He scowled. ‘See. You want me to tell you why making love to you won’t be as simple for me as you think it will, but when I try you immediately belittle what I say.’
She notched her chin up. ‘I find it hard to comprehend that you are willing to talk to me about this. It has been my experience that men don’t talk about their feelings. They talk about horse flesh or their sporting pursuits and even politics—but never their emotions. So, why now?’
‘Because if I don’t, you will never believe that I find you different from the rest. You won’t understand that you are special to me.’ He shrugged. ‘Women like to talk about their feelings. I am trying.’
‘Another skill in your arsenal?’
Anger tinged his words. ‘You are very cynical for a woman who wants reassurance.’
She sighed. ‘I can’t help it, Hugo. I am new to this and you are an old hand. I can’t help but think you have more practice. It makes for an uneasy melding.’
He nodded. ‘But not impossible.’ She tried to pull her hand from his, but he held tighter. ‘No, don’t break this contact. If you do, the next thing you will do is stand and then you will walk away. You will escape this conversation and avoid me.’
‘You know me too well,’ she murmured, conscious that he was not going to let her ignore what was between them. ‘You are determined to bring our response to each other out into the open.’
‘I will do whatever it takes to get you into my bed.’
His simple statement took her breath away. Somehow, she managed to say, ‘You are moving too fast.’
‘Not fast enough.’
She yanked her hand free and jumped up. ‘Too fast for me. I don’t care how much you talk about your feelings, I need time to adjust to what you are telling me. I am…’ she took a deep breath ‘…I am not used to this openness with a man.’
He rose slowly. ‘I have always considered myself a patient man when it comes to getting what I want, but with you my patience is fraying.’
She eyed him askance. ‘You make the assumption we will become lovers. Assumptions frequently do not become reality.’
He caught her and pulled her to him even as she splayed her hands on his chest to stop him. ‘This one will.’
This time his kiss was hard and demanding. His lips forced hers to part and his tongue invaded her mouth. She gasped, but her body responded immediately. A soft warmth started in her abdomen and spread outward. Her hands crept up his chest and wrapped around his neck.
All thought of escape fled as she sank into the inferno he created in her. Her inhibitions disappeared. Her body wanted what he was doing to her. She angled her mouth to give him better access.
His hands roved up and down her back, pressing her closer to him so her breasts were crushed against his chest. Her nipples tingled with tight awareness. She wanted him to caress them.
As though he had heard her thoughts, one of his hands slid to the front and cupped her aching flesh. He kneaded and massaged her bosom until she thought she would scream if he did not do something, but what? She didn’t know what she wanted from him, just that she wanted more than this.
She clung to him and drank in the taste, feel and smell of him. He intoxicated her.
His free hand skimmed down the length of her hip and thigh, slid back up, the fabric of her harem pants caught in his fist. He splayed his fingers and slid around to cup her derriere. He drew her against him so her breasts flattened against his chest.
‘Feel what you do to me?’ His voice was low, nearly guttural, yet…
He pressed against her abdomen. He was hard and long and enticing. Desire, hot and aching, welled in her, just as it had last night. Just as it did every night since she met him. She wanted him inside her, moving with her. The realisation that she was a breath away from giving herself to him shocked her. She shook her head, more at her reaction than what he was doing.
He increased the pressure until he pushed into her. ‘Don’t deny this, Bell.’
She shook her head again. ‘This is not like me. I’m not like this. Passion doesn’t rule me. Never.’ Only now it did.
His eyes deepened. ‘Don’t challenge me.’ His lips curled into a smile that would have been cruel if it had not been so seductive. ‘It only makes me more determined, and I am already convinced I must have you.’
She stared up at him, her stomach doing funny things. Her entire body felt strange, lethargic, while at the same time she felt edgy, as though something was just beyond her reach.
His mouth lowered…
The sound of wagon wheels intruded. He released her and Annabell jumped back, her pulse skyrocketing.
‘The awning,’ she said, unsure whether she was relieved or regretful. Much as she knew it would only create problems, she was drawn to him in ways she could not explain.
