He tried the knob. Locked.
Sesily made a noise behind him, and he spun toward her, not liking the sound of it, like she’d been surprised and not pleasantly. Caleb was prepared to discover a foe—ogre, large wolf, woodsman with an axe—but instead found Sesily, eyes closed, shoulders up by her ears, and a stream of cold rain coursing down one side of her face, directly into the collar of her coat.
“So cold!” she announced when she opened her eyes, and while later he was certain that he would look back and think the moment charming, he found he didn’t care for it one bit. He didn’t like her cold or uncomfortable. And he didn’t like her in the rain.
So he did the only thing he could think to do . . . he turned back to the door of the cottage and kicked it in.
Another gasp from Sesily, and he threw a look over his shoulder to find that she didn’t appear to be cold anymore. Instead, she was staring wide-eyed at the place where the door had once been, her mouth hanging open in a surprised half smile. Her gaze flew to his. “You really shouldn’t get in the habit of that,” she said, though from her tone it sounded like she didn’t mind it.
It sounded like she liked it.
Which made Caleb want to kick in another dozen or so.
“Have I done it more than once?”
“Cottage doors . . . carriage windows . . . it’s terribly destructive.”
For her comfort. For her well-being. “Would you believe that until I met you, I’d never kicked in a window or a door?”
“Careful,” she said with a smile, sliding past him, filling him with the scent of her, wind and rain and sugared almonds, looking back at him before disappearing into the dark house. “You shall turn my head with such flattery.”
He followed her inside, the sound of the storm immediately muffled by the quiet space, where the only noise was the sound of her skirts swishing against the floorboards.
He closed the door behind him, jamming it shut with a chair nearby.
Her skirts weren’t swishing any longer. “You’re going to have to pay for that damage, Mr. Calhoun.”
“The duke knows where to find me,” he said, turning back to the room. It was reasonably appointed, a small table and chairs sat to one side, what looked like a chaise and two more comfortable chairs underneath cloth to the other. Between them was an enormous fireplace, complete with a stack of dry firewood.
And there, at the center of it all, was Sesily, wet hair loosed from its moorings in a number of places, dripping onto her coat, which was soaked through. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her lashes spiked with raindrops.
She was perfect.
“Well,” she said, turning her attention to the fireplace, placing her hands on her hips, emphasizing their pretty swell. “I suppose we ought to get this thing going.” She paused, considering it, before looking back over her shoulder. “Can you light a fire?”
“Have you mistaken me for a duke?”
She laughed at his affront. “I do apologize. What a terrible insult that must be.”
“As a grown man with work, it most definitely is.”
“I should never have doubted you,” she said, stepping back from the hearth. “Please, sir, showcase your skill.”
He’d like to showcase a series of different, much more interesting skills, if he was honest, but he’d settle for lighting a fire. The storm had kept them in check, stopping them before they could start, and he would do well to remember that that had been the best course of action.
Otherwise, he would have laid her down in the grass and made love to her until she cried her pleasure to the wind and sky.
Moving past her, he crouched at the fire, keenly aware of her there, filling the room with her smile and her scent as he laid the hearth, grateful for something else to consider, rather than the softness of her skin, or the sweetness of her lips, or the sound of her cries when she came in his arms. Against his tongue.
He cleared his throat.
Being in close quarters with her was going to drive him mad.
And then she started taking her clothes off.
He’d just begun to strike the flint and steel to light the fire when he heard the heavy slide of wet fabric, indicating that she’d removed it, and he stopped, unable to avoid looking. She’d turned away to drape her coat over one of the chairs in the corner.
“You’ll get cold,” he said, the words coming out more like a warning than he expected.
“I’m already cold,” she said, simply. “I needn’t be wet, as well.”
With a low grumble, he returned to his task, doing his best to ignore her as she removed the dust cloths from the more comfortable furniture, finishing her task as the fire took hold.
She rewarded his success with a wide smile. “I should never have doubted you.”
His face warmed at the words, as though he was a schoolboy, and he left the room to investigate the small house, finding a kettle, a tin of what smelled like ancient tea, and a chest full of woolen blankets. He collected them and returned to the main room, already markedly warmer, depositing them on the divan she’d uncovered.
Sesily had returned to the table where she’d deposited her coat, and was now working at the buttons on her gloves. He watched as she slid them off and lay them on the table.
Running a finger through the thin layer of dust there, she said, “As inns go, this one requires some care.”
“I shall alert the owner.”
She looked to him. “You know, I believe you would, if this were an inn.”
“I wouldn’t like you to be displeased.” It was the truth, though he hoped she heard a jest.
She took a step toward him. “You shouldn’t say such things to me, Mr. Calhoun. You’ll spoil me.”
“And what then?” he said softly, letting her come even closer. Loving it.
“I fear I would become incorrigible.”
“You?” His brows rose. “Unimaginable.”
She smiled. “Some find it part of my charm, you know.”
“Do they?”
