by Erica Ridley
I miss you. Come over?
~L
He missed her.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, toss the letter into the fire or frame the words on her wall. How long had she waited in agony for such a sign? That he noticed when she was gone, that he wished she were there…that he cared.
And he’d chosen to send this the day after he betrothed himself to someone else?
Tommy’s brow lined with concern. “What are you going to do?”
Chloe crumpled the letter in her fist, then just as quickly uncrumpled it, placing the wrinkled parchment atop her dressing table and running her trembling hand atop the ridges in an attempt to smooth it back to the way it had been before.
It didn’t work.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice raw and miserable.
Tommy leaned against the plain wardrobe. “Do you want to see him?”
“Yes.” Chloe stared bleakly at nothing. “No.”
She lowered her heavy forehead to the dressing table, pinning the wretched letter with the weight of her thoughts.
Of course she wanted to see Lawrence. The knowledge that she had lost him, that it was now final and official and over, was more than she could bear. Why drag out the inevitable good-bye?
But they had to go back, damn him. Whether he missed her or not. He still had their Puck. Chloe distracting him was her family’s best chance to recover it. This was their opening.
She lifted her head. “What do I wear?”
Tommy opened both wardrobes. “What do you want to wear?”
Dully, Chloe scanned her choices. Bland beige again, since she had already lost? An extravagant evening gown, to show him what he was missing? Neither option was appealing. Both gave away too much of how she was feeling.
She selected a simple day dress of blush-colored muslin with long sleeves and a double flounce of figured lace at the bottom hem. Neither frumpish, nor flamboyant. The sort of walking dress an ordinary woman whose heart was in no way broken might wear on an ordinary outing to pay calls on ordinary acquaintances.
Chloe would not let on that anything was amiss.
“Go put on Great-Aunt Wynchester,” she told Tommy. “Today we bring our painting home.”
* * *
Lawrence valiantly strove to return his attention to the research for the next Exchequer bill.
It did not work.
Every distant creak of a floorboard: Was that his footman Jackson, returning with a note from Chloe? Every whistle of wind outside the window: Was that the Wynchester carriage rumbling up the street outside?
He checked the clock for the fiftieth time. She had received his letter by now. Jackson must be home. If she had sent a reply, Lawrence would already have it in his hand. She wasn’t coming. She wasn’t even responding. Perhaps Southerby had won her hand and she no longer had need for Lawrence or his increasingly unlikely gala.
If Chloe wanted nothing to do with him, it was no less than what he deserved. Regardless of what his heart might want, he was still on the hunt for an heiress.
Indulging in stolen moments knowing full well it could lead nowhere was not the comportment of a gentleman—especially not one who had promised to help Chloe marry someone else.
The thought hardened his stomach, and he shoved it away. He was not going to deflower her. He just wanted to see her. And perhaps steal one tiny little kiss.
He was strong enough not to ask for any more than that.
Hastings appeared in the doorway. “Your Grace?”
Lawrence jumped. “Yes?”
His butler’s eyes were merry. “Mrs. and Miss Wynchester are in their parlor.”
Their parlor. The one with no mirrors and a trunk full of ugly bonnets. They were here!
He leapt to his feet at once. “Send for tea. I’ll be right there.”
Hastings nodded and disappeared.
Giddy with relief and excitement, Lawrence ran a hand through his hair and straightened his neckcloth before making his way to the drawing room where Chloe and her aunt awaited.
When he entered, both of them were wearing silly bonnets from the trunk.
He bowed deeply to hide his grin. “Ladies. I am honored by your visit.”
Great-Aunt Wynchester narrowed her eyes. “Chloe said there would be jam tartlets.”
“I did not say ‘tartlets,’ Aunt,” Chloe corrected quickly. “I said there might be tea.”
“There will definitely be tea for the two of you.”