He stepped away, leaving his caped greatcoat around her shoulders. She reached up with shaking fingers and fumbled with the button.
‘No,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘Keep it for now. You will be here for some time while they set the contraption up and it is only going to get colder.’
‘I can’t. What about you?’
‘I am going home. To a warm fire and a stiff shot of brandy.’ His voice turned rueful. ‘I have things to get under control.’
She flushed, knowing he meant his body’s reaction to her. For that matter, her stomach was still a knot of desire and her legs felt weaker than normal.
Without answering, she watched him mount Molly, noting, as always, the slight hitch in his otherwise graceful movement as his wound caught. It was as though he forgot about it until it reminded him that it was always there, always a reminder of Waterloo.
She forced her attention from him to the lumbering wagon, driven by a labourer with his hat pulled low to protect him from the wind. She had been so caught up in what was happening between her and Sir Hugo that she had failed to notice the storm was nearly upon them. She would be thankful for his coat before she got back to his house.
‘We must move quickly,’ she said to the driver.
A second man jumped down and secured the mules pulling the wagon. Then the two set to work erecting the awning and tying down the poles to withstand the oncoming storm.
Annabell entered the hall late that afternoon. She was tired, her back ached and the last person she wanted to see was Hugo. So, of course, he was the first person she saw.
‘Ah, Lady Fenwick-Clyde,’ he drawled, closing the distance between them.
His hair was mussed and his shirt was open. She was beginning to expect that of him. Her heart skipped a beat. She was beginning to expect that of herself when she saw him.
‘Sir Hugo,’ she replied, trying her hardest to sound as though it didn’t matter a jot to her that he was here, that they might have made love if the workers hadn’t arrived when they did.
He smiled. ‘You were gone a long time today.’
She nodded. ‘The men took longer than either they or I had expected. And the women were late.’
‘Women?’
She eyed him narrowly, wondering if his voice held censure or if she was over-sensitive, a fault she sometimes displayed. ‘Yes, women. I hired a number of females from the village.’
‘How very independent of you.’
She would swear he was trying to needle her, and he was succeeding. ‘As I have told you repeatedly, I am nothing if not independent. And women can uncover the villa as well as any man. Many times better. They tend to be more patient, which I attribute to sewing, knitting and weaving, all of which require concentration and agile fingers.’
His smiled widened. ‘I imagine you are right.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to say something scathing.
‘Hugo,’ a young voice shrilled. ‘Watch me.’
Annabell looked up and Hugo whirled around. Rosalie sat perched precariously on the edge of the ornately carved wood banister. Her hair rippled unbound down her back, and her skirts were hitched high enough
so she could comfortably slide down sideways. Coming around the upstairs hall corner was the governess, Miss Childs, but she would be too late.
‘Rosalie, don’t!’ Hugo said in a tone that brooked no nonsense.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Annabell took a step forward just as the child launched herself downward.
Hugo lunged for the stairs. The child teetered precariously on the banister, nearly falling backwards. Hugo altered his course. Annabell saw him lurch and pain lanced across his features, then he was beneath Rosalie, who lost her balance and plunged over the edge. He caught her, going to his knees from the force of her impact.
‘Oh, Hugo, Hugo,’ Rosalie sobbed, fear making her childish voice higher than normal. Tears streamed down her face.
Annabell reached them as Hugo stroked the wild hair from the girl’s face. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, more concerned for him than she wanted to be.
He glanced at her, his green eyes dark with pain. ‘Fine.’ Turning his attention back to the child, he crooned, ‘It’s all right, Rosalie. I have you. You aren’t hurt, are you?’
She shook her head, but the sobs continued.
Miss Childs rushed down the stairs, her eyes wide with shock. ‘Rosalie, dear, let me see you.’
The girl shook her head. ‘Stay with…hiccup…Hugo.’ She burrowed into his arms.
Annabell understood perfectly. Hugo was a man who would keep a child—or a woman—safe.
