He gave her his whole attention. His blue eyes showed a lively curiosity, and his chiseled face displayed naught but calm seas ahead. Past his blandness, she sensed nothing. She feared she could stare from daybreak to twilight, and her recalcitrant senses would remain as silent as the oceans deep as to what emotions he felt.
His mouth relaxed into a gentle smile. “Do I pass inspection?”
She pretended to examine the intricate inlay of his mahogany desk. If she were not careful, he would read her better than she could him.
“Was the bed lumpy?” he asked.
The absurd question drew her attention back to him.
“Did the fire go out too soon?” he persisted. “Did you toss and turn all night and dream about your lost betrothed?”
Heat seared Belle’s face. Did he accuse her of lusting after Jeffrey while in bed? What impertinence!
“I merely wondered at your late rising.” He leaned forward, voice deep and evocative. “It seems to me that you are not the type of woman to lay about unless troubled by sleeplessness.”
She wiped her damp palms on her gown. Their gazes were locked, and she could not have looked away if Mr. Nightingale barged in with his strangler’s rope. And why must they discuss beds? Since he had brought up the subject, she could not help but visualize herself there, but not alone. She swallowed painfully, able to count her heartbeats, they beat so loudly.
Jeffrey had never made her feel this aware of him or of herself.
In Lord Terrance’s company, every part of her vibrated with tension. His closeness brought a whiff of fresh baked bread and strawberry jam, overlaid with an intoxicating male aroma. He had probably already breakfasted.
Immediately, her unruly mind took her to bed where Lord Terrance fed her tender, flaky pieces of bread overflowing with sweet, red jam. She was bewitched into licking those droplets off his fingers, and . . .
She could almost taste those sweet, tart, imaginary berries. Belle abruptly stood and strolled around the cluttered room. A tilted frame drew her to it. Licking her dry lips, she absently lifted her skirts to step over a pile of books on the floor in order to reach it. All the while, her confused mind straddled the solid reality of Lord Terrance following her with her more lurid fantasies. She straightened the frame, frowning at the tingling the frame left in her fingertips. Odd.
Deciding that focusing on the decadent bedroom scene playing in her mind would be her undoing, she abruptly turned to return to the desk. Not prepared for her sudden spin, he stopped short and stood far too close. Must he look quite so tempting in reality as well as in her fantasy? Why could he not have a chicken neck with leathery skin and a pale cast rather than that muscled column leading to such a handsome countenance?
“You have not spoken a word, Belle,” he said. “May I call you that?” His hand brushed her cheek, and her nerve endings, already on high alert, spiked. “Since you are friends with my mother, it seems a shame for us to be on formal terms.”
His touch reminded her of when he had regained consciousness after the carriage accident. He had asked her to kiss him then, to confirm that he was still alive.
She had almost obliged. She wanted to oblige now.
Breathe, she commanded. Her chest expanded, eager for the air.
His thumb brushed her lips, stirring tingling sensations along every point of contact, while his gaze followed the rise of her chest, as if that was where he really wanted to touch.
“Were you cross with that young man who left, my lord?” she asked, desperate to change the subject from beds and intimate forms of address.
“Rufus,” he said, rolling the “r.”
Her stomach flip-flopped. “Since we but met a few days ago, it is too soon to address each other by given names.”
“Is it not better to be friends than enemies?” he asked in a bantering tone.
She once again had to force herself to breathe. “It is you who insists I am your enemy.”
Had she leaned her face into his touch? Had he noticed? The delighted look in his eyes suggested he had not only noticed but also thoroughly approved.
His thumb meandered along the line of her chin. “Time would pass much easier if we did not argue constantly. We should make a pact.”
“A pact?”
“Hmm. While you are here, we should agree to not disagree.”
“I do not wish to disagree with you, my lord. I merely asked a question about Mr. Nightingale, which, by the by, you have yet to answer.”
“You taunted my actions with him.” He withdrew his playful touch and raised his head.
She had sparked his temper. Good! An angry Rufus was a less tempting Rufus. Drat. Now she thought of him as Rufus.
“My business with Nightingale does not concern you,” he said. “And you took his side.”
“I took no one’s side.”
“You laughed with him.” Angry lines formed on his forehead as his frown returned.
An angry Rufus might be safer, but she missed the playful one.
“I should warn you that you waste your time with him,” he said before she could respond. “That young man will not have a successful future, especially if he carries on as he apparently has. Nor does he possess a station that should warrant your attention.”
“My lord, you mistake my meaning.” Her irritation rose to meet his. “You have mistaken my words and actions since the moment we met. You assume you know what I feel or wish for without asking me. And even when you do ask, you do not believe my answer. It is most unfair.”
“I agree,” he said. “Which is why I propose this pact.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed glare. She did not trust him. He liked to taunt her, and every time they were close, her extra senses deserted their post, and her common sense played hide and seek.
