But whatever they were, I haven’t uncovered them yet in her diaries.”
He turned back to the fire, staring at the flames. “These diaries you speak of . . . did she write anything in there about me? Or Heathmore Cottage?”
“I haven’t finished reading them yet,” Lucy admitted. “So far I am only up to . . .” She closed her eyes, trying to remember. “Eighteen twenty-seven.” She opened her eyes to find him watching her. “Why, are you afraid my aunt will tell me all about your public drunkenness? Or your fiancée’s stupidity?” she teased. “I already know all those things.”
He shook his head, his mouth spreading in a rueful smile. “No. I am afraid she will tell you all the rest.”
From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore
May 2, 1828
Today I did the unthinkable. I voted with the vicar, instead of against him.
I know . . . it was something I had sworn to never do. But the man had a brilliant idea, and I couldn’t see thwarting him, just to continue making a point.
You see, Reverend Wellsbury proposed a lending library for Lizard Bay.
I have long ordered diversionary reading material from London. It gets lonely, living by oneself, and reading is one of the few pleasures that helps soften Heathmore’s solitude. I have a habit of loaning my copies to some of the women in Lizard Bay when I have finished reading them, hoping to improve their narrow view of the world. You could have scraped me off the floor when Reverend Wellsbury praised my generosity—publicly, no less!—and suggested a more orderly approach, identifying new periodicals to add, such as The Illustrated London News.
Am I grateful? I don’t know that I would call it that.
But I definitely feel a curious thawing where Reverend Wellsbury is concerned.
Chapter 18
All too soon the tea was gone, and the conversation drifted toward a comfortable trickle. Thomas placed his cup down on the hearth. He still couldn’t believe he had shared so much of his life’s story with this woman.
Far more than he had intended, though he thought he’d covered the slip well enough.
She had an almost uncanny way of drawing it out of him. Her aunt had been possessed of a similar skill, and was perhaps the only other person who’d known these bits and pieces of his life. In this very parlor Miss E had extracted the secrets from his drunken, bumbling self like a master spy, and then promised to never tell—if he threw out the bottle and maintained a proper foothold on the straight and narrow path.
He’d done it, too. It might have been blackmail, but there was far too much at stake back in London to risk not complying with her terms. He’d imagined—hoped—those secrets had been carried to the grave with Miss E. But if the diaries Lucy held told all, things were not going to be as simple as he’d presumed.
He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers, wincing to realize how damp he still was. “I suppose we should prepare ourselves to dry out as best we can.” He added another peat log to the fire and stirred the ashes until the flames leaped high. Then he motioned for her to help, and together they pushed the old sofa closer to the grate, angling it so it captured most of the heat given off by the fire. “There you are,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Your bed awaits, my lady.”
Damn it all if she didn’t bite her lip. Parts of his body that ought to have known better insisted on taking notice. “Where will you stay?” she asked.
He could tell what she was thinking. They were alone.
He was cold and wet, too.
And they had forged a truce in the past hour, if not something more substantial.
Worse, his mind wanted her thoughts to wander there. Her drying chemise might be losing a bit of its transparency, but when she’d stood up and put a shoulder against the sofa, her tantalizing curves had been revealed to his far-too-eager gaze.
Christ, but she was perfect. Lushly fashioned, with full, rounded breasts and a sweet parabola of hip shifting temptingly beneath the thin white cotton. He still couldn’t believe he’d ever thought her a boy. But just because she had kissed him at the inn in Salisbury and thrown herself, trembling, in his arms tonight did not mean she had abandoned all propriety.
She might be a walking, talking scandal, but she was also an innocent. Despite the lingering glances she cast his way, despite, even, the way she had leaned toward him when they were talking by the fire, the slight distance she kept from him now told him the direction of her thoughts far better than her words.
Sitting down, he pushed against the upholstered seat, as though testing the solidity of it. At least this particular item of furniture had been properly cleaned. “It is a rather large sofa,” he teased. “I don’t doubt that two people could comfortably sleep here, if the circumstances warranted.” Her cheeks turned red, and he relented. “But as I am nothing if not a gentleman, I will happily sleep on the floor.” He grinned at her. “Don’t worry. I will be but an arm’s length away if you need me to save you from the rats.”
She sat down on the far edge of the sofa, keeping several feet between them. But the cushion tilted, tempting him to slide toward her.
“Do you want me to leave while you dress for the night?” Thomas stood up and shrugged out of his damp shirt and draped it across the back of the sofa, where it might have a prayer of drying by morning. His trousers would stay on—for modesty’s sake, if not sanity’s.
“I don’t have anything dry to wear,” she admitted, looking down at her hands. “Everything in my bag is soaked through.”