He seated himself in the chair across from the ladies’ chaise and gazed wordlessly at Chloe. She dazzled. This was the first time he’d seen her without the specter of a loveless union to someone else hanging over his head, and she seemed brighter, bolder, too pretty to be real.
Her hair looked soft and touchable, her lips pink and kissable, her curves set off to perfection beneath a deceptively modest high-necked day dress, whose rose-colored bodice accentuated the swell of her bosom. He would dream of this gown tonight. Peeling off every layer and pressing heated kisses to each new inch of flesh he revealed.
“Does he know staring is rude?” Great-Aunt Wynchester demanded from behind her cupped hand. “I thought you said he was a duke of good breeding.”
“With occasional good behavior,” Chloe murmured back. “Didn’t we agree we both have a soft spot for rascals?”
Lawrence stiffened. His reputation was the opposite of rascally. He was the pinnacle of good behavior. If this was an insinuation that she’d fallen for that damnable Earl of Southerby—
“Faircliffe looks like he’d rather eat you than tea cakes,” Great-Aunt Wynchester grumbled.
Truer than she knew. Chloe was a succulent summer fruit and he wanted to devour every morsel of her. Lawrence could not wait to get Chloe alone so he could kiss her.
Er, talk. So they could talk. In a calm, well-behaved fashion.
He was saved from making a fool of himself by the timely arrival of a footman bearing the tea tray.
“Ohhh…” Great-Aunt Wynchester clutched her stomach and let out a moan worthy of a green-gilled sailor. “It’s too soon for more lemon cakes. I may have overindulged at the ball.”
“Then these are for me.” Chloe helped herself to a cake.
Lawrence did the same. “Did you sleep well last night?”
It was an innocent question. Or at least it was meant to be an innocent question. But when Chloe’s dark eyes met his, he felt their heat sear every inch of his skin.
“No,” she answered without breaking their gaze. “Did you?”
“No,” he croaked.
Free from the specter of marriage to Miss York, Lawrence had spent a restless night thinking only of Chloe. Endless carnal dreams of their naked limbs wrapped around each other, her little gasps of pleasure as he drove into her again and again. He’d awoken with his cock hard and swollen. Relieving the pressure with his hand only allowed him to slip into another torrid dream.
The sudden hope that she’d had similar thoughts of him was enough to make his groin tighten all over again.
“I didn’t sleep well, either.” Great-Aunt Wynchester poked at her knees. “These old joints say it’s going to rain.”
“It’s London, Aunt,” Chloe murmured. “It rains every day.”
Great-Aunt Wynchester narrowed her eyes. “You weren’t this cheeky when you were a little girl.”
Lawrence leaned forward with interest. “What was she like as a child?”
“Oh, the tales I could tell!” Great-Aunt Wynchester cackled.
Chloe sent her a look. “Do not tell them.”
“Once,” Great-Aunt Wynchester began, ignoring her niece, “she got lost deep in the forest and would have died of hunger had she and her brother not stumbled across a house made of gingerbread.”
“That never happened,” Chloe scolded her. “That’s the plot of ‘Hänsel und Gretel,’ which was translated for us a few months ago in the reading circle.”
“Another time,” Great-
Aunt Wynchester continued as if Chloe had not spoken, “she consumed a poisoned apple and did die. Only the kiss of a dashing but ill-bred undertaker could bring her back to life. I pretended to be dead, too. A woman of my age doesn’t receive many kisses. And then there was the time we were trapped in a Gothic castle—”
“Please do not claim Death abducted me on horseback, like Lenore. Or that I enjoyed a rollicking career as a prostitute like Fanny Hill.” Chloe shook her finger. “I should never have shown you that lending library.”
“And then there was that pieman,” Great-Aunt Wynchester said dreamily. “No matter what you’d saved your halfpenny for, in the worst days of winter you never could resist a hot, fresh pie.”
Chloe’s expression softened. “I always shared with you.”
Her aunt’s eyes shone with love. “I never tasted a meal half so good since.”