Another step toward him. She was close enough to touch, now. He wouldn’t even have to try. He could reach his hand out and wrap it around her waist and pull her close. “You are welcome to spoil me.”
He wanted that. To spoil her. To give her everything she wished. Forever.
“Alright then, Lady Incorrigible,” he said, barely recognizing the low edge to his voice—the result of her being so close. Of wanting her so much. “What would you ask of me?”
Her eyes lit as though he’d offered her a sack of her favorite sweets. She lifted a finger to her chin and tapped it thoughtfully.
It was a game.
How long had it been since Caleb had played a game?
Had he ever?
Had he ever enjoyed one?
No matter the answer, he knew one thing in that moment: he was going to enjoy this one.
“Well, first, I would insist that you remove your coat, Mr. Calhoun. You’re dripping all over the floor.”
It was gone in an instant, without hesitation, deposited over another chair.
“Much better,” she said, softly. “But you see the problem with doing my bidding is that I begin to enjoy the power.”
He lifted his chin at that, the pleasure of the words rioting through him, leaving his chest tight and his cock hard. “Incorrigible, after all.”
“After all,” she agreed, setting a hand to his chest, the heat of her touch finding its way through his waistcoat and shirt. It was gone before he had a chance to enjoy it, however, and she said, “The rain has soaked you through.”
He did reach for her then, capturing a long dark lock of hair, wet and loose from the storm, sending a rivulet of rainwater down the slope of her breast, where it disappeared beneath the soaked silk of her dress. “Not only me.”
“No,” she said, following his gaze and giving a little laugh, raising her hands to her hair, lifting the heavy mass and letting it drop, the teasing light in her eyes making his
mouth water. “But this does not seem the kind of establishment that has a lady’s maid on hand.”
The game again. “Mmm,” he said. “A problem.”
She stepped closer. Or maybe he did.
He definitely slid his fingers into her hair. And he absolutely said, softly, “Perhaps I can help, my lady.” The words weren’t an honorific. They were a claiming.
“Please,” she said softly.
Caleb was lost. He began to remove her hairpins, setting them to the table with slow, deliberate movements, some part of him fearing that she might stop him.
She didn’t. Instead, she closed her eyes and let him work his fingers through her heavy, sable curls, leaning into his touch as he ministered to her, removing a dozen hairpins, more, and freeing the mane of hair that he’d only ever imagined she had.
Lie. He’d never imagined it.
He’d known better than to imagine it.
Because as they stood in that quiet cottage, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the heavy rhythm of their breath, and the regular click of the pins on the table, Caleb realized that when he took his last breath, it would be this image in his mind—Sesily, tall and lush and beautiful, her hair pouring down around her shoulders like a silken promise.
When he removed the last pin and set it to the table, she opened her eyes, and he saw the truth in them—she wanted him. “Thank you,” she said as she took over, shaking out the mane of curls. “That feels wonderful.”
He wanted to lay her down in front of the fire and spread that hair around her and watch the flames play golden tricks with it as it dried, and in that moment, Caleb knew he was past being able to stop this. There was no return to the reality of an hour earlier, when she was a beautiful aristocratic lady and the sister of his friend, with the world laid out before her, and he was a man who had spent a lifetime running from his past, knowing that things like happiness and love and a future were not for him.
Of course, he hadn’t been able to stop it an hour earlier, either.
Or a day earlier.
Or a year earlier.
They’d been on this path since the first time they’d met.
And now, they’d arrived at the cottage in the woods.
And it would have to be enough.
Because when she reached for him and slipped a finger beneath the edge of his waistcoat, and tugged, pulling him closer, and saying, softly, “And what of you, Caleb? May I help you with your wet things?”
He did not have the strength to say no.
She worked the buttons of his waistcoat until he tossed it to the table, to join their coats, and then she spread her hands wide and warm over the cotton shirt beneath, setting him on fire. “And this?” she said. “May I—”
“Sesily,” he said, reaching for her, cupping her jaw in his hands and tilting her face to his. “You may do whatever you wish. You may have whatever you wish.”
I am yours.
The words flashed, but he did not say them.
He was not a fool.
And Sesily was not waiting for them. Instead, she was tugging the shirt from the waist of his trousers, and then he was helping her, and the shirt joined the rest, and she was staring at him with that look in her eyes again—the one when he’d offered her her favorite sweets.
“You . . .” She looked to him. “You’re beautiful.”
And it was Caleb who was spoiled.
He kissed her, because he couldn’t wait another moment to have his mouth on her, claiming her, owning some small part of her in some small way.
Of course, it wasn’t Caleb who owned. It was Sesily.
Sesily who claimed, her fingers trailing up over his bare chest, leaving fire in their wake until he couldn’t bear the teasing anymore and he pulled her tight to him.
“Ah!” He pulled back from the kiss.
“What?”
“Your dress,” he said. “It’s freezing.”
“And here I thought Americans were made of sterner stuff.” She shook her head with a pretty pout that made him want to suck her lower lip until she begged him to suck other things.