“You mean you weren’t dressed this way on purpose to greet me?” he teased, lowering himself onto the floor. The redness in her cheeks deepened. Which of course only made him laugh. He watched as she fumbled her hair into two short braids—the left side of which promptly unraveled again. She abandoned the effort to scratch at her neck.
“Is the rash still bothering you?” he asked unhelpfully. The skin of her neck below her ear was nearly as red as her cheeks, and against the stark white of her chemise, it drew the eye nearly as effectively as her other barely covered parts. But he asked because he wanted to see if they’d at least progressed to truth.
“Yes.” She sighed. “How long does this terrible scourge last?”
“A few days. You are nearly at the end of it.”
“It doesn’t feel like the end is near.”
He patted his trouser pocket. “You have only to ask.”
“Lord Branston—”
“Ah, ah, ah.” He wagged a finger. “Thomas, if you would.”
Her lips flattened. “Thomas, then. I might like some of that salve, if you still have it.”
“You didn’t say please
.”
He heard an audible grinding of teeth in reply.
“But as I know good manners are difficult for you, I have supplied the phrase with my imagination, so there is no need to exert yourself.” He stood up and sat down next to her, pulling out the tin. “Now, then. You might want to lay back.”
She stretched out on the sofa and pulled her short hair to one side, baring her long, lovely neck. As he stared down at the tempting image she presented, Thomas swallowed. Christ, what was he thinking? What was he doing? He could just let her put the salve on herself. It would certainly be the safer choice. But some stubborn part of him insisted on accepting—taking—the honor. After all, he’d fought hard to earn the privilege.
But as he touched her skin and a soft moan escaped her lips, he realized how stupid such thoughts were. Had he naively imagined the salve might be a sort of peace offering? A means to pave the way to an easier friendship?
It was proving instead to be the match to a fuse.
He dipped his fingers beneath the delicate ribbon of necklace she wore, the serpentine charm winking up at him like a promise. Who needed a fire when the simple act of touching her threatened to set off sparks? As the salve warmed on her skin and slipped over his fingers, Thomas began to learn the true meaning of the phrase “trapped in hell.” Because holy God, he wanted this woman. Wanted her like he’d never wanted anything—or anyone—in his life.
Wanted her more than he wanted to save Heathmore.
More than a bottle of whisky.
It might not have been the most honorable thing he’d ever done, but his fingers insisted on staying to ensure a very thorough job. After all, he was being permitted to touch her now with impunity, though the gesture paled in comparison to what his fingers really wanted to do to her.
Who knew whether this might be his last—his only—chance?
Finally, she shifted on the sofa, pulling her knees up and slipping her hands beneath her cheek. “Thank you,” she told him, her eyes drifting closed.
Thomas put the cap back on the tin and laid it down beside her. “In case it begins to bother you again in the night.” He pulled his oilskin from the back of the sofa and placed it down over her, laying his palm against her cheek. “Sweet dreams, Lucy.”
She cracked open one eye. “Not bloody likely.”
“Don’t worry. The ghosts shall stay outside, and the fire will keep any rats at bay.”
Both eyes flickered open. “I’m not worried about them,” she whispered. “I know you will protect me.”
He hesitated, his hand lingering over the soft curve of her cheek.
Christ, but she was lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely.
He was an educated man. A peer of the realm, though it was too easy in Cornwall to forget it. He knew the names of over a thousand plants—the English and the Latin. And she had reduced him to mentally chanting a single, wholly inadequate, two-syllable word over and over again in his mind. “If you know I will protect you, then what worries you?” he asked.
She sighed, and in the gentle lift of her chest he felt it, the same coiled frustration he felt himself. She closed her eyes, as though seeking courage. “I don’t know who’s going to protect you from me.”
SHE DIDN’T KNOW what had made her say such a thing.
And worse, she didn’t know what he thought of her for saying it.
It was brazen. Not at all the sort of thing a proper lady should say.
Well, she wasn’t a proper lady, was she? Wasn’t even trying to pretend to be one. She was herself, and nothing else.
And he would either appreciate her for it or not.
She squeezed her eyes shut and waited to see what he would make of her confession. So much of their relationship had been built on manufactured mistrust that to utter such a stark truth now felt nothing less than earth-shattering. She’d presumed the worst of him from the start, even when he’d tried his best to explain. Presumed his interest in Heathmore—and her—was based only on selfish motives. Aunt E’s diary had spurred her on, perhaps, to adopt such a strong degree of skepticism where men and her inheritance were concerned.
But by the things he knew, it was clear her aunt had trusted him. He’d proven himself a gentleman—and a patient one at that.
Gratitude thickened her throat as she considered all he had done.
Oh, but she had misjudged this man. Worse, she had misjudged herself. She’d presumed she couldn’t stir a man’s romantic interest. That she wasn’t meant to, being fashioned instead for more spinsterly things, such as improving the lives of orphans. Or felons.