Still holding Rosalie, he stood up, wincing as he shifted so that his weight was on his good leg. ‘Hush, now, Rosalie. The more you cry, the worse you will make yourself feel. You are scared, not hurt.’
She nodded and hiccupped.
Juliet rushed into the hall from outside. ‘I heard a scream.’ She saw her daughter. ‘Rosalie!’ She hurried to the group and held out her arms for her child. Hugo handed Rosalie to her mother. ‘Are you hurt, Rosalie?’ After the girl shook her head, Juliet looked at Hugo. ‘Thank you so much, Hugo. She slid down the banister, didn’t she?’
‘It is tempting,’ he said with a grimace.
‘You are hurt,’ Annabell said to him, finally having seen enough. ‘You should take care of yourself.’
He gave her an inscrutable look. ‘A little. Nothing that won’t heal.’ But when he tried to walk, he winced again and stopped. ‘Perhaps a little more than I thought.’
Butterfield, who had been hovering in the background, stepped forward. ‘I have sent for Jamison, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ Hugo said, standing perfectly still. ‘Why don’t you take Rosalie upstairs, Juliet?’
Juliet frowned at her daughter, who still snuggled in her arms. ‘I think Rosalie needs a lesson.’ The child looked up, apprehension clear in her violet eyes. ‘Yes, a lesson. I have told you repeatedly not to slide down that banister, haven’t I?’
Rosalie nodded.
‘But you did it anyway.’
‘Yes,’ the child said in a tiny voice.
‘You could have been hurt very badly.’
Rosalie hung her head.
‘I think you can spend the afternoon inside today and think about what you have done.’
There was no protest from Rosalie as Juliet carried her up the stairs to the nursery. Annabell watched them go and sighed.
‘I suppose you slid down the banister,’ Sir Hugo said drily.
Annabell looked at him ruefully. ‘Many times.’
‘But you did not fall backwards.’
‘No.’
‘Sir Hugo,’ Jamison said, interrupting them, ‘what have you done this time?’
Hugo grimaced. ‘I think I pulled the muscle the ball went into.’
Jamison clicked his tongue. ‘Let’s hope that’s all you did. The last time you attempted some fool stunt, you were laid up for a month. Wounds like them don’t ever completely heal back to normal.’
‘Don’t I know that,’ Sir Hugo said.
‘You’ve done this before?’ Annabell asked, impressed that he had moved so quickly to save his half-sister despite knowing what it would do.
Jamison gave her a sour look. ‘More times than he should have, my lady.’
‘I do what I must,’ Sir Hugo said in a flat voice that brooked no argument.
‘That you do, sir,’ Jamison said, putting an arm around his employer’s shoulders. ‘Lean on me and we’ll get you into the library. I think a poultice is called for.’
Sir Hugo’s fine mouth was a thin line by the time Jamison had his shoulder under Sir Hugo’s arm. It thinned even more when they began moving. ‘If you will excuse us?’
Annabell nearly laughed at his drollness, but sympathy quickly kept her from doing so. He was so obviously in a great deal of pain. ‘Of course.’
She watched Hugo hobble away, supported by his valet. The man never ceased to amaze her and intrigue her. She had thought him too self-centred to jeopardise himself like he just had. And he had done it without a thought for himself. He would not have caught Rosalie if he had hesitated.
Her liking for him and attraction to him took on a deeper dimension. She admired him. This was not good. Not good at all unless she left here soon. Otherwise she feared she would weaken and do something about her feelings for him.
But what? Make love to him as he had already suggested so many times? Her stomach did somersaults at the idea and her heart pounded painfully against her ribs.
Perhaps?
Dinner was a desultory event. Hugo was in the library with a tray and Juliet, feeling badly that she had had to discipline Rosalie, had chosen to eat in her rooms. Susan and Mr Tatterly carried on a lively conversation, but Annabell didn’t bother to follow it. Her thoughts were on her host.
As soon as dessert was served, she rose. ‘Please excuse me. I want to look in on Sir Hugo and see how he is feeling.’