“Mmm,” he said, reaching to pull her close again. “Give me another chance.”
She danced away, out of reach. More of her delicious play. “No, I’m afraid now I’m quite concerned.”
“I shall endeavor to persevere.”
“Well, that’s very noble of you,” she said, “but I do worry that if we find ourselves in such close proximity again, you might catch cold.”
“I am willing to risk it,” he said, stalking her backward, across the room, toward the now uncovered furniture, imagining a dozen ways they might find it of use.
“No, no. I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” she teased, slowing down, letting him get close. Close enough to touch her. Close enough to get down on his knees and worship her. Close enough to hear her whisper, “There’s only one solution.”
“And what is that?” he asked, his fingers on her chin, tilting her face up to his for another kiss.
She let him linger there, at her lips, before she said, “The dress—it has to go.”
The words hummed through him, and he couldn’t help his smile, his fingers tracing the edge of the gown against her soft skin, until they reached the dusky rose ribbon tied in a little bow right at the center of her bodice. “Does it?”
“Oh, most definitely,” she said. “It would be beneficial, I think. To our health.”
He fingered the bow, slowly and deliberately, teasing them both with anticipation until a harsh breath shuddered through her and he was absolutely certain she wanted him. “Caleb,” she whispered, and the need in the word was enough to make him wild.
“Shh,” he replied to the exposed skin just above the silk, rising and falling in a wild rhythm. “You are the prettiest present I’ve ever received . . .” He pressed a soft row of kisses along the edge of the dress as he untied the bow. “I’m going to take my time unwrapping you.”
And he did, untying the line of bows down the front of her dress in between slow kisses that threatened to make them both wild. But Caleb had been waiting for this for two years, since the first moment he met this dark-haired, olive-skinned beauty, and he was going to savor it.
But when the dress finally fell away, pooling at her feet, along with a pile of petticoats decorated with silk ribbons to match, everything changed. There was no more going slowly.
She was wearing a corset in the same rich rose as her dress, and a pair of stockings tied with elaborate ribbons in a matching silk . . . and nothing between. No chemise, no undergarments—just stays and stockings against smooth, supple skin.
Caleb’s mouth went dry as he took her in, absolutely stunning, as though she’d stepped out of his dreams. And when he raked his gaze back to hers, finding her watching him with something like nervousness, something exploded in his chest, like cannon fire. “My God, Sesily,” he said. “You’re fucking perfect.”
She smiled at the words, a wash of pink darkening her cheeks. “I didn’t know if you would—”
He didn’t let her finish. He closed the distance between them and kissed the rest of the sentence away. “I would,” he whispered, before he kissed her again, longer and deeper. “I would.” And again. “I will.”
She shivered in his arms, and he cursed himself for not taking better care of her. Stealing a quick, final kiss, he said, “Don’t move,” and turned away to fetch the blankets he’d found, laying them out like a pallet before the fire, now burning in earnest. He crouched to throw another log on the flames, but before he could return to her, she came to him, her fingers combing through his hair.
He looked up over her beautiful body to find her staring down at him, her eyes gleaming with heat that had nothing to do with the fire.
“I moved,” she whispered.
“Mmm,” he said, sliding a hand up her leg, over her thigh, to the swell of her full, bare bottom. “Ever incorrigible.”
“Whatever shall be don
e with me?”
He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve her.
But he was going to take it, nonetheless.
And hope it was enough for a lifetime.
“I’ve some ideas,” he said, and he pulled her down to the blankets before the fire, reveling in her laughter.
Chapter Sixteen
In all the times Sesily had imagined this—and there had been many, many times she’d imagined this—she’d never imagined that it would be on the floor of a groundskeeper’s cottage on her sister’s country estate.
But she was warming to the idea.
When Caleb lifted her clear off her feet and onto the pile of soft woolen blankets he’d carefully arranged in front of the fire, she couldn’t stop herself from squealing her delight, and then when he followed her down, broad and warm and beautiful, delight hadn’t been the word at all.
It had been absolute pleasure, as he tucked himself against her side—blocking the path to the door, to the cold, to the rain, to the rest of the world—closing out everything but this, the fire, them. She watched him for long moments, her hands stroking over his wide chest, playing with the dusting of dark hair there, stroking over his arm—thick and strong from his work, now painted with flickering golden shadows in the grey afternoon.
She pressed a kiss to the muscle of his biceps, then to his shoulder, and the soft skin of his neck, swirling her tongue beneath his jaw and loving the low growl of pleasure he released.
“You like that,” she said.
“I like you.”
She blinked, the words heavier than she expected between them. “Do you?”
“Sesily,” he said, so soft, like breath. He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Yes. I like you too much.”
“Is there such a thing?” she asked, injecting a teasing into her tone that she didn’t quite feel.
“There is for me. There is when it comes to you.” Another kiss, a little suck at the tip of her index finger. “I’ve liked you from the moment I met you. From the moment you looked at me with those beautiful, teasing eyes, and flashed me that smile that makes promises I want you to absolutely keep.”
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