“What sort of pact?” she asked.
He brushed a lock of her hair off her shoulders. “My father believed that only strict discipline overcomes bad habits.”
“I do not have any bad habits,” she said.
“Then what would you call your penchant for argument?”
“I am not arguing.”
“Good, then you agree.”
“To what?”
“Our pact. Kindly pay attention,” he said in a patient voice, but she picked up an undertone of deviltry in it. “I will explain the rules of our agreement as clearly as I can.”
“Pray, do so,” she said cautiously.
He moved forward again, and Belle realized there was no more room to retreat. Her back was literally against the wall, though he had not cut off all lines of escape. She could still slide sideways and rush for the door. Only the challenge in his gaze kept her in place.
She would not allow Rufus Marlesbury to frighten her as he did half the villagers.
His was playing with her hair now, his fingertips brushing her scalp and wreaking havoc on her restraint. It took supreme concentration to not snuggle into that tender palm. “What type of pact are you offering?”
“What would be a good deterrent to your disagreeing with me?”
“I am not overly fond of drinking chocolate.” She scrunched her face, as if the taste of that delicious drink already soured her mouth. “I suppose that every time we disagree, you could make me drink it.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Good try. You would have driven my father to distraction. When he asked my sister that question, she honestly admitted that she would hate to relinquish even one of her plants.” The thought seemed to sober him. He shook off whatever made him melancholy. “It matters not. Susie has all the plants her heart desires now.”
He lifted her chin with a finger and grinned. “Your words have given me an idea.”
She distrusted that complacent tone and eyed him warily. “What words
?”
“You insist that you are always circumspect. Although I doubt your sincerity—”
He ignored her unladylike snort.
“—I will accept your word as truth.”
“It . . . it is the truth.” She sensed a trap. Now her extra senses come to life? Useless things. “I try my best to always act circumspect.”
“Then it is plain what we must agree upon.”
“Plain for you. I am totally at sea as to your meaning, my lord.”
“Why, it is simple. To discourage you from arguing with me, every time you do, you must pay penance by doing something that is not circumspect.”
She let out her breath in relief. For a moment she worried he was leading the conversation someplace she could not control. Actually, his deterrent was no more abhorrent than drinking hot chocolate, but he need not know that. She had spoken the truth when she said she always tried to behave well. It was simply that circumstances sometimes forced her to misbehave.
“Agreed.” She held out her hand without a qualm of doubt. “Shall we shake on it, like gentlemen.”
He took her hand in his. “We will agree as would a lady and a gentleman.” She had not put on her gloves yet, and he bestowed a light kiss on the back of her naked hand. Shivers sped up her arm.
When he released her, she scrambled sideways to escape, no longer concerned about how the action might be perceived. Once clear of his presence, her breathing returned to normal, and she made a quick twirl, glad of her freedom.
She had come out of that encounter unscathed. He obviously did not know about the billiards game, or he would have mentioned it. And his injunction that she not argue would be easy to keep because she had no wish to do so anyway. He was the argumentative one, always questioning her motives.
“Well, my lord,” she said, “if there is naught else you wish to say to me, I shall see if cook has some strawberry jam, um, I mean eggs and toast for breakfast. I find my appetite has returned.”
He leaned against the wall, arms folded, appearing long, lean, and dangerous.
Her body trembled, acknowledging he was a tremendous temptation. But one she intended to withstand. His smug expression only added to her determination.
“Good day, then.” She walked toward the door.
“Do you not want to ask what the discipline will be?”
“Discipline?” Had she agreed to one?
“When you disagree with me.”
A snippet of their conversation returned. “Well, I must simply do something not circumspect.”
“Yes.” He pushed away from the wall, and his slow approach seemed to take an eternity. “But what will that be?”
“I can choose what that will be,” she said, “if the circumstance ever arises. But I have no intention of arguing, so we need not worry about the specifics.”
“We must absolutely know the specifics.” He once again stood too close. “How else can it deter you if the repercussion is not precisely defined?”
She sighed. The man was persistent with details. In any case, it did not matter, for how hard could the repercussion be? “Very well. I shall—”
He wagged a finger. “After your last hot chocolate suggestion, I shall set the mark for a punishment appropriate to the crime.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat, but then consoled herself with the reminder that Lord Terrance was a respectable man. What he disliked about her was his supposition that she did not act properly, so whatever he chose could not be that hard to follow.
“What did you have in mind, my lord?”
“By your own words, you deny that you came to Clearview to trap me into marriage, but purport, instead, to be here on a ridiculous ghost-hunting expedition.”
“I came here only because your mother said she was concerned about a haunting at Clearview,” she said. “You think too much of yourself if you consider I would travel cross country just to appeal to your . . . your . . . Well, I did not. I am not interested in any man in that way.” She waved her hand at him in an effort to convey what “that way” meant. “After my experience with Jeffrey, I find the whole concept of marriage, or social interaction merely to lead to that vaunted state of nuptial bliss, unappealing.”