‘He is in some pain, but I believe he said the poultice Jamison applied is helping,’ Mr Tatterly said, standing while Annabell made her way to the door.
‘Oh, dear,’ Susan murmured. ‘He was such a hero, saving poor little Rosalie, it is too bad he hurt himself.’
‘True,’ Mr Tatterly said, ‘but that is the way he is. That wasn’t the first time he’s risked himself for someone else.’
Annabell paused, arrested by Mr Tatterly’s words. ‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘Oh, yes, Lady Fenwick-Clyde. That is how he got the wound in the first place. He won’t tell you.’
‘But you will, surely,’ she prompted.
He turned a dull red in embarrassment. ‘Probably shouldn’t. He doesn’t like the story told, but—’ he gave her a speculative look ‘—I will.’
She moved back to the table and took her seat so he could sit. ‘Please do.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Susan added her encouragement.
‘Right.’ Mr Tatterly took a deep breath. ‘It was at Waterloo. You know he was shot there.’ Both women nodded. ‘Well, he was shot by a Frenchie while he, Sir Hugo, stood guard over Jamison. Jamison had been knocked unconscious by the concussion of a cannon blast and Sir Hugo had been determined not to leave him and several other men. But Sir Hugo was alone, his horse having thrown him and bolted because of the same blast, and he couldn’t carry all three men to safety. So he stayed until help arrived. He ran out of ammunition and a Frenchman shot him in the leg. Fortunately for us, the Frenchman came in for the kill and Sir Hugo is more than handy with a sword. Ran the man through and took his ammunition.’
Annabell’s mouth rounded in admiration and awe. ‘That is incredible.’
‘Oh, my. Oh, my,’ Susan said. ‘I would have never thought it of him.’ She realised what she’d said and blushed. ‘That is, I believe him capable, but he is such a hedonist that one doesn’t think of him putting himself in danger for someone else. That isn’t very comfortable.’
‘No,’ Mr Tatterly said. ‘It isn’t comfortable, but that is Sir Hugo. He likes his creature comforts all right, but he also has courage. Don’t ever try to mistreat someone when he is around. He will put yo
u down with a word or with his fists. He believes in standing up for what he believes in.’
Annabell realised her chest felt tight and her eyes burned. There was so much more to Sir Hugo—Hugo—than she had seen or even imagined. She rose slowly.
‘Thank you for telling us, Mr Tatterly. It was very enlightening.’
He gave her a grim smile. ‘I hoped it would be, my lady.’
Something in his tone made her look closely at him. If she didn’t know better, she would think he had done it on purpose to show her another facet of Sir Hugo. The expression on his solid face implied that he had done it for that reason.
She smiled at him. ‘I am even more interested now in seeing how Sir Hugo is doing.’
‘Give him our regards,’ Susan said. ‘We will be in there shortly. He would probably like a good game of whist to occupy his time, don’t you think, Mr Tatterly?’
Annabell didn’t hear what Mr Tatterly replied, but she picked up her step. She would warn Sir Hugo of the treat in store for him.
Chapter Eight
Annabell entered the library expecting to see Hugo in his favourite chair. She was not surprised. The only difference was that his bad leg was propped on an ottoman.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, moving toward him.
He eyed her. ‘About what I expected.’
She reached him and choked. ‘What is that awful smell?’
He grimaced. ‘That is the poultice Jamison put on me.’
‘What is in it?’
‘The same thing one would use for a horse’s sprain.’
‘Certainly you jest?’ She dug her handkerchief from inside the small puff sleeve of her dress and held it to her nose. ‘That is barbarous.’
He smiled wryly. ‘Perhaps. But Jamison’s philosophy is that if the medicine is good enough for the horse then it is good enough for me.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
He shrugged. ‘Have it your way, but it is true nonetheless.’
She gave him a lopsided grin. ‘It definitely does not do anything for your appeal.’
His face took on an arrested look. ‘Do I take that to mean you find me appealing?’
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