Or cats.
But need those qualities be mutually exclusive? In this moment, she could nearly believe that in his eyes she was more than a plain, short-haired miss.
More than a shrill, outspoken harpy.
More than a lonely, unlovable spinster.
“What are you planning to do to me, then?” His voice was husky, deeper than she’d ever heard it. It sent her head spinning in glad circles.
She opened her eyes and pushed herself up on the sofa until they were only inches apart. In her mind she counted all the times he had previously touched her. That night at the inn, when she had burned her thumb and he picked up her hand to inspect it. Their disastrous kiss, which had led to so much mistrust. Yesterday, on the street, when she’d felt the electric pull of his hand on her arm. And most recently, that sweet, seductive touch, there against her neck.
But it was a collection of small moments, not nearly enough.
She could smell the salve he had rubbed on her skin. It had already started to do miraculous things by way of relieving her discomfort. As she breathed in the sweet, pungent scent, along with the sharper underlying fragrance of snuff, she felt a spreading warmth in her stomach that had nothing to do with hot tea or peat fires.
This time she was the one who pressed her lips against his, taking the kiss she sought instead of waiting for it to come. He held still, his breath indrawn, as though unsure of what she meant to do but afraid of breaking the spell.
But the spell was stronger this time. So, too, was her desire.
She knew this man better now. Knew his history, his faults, his innate, maddening goodness.
He would not harm her.
But damn it, wouldn’t he kiss her?
He held himself still, a cautious recipient, rather than an active participant. It was a kiss of the tumbling dare variety, one that was snatched in the moment and could go in five different directions. But the blasted man needed to choose which direction he would take it.
And so to help him along, she lifted her hands and clasped them behind his neck, daring him to resist. She slid her tongue along the seam of his lips, begging him to indulge in the sort of kiss she’d imagined.
Dreamed of.
And finally, he chose. He opened his mouth and his tongue swept inside her, tasting of tea and warmth and everything right. He gave a low, guttural groan, and she could feel his restraint slip away. And then they were tumbling down a path of promise, each dragging the other along for the journey.
She couldn’t think of anything beyond this single point of pleasure where their lips met. She didn’t know where this was heading, hadn’t thought much beyond the need to feel his mouth on her own. But as she blindly pressed against him, only wanting more, it became clear the sort of kiss she’d imagined had been fashioned far short of the reality he was delivering.
She felt him everywhere.
In her mouth, the sweep of his tongue possessive against hers.
In her arms, which pulled him closer, seeking the friction of skin against skin.
And in her core, which swirled in a slow, liquid circle as his mouth moved over hers.
And still the path diverged from the expected. He lowered her, slowly, back onto the sofa, but didn’t break off the kiss, moving instead to stretch out beside her, their limbs tangling, breaths melding. “God, what you do to me, Lucy,” he muttered against her mouth, making her heart lea
p in happiness, because it was so closely the echo of how he made her feel.
If their first kiss had been something to forget, this one was destined to be remembered. She was panting now, wanting to climb inside his skin. His hand crept up to knead her breast, and her body shuddered at the wanton feel of his fingers there, only the thinnest layer of cotton between them. “Your breasts,” he murmured, “are perfection.”
And in that moment she could almost believe it was true.
His mouth left hers, and for a moment she nearly cried out an objection, but then she was biting her lip because he’d only left to blaze a trail of hot, wet kisses down her chin, tumbling over to her chest, and finally, then . . . yes . . . to settle around one firm nipple, drawing the cotton-clad bit of her into his mouth. Shaking with sensation, Lucy sank back against the sofa, turning herself over to this. To him. Whatever he wanted he could have.
Whatever he sought from her was his.
Be it her body, her house, she didn’t care, as long as he didn’t stop.
“Touch me,” she begged. “I . . . I want more.”
She could feel his body shake with suppressed laughter, his breath hot and welcome against her breast. She didn’t take offense, the way she once might have. She understood now that he was a man who sought humor, that laughter was a sign of his own pleasure. She was pleasing him, somehow. And that made her want more still.
He lifted his head, his lips a wicked curve, his eyes a glittering storm. A rush of cool air hit her thigh, and she only just barely registered her chemise was sliding upward, aided by a helpful hand. And then she felt the brush of his hand on the newly exposed skin, a searing touch and yet far too gentle, there against her inner thigh.
“Here?” he asked, his words nearly a groan.
“Yes,” she gasped. “There.”
He duly lingered a moment, his fingers sweeping against her trembling limbs. But then he was shaking his head. “Oh, I don’t think you want me to just stay there,” came his low-throated chuckle. And then his hand was moving upward, swirling in lazy, frantic circles. Ahead of his path, her skin warmed in anticipation, then blazed in approval as his fingers met their mark.
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 22