“Even a night spent gorging on lemon cakes?” Chloe teased.
Great-Aunt Wynchester let out a groan and clutched at her stomach. “Don’t remind me. It’s aggravating my gout.”
Chloe raised her brows. “You do not have gout.”
“I can feel it starting,” her aunt insisted. “I must lie down at once, and for many hours.”
Lawrence hid his amusement. “Would you like me to ring for a maid to show you to a guest chamber?”
“See?” Great-Aunt Wynchester hissed. “Very fine gentleman. Not a scoundrel at all.”
“She won’t come back for hours,” Chloe warned. “That’s the last you’ll see of her until well past nightfall.”
“Impertinent chit.” Great-Aunt Wynchester sniffed. “Wait until you’re my age.”
Lawrence’s brain had seized on the words well past nightfall. Be alone with Chloe until then? He’d give Great-Aunt Wynchester anything she wanted.
He tugged the closest bellpull. “Peggy will be here shortly to show you to a chamber.”
The moment the maid whisked Great-Aunt Wynchester off down the hall, Lawrence turned back to Chloe. He could not wait to have her in his arms, to bury his face in the sweet scent of her hair. He wanted to hold her closer than he’d ever held anything and kiss her until nothing else existed but their arms around each other and their lips locked tight.
“And what,” he said, as suggestively as he could, “might I interest you in, my lady?”
Her gaze was unreadable. “I wasn’t able to peruse all of your artwork. Perhaps you could show me what I’ve missed?”
Lawrence had been hoping to show her an hour or two of passionate kisses and was surprised to discover that this suggestion was just as attractive. Never before had anyone been interested enough in his obsession with unusual art to inquire about it, much less encourage him to share that side of himself openly.
He offered her his arm. “This way, if you please.”
It would be easy to minimize most of the art collection as pieces left over from generations past with no more meaning than that. But with Chloe, he did not want to hide his peculiarities. He suspected she would like him better with every new oddity he revealed.
He led her to a nook no one ever browsed except him. “These are my favorites.”
She tilted her head at the unusual perspectives and provocative portraits. “Why are they your favorites?”
“Because they fill me with questions and spark my imagination.” He gestured at the painting before them. “Why her? Why him? Why this moment? Why this angle? What are they looking at, just off from the canvas? What caused those birds to take flight?”
“Oh, I see.” She stepped forward to take a closer look. “There were many perspectives from which to paint this scene, but the artist chose this one for a reason.”
His relief deepened into joy as they paused before each painting, asking probing questions and providing ever more outlandish possibilities each time.
“This is far more diverting than any visit I’ve paid to a museum.” She peered up at him. “No wonder you adore this collection.”
“I used to wish I didn’t. My father always preferred his obsessions over his home and family, and I feared I was destined to follow in those footsteps.”
“If art is your zany bonnet, then tie it on and wear it with pride.” She gestured expansively. “Why purposely cut yourself off from something you love? If viewing paintings makes you happy, then do what gives you joy.”
“I don’t want to look and imagine.” He cleared his throat. His muscles were rigid, his voice stilted. “I want to do it, to be it, to paint it.”
He held his breath. The back of his neck prickled in trepidation.
Her eyes brightened with interest. “Then why don’t you?”
His body relaxed. If only it were so easy. He reached out to touch her face. She turned at the last second, and his hand fell back to his side without making contact. His skin grew cold. He’d expected her to laugh at the notion of him as an artist, not to recoil from his touch. He shifted to hide his embarrassment.
“I cannot risk losing status. I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid comparisons to my father. Being the serious and respectable Faircliffe. Avoiding gossip at all costs.” He gave a self-deprecating snort. “I wouldn’t know how to mix paints if I had any, and there’s no money to employ tutors for frivolous hobbies. What if I’m no good at painting?”
Her brow furrowed. “How can there be funds for an end-of-season gala and yet not even a shilling for a moment or two with a tutor?”