“Excellent. Then you should find this entirely abhorrent.”
Without warning, Lord Terrance’s lips descended on hers. His mouth teased her lips with a dance so seductive her mouth participated before receiving conscious consent. The kiss enticed rather than offended. His arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her so close and so high, her toes barely touched the ground. She had to lean against him for support as her mind whirled out of control.
His right hand descended to mold her to him in such an intimate manner that it rivaled the liberties he took with her mouth.
All of a sudden, she was set back on her feet as abruptly as she had been swooped up. She staggered and grabbed a chair back for support. Her breathing came out fast and unsteady.
Lord Terrance seemed in a similar state of unrest. His eyes had grown wide, and his face, no longer smiling, wore a shocked expression. He took a deep breath, and then another, which seemed to steady him.
She did the same, hoping for a similar result.
His gaze immediately fell to her bosom, and her breath caught in her throat. She turned to face the window. This could not be happening. She wrapped her arms around herself. Jeffrey had never kissed her like that. If he had, instead of being half relieved to be free when he asked her to cry off, she would have denied his request.
“Well, that should act as a sufficient deterrent,” Lord Terrance said.
“Deterrent?” she repeated, unable to follow his thought process.
His breath brushed her neck. “We discussed punishment if you disagreed with me. Do you not recall the conversation?”
His teasing propped her flagging temper. He seemed completely recovered. So quickly?
His vile words during the snowstorm swam into her head.
You are not at all to my taste, my dear. In friendship, I prefer my women honest and well-behaved. In lovemaking, my preference runs to companions who sport a lighter shade of hair and more generous curves than you appear to possess.
Heat flared into her cheeks, followed by hurt, and then a wave of temper. Had his kiss been a game then? One he played with someone he deemed a loose woman? If so, the villagers’ title of “Lord Terror” did not suit. He should be “Lord Torment.”
I cannot let him see that he has more of an effect on me than I have on him.
She took a deep, searing breath that hurt on its passage in and out. “Now that I think on it,” she said, glad her voice came out strong and clear, “it seems unfair that only I must be disciplined if we disagree. What is to be your punishment if you begin our argument?”
She turned to face him and then regretted it. He stood so close, their lips almost touched. She paced the room’s length, stepping around piles of books.
“I believe I have the right to choose the consequence of that,” she said. “Now what would you most dislike, hmm?” She touched a leather bound book about crop rotations and dairy farming on a table.
“I am not too keen on kisses,” he said.
She made the mistake of glancing at him and saw a suggestive glint in his eyes. “I think not,” she replied and looked away. “I suspect you hold the same abhorrence to them that I do to hot chocolate.”
His laughter filled the room.
Belle ignored the enchanting sound, her mind busy with possibilities. The villagers were frightened of him. He had obviously never attempted to make friends with them. “I know, it shall be a visit with one of your tenants.”
Her words silenced his amusement, and he said, “Why would that act as a deterrent? It is my duty to speak with my tenants.”
/> “I said visit with, not merely speak with. If you begin an argument with me, you will invite yourself to a meal at a tenant’s home, and you may not speak about work, your role in their lives, or their farm.”
“You wish me to sup with commoners?” he asked in shock.
Hah! Now she had him. With a smug smile to rival his earlier version, Belle walked over to tap him on his shoulder. “I do believe I have discovered the best deterrent to your arguing with me.”
“And how will you ensure I follow through?”
“You are a gentleman. I shall accept your word.”
“No,” he said. “If I am to visit with my tenants, then you must accompany me to ensure I do not lapse and talk of estate business.”
She shrugged. “Very well. Unlike yourself, I do not object to dinner with farm workers. They do not call me ‘Lord Terror.’”
“Lord what?” he asked, looking stunned and perhaps a little hurt.
She shut her mouth too late. In crowing about her victory, she had let a secret slip out. When she made to move away, he held her in place.
“Tell me what you meant,” he ordered.
“Nothing of import. No more than a nickname, my lord.”
“By whom?”
“I may have heard a villager use it, but I do not recall who it was. Pray, blame my bad temper for mentioning it.” She pulled out of his hold and ran to the door. When the cold, metal handle pressed against her palm, she glanced back. Lord Terrance stood motionless, his face troubled.
RUFUS LET BELLE leave the study without protest. Lord Terror, indeed.
He had been foolish enough to tease her a little, and she retaliated thus. What game did she play? First she claimed his mother believed in ghosts, and now she intimated the villagers were terrified of him.
Standing by the window, he glared at the white landscape. The open country reminded him of his ride to the church yesterday and the children’s reaction to his arrival. Even as that scene appeared to substantiate Belle’s position, he shook his head in denial.
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