“There aren’t any funds for an end-of-season gala.” His jaw hardened. “There would have been, if I’d offered for Miss York, as was my duty, but without her dowry, there’s little chance of continuing a tradition my family has upheld for generations.”
Her mouth fell open. “You didn’t offer for Philippa?”
He cursed himself. Of course Chloe had not melted into his embrace. She had thought him promised to someone else.
“I did not,” he said quickly. “I couldn’t.”
“But why?” she stammered. “I thought she was the answer to your prayers.”
“All but one of them.” Miss York wasn’t Chloe. No one else could compare. “I could not consign us both to misery.”
Her face tilted up toward his. “If not her, what do you hope to find?”
“I don’t know what the future holds.” His voice was husky as he reached for her. “But in this moment I have everything I desire.”
A pleased, secret smile flirted at her rosy lips. “You desire me?”
“More than breath itself.” But he had to be fully honest. He brushed his thumb against her cheek. “I’m yours for the moment, but this freedom is temporary. My intentions are not honorable.”
“Who said mine were?” She glided a finger down his waistcoat. “You’re available for anything I please? At this very moment?”
“Anything at all.” The words rasped from his suddenly dry throat.
The tip of her tongue touched her lower lip. He wanted to taste it.
“Start with a kiss”—she rose up on her toes so that her mouth brushed against his—“and then tempt me.”
He cupped her face in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers.
Power and vulnerability warred within him. Her kiss was everything he had hoped and feared it would be. Thrilling, drugging, devastating. It did not quench the fire within him. It fanned the flames hotter. Every kiss begat two, every two begged four more.
She had the upper hand, whether or not she realized it. He was greedy for as many kisses as she deigned to give. He would hoard them in his heart to savor for the rest of his life.
It was heady to realize he’d relinquished all control to someone else. Or perhaps she had wrested it from him just by looking in his direction.
Tonight he was hers to command.
24
He was no longer marrying Philippa!
Chloe slid her fingers into the Duke of Faircliffe’s dark hair and tried to tell herself this news meant nothing, that his marital plans did not signify, be
cause when it came to her, they had no future.
But with Lawrence a kiss was never just a kiss. It was earth-shattering, heartbreaking, sublime. From the moment she’d received his invitation to visit, she’d known the greatest challenge would be resisting the urge to throw herself into his arms and melt against him. And now there was nothing to resist!
He was hers, for a little longer. Hers to do anything she liked with. A thrill sizzled through her. Temporary she might be, but tonight she would also be memorable. He might leave her, but he would not forget her.
No one could forget kisses as hot as these.
With him, she was no scuffed parquet or so much faded wallpaper. With him, she was the candle, the torch, the chandelier: bright and dazzling, the pinnacle of the night, their passion a fiery comet. She would not let herself think about how it would feel to hit the ground.
Moments such as these were not to be squandered.
She unlaced her fingers from behind his neck and ran her palms over his shoulders, his arms, his chest, greedy to know every inch of him.
“What are you doing?” he asked between kisses. His breath tickled the corner of her mouth. “Stealing another handkerchief?”
She giggled despite herself. “You knew I took it?”
“Not until you admitted it just now.” He covered his handkerchief protectively. “Minx. What did you do with it?”
“Burned it.”
A lie. It was folded neatly in the tiny cedar box that contained the blue hair ribbon Bean had purchased for her when he realized she’d never had a pretty one. It was her box of things too perfect to touch.
The duke, however, was endearingly imperfect and an absolute delight to touch. She lifted her fingers to loosen his fastidiously starched cravat. Slowly. Deliberately. And then she pressed a kiss to the newly exposed flesh of his throat.
“Be careful what you start,” he warned her. “I need every knot and every thread in place if I’m to keep my body away from yours.”
She released the top button of his tailcoat without taking her eyes from his. “When on earth did I give you the impression that I wanted distance between us?”
A dark eyebrow arched. “When you asked me to help you find a wealthy suitor.”
