by Anna Bennett
He stared deep into her eyes as he deliberately grazed the taut peak of one breast, and she shuddered as though he’d flicked her nipple with his tongue. He continued to torment her with feathery, light strokes, gradually increasing the pressure of the satiny petals until she let out a soft cry. Then he turned his attention to her other breast, showering it with equal affection.
Sophie’s chest flushed pink, her plump lips parted, and her pupils turned huge and dark. She was practically drunk with desire and trembling with need. It would have been an easy thing to convince her to abandon the rules she’d set.
But Reese couldn’t do that. He already worried that she’d regret the things they’d done that night. And he wouldn’t risk scaring her away. The knowledge that she would return the following week was the only thing that kept him halfway sane.
Of course, he knew their time together was finite. But he refused to think about that right now. What he needed to do was to bank the fire and douse the flames that leapt between them.
“Why don’t you lie down again?” he suggested.
When she rested her head on the pillow, he reached for the quilt that had been around her shoulders and covered her torso with it.
“It’s late,” he said. “And you’ve had a long day. Rest your eyes and dream of rainbow parasols. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She shot him a grateful smile, snuggled beneath the blanket, and closed her eyes.
He watched as her body relaxed and her breathing grew even. And just as she was about to drift off, he touched the flower to her cheek in the lightest of kisses. “Good night, Soph.”
Chapter 15
A cool drop plopped on Sophie’s nose, but she was too cozy, too content, to bother brushing it away. The sun had only begun to rise, and they could afford a couple more hours of sleep.
But then another drop pelted her cheek, and another—and soon she was unable to ignore the onslaught. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes to find Reese already moving about the pier, shrugging into his shirt and gathering up her castoff clothes.
The clothes she was definitely not wearing.
She pressed a hand to her chest, confirmed she was approximately ninety percent naked, and felt her cheeks burn despite the chilly rain. Beneath the quilt, she wriggled her arms into the top of her shift, sat up, and made a valiant attempt to smooth the cloud of curls around her shoulders.
Reese looked over at her and grinned. “Good morning, Miss Kendall.”
“There seems to be a leak in the ceiling of my bedchamber,” she grumbled.
“Forgive me, madam. I shall take it up with the owner at the first opportunity. In the meantime, I think we must relocate you.”
“But I’m fond of this room,” she said with a mock pout.
Reese looked out at the lake, where raindrops plunked like thousands of tiny pebbles. “I think we can do better. I might even be able to secure a room with—brace yourself—a mattress.”
She rubbed the small of her back. “That sounds rather ordinary, and yet … tempting.”
He jammed on his boots and tucked her clothes under one arm. “I would suggest that we race each other back to the house, but I have no wish to be trounced again.”
Sophie stood, stepped into her slippers, and wrapped the quilt over her head like a hooded cloak. “That’s very wise of you,” she said, picking up the peony with the silk ribbon. She deftly maneuvered around him and began heading up the pier toward the shore. “Because while my swimming is impressive”—she blinked at him with feigned innocence—“my running is even more so.”
With that, she dropped the quilt and tore up the hill towards the woods as fast as her legs would carry her. Reese laughed and chased her, alternately leading the way and letting her surge ahead until they reached the house, soaking wet and gasping for breath.
He deposited the sopping quilts he’d been carrying on the kitchen floor, lit a fire, and draped her rain-soaked clothes over the backs of chairs that he slid close to the hearth. “It’s still early,” he said. “You could rest in your bedchamber for another hour or two if you’d like.”
Sophie shook her head. Her heart pumped much too fast to even consider sleeping. “I’m not tired. Are you?”
“No. I slept well last night … thanks to you.”
She opened her mouth to say she had nothing to do with his slumber but decided to bite her tongue. Reese believed she was helping him, and maybe, in a roundabout way, she was. She moved close to the fire and rubbed her arms.
“Would you like a hot bath?” he asked. “I could prepare one in your room.”
She laughed. “As heavenly as that sounds, it’s too much work. Have you forgotten that you gave your staff the weekend off?”
“I have not,” he said, as though mildly offended. “I’m going to see to it myself.” He lit the stove and placed several pots of water on top before turning his attention back to her. “Why don’t you go upstairs and wrap up in a blanket? I’ll bring the tub up shortly.”
“You don’t need to go to the trouble, Reese.”
“I want to,” he said, smiling. “You have been taking care of me. Now let me take care of you.”
A lump lodged in her throat. She’d always longed for a relationship that would work that way. She’d always wished for a partner who’d do thoughtful little things like put cream in her tea and rub her hands when it was cold.
Never in a million years would she have dreamed that an ornery, if devastatingly handsome, earl would prepare a hot bath for her.
“I insist,” he said, and when she shivered, he crossed his arms as though he didn’t trust himself not to haul her against his chest.
“Thank you,” she said simply as she twirled the stem of the wilted peony between her fingers. “I suppose I should go upstairs and dry off.”
His face brightened. “While you’re waiting, you could survey the garden. There’s an excellent view of it from my bedchamber window, just down the corridor from yours.”
“You don’t mind me going into your bedchamber?” she asked.
His mouth curled into a wicked, knee-melting grin. “Do you really have to ask?”
Sophie swallowed. “I just meant … that is, you are a rather private person.”
He slowly walked over to her and stood so close that she could see the sprinkling of hair covering his muscled forearms, which were crossed over his chest. “To be perfectly clear,” he drawled, “you are welcome in my bedchamber anytime you like. And you may do whatever you like there. Anything you like.”
Good heavens. Mere seconds ago, she’d been chilled. Now, she barely resisted the urge to fan herself. “That’s very generous,” she quipped. “But I think I’ll content myself with admiring the garden.”
“You could also make a list of further improvements you’d like me to undertake.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, curious at his choice of words. “You?”
He shrugged off her question. “Feel free to use my desk and avail yourself of anything you need.”
“Very well,” she said, thoughtful. “I shall see you upstairs, then.”
She quickly made her way to her room, stripped off her damp shift, and slipped on the soft, dry nightgown she’d packed in her bag. She carefully placed the peony and the ribbon in her portmanteau before heading down the hall to Reese’s room.
Despite all his assurances that she was welcome there, she hesitated at the door. Crossing the threshold of a gentleman’s bedchamber was a momentous occasion, but her trepidation was due to more than that. The more she knew about Reese, the more she cared about him. And the more she cared about him, the harder it would be to say goodbye when the time came.
Still, she couldn’t resist the chance to learn more about him.
His bedchamber was neat and sparsely decorated. One wall boasted an austere landscape; the mantel was bare but for a small gold-faced clock and a candlestick in a pewter holder. A dark blue counterpane and two matching pillows covered the large bed
, but there were no extravagant bed-curtains or decorative touches.
Everything was terribly orderly and utilitarian—much like what she’d imagine a military barracks looked like.
A mahogany desk tucked into one corner of the room was predictably tidy, with nothing on the top except for a small framed painting. Sophie moved closer to examine it, but she could already guess the portrait’s subject—Edmund.
Indeed, the young man in the painting was a more refined, more civilized version of Reese. A handsome gentleman, perhaps in his midtwenties, stared back at her, his intelligent eyes full of a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
He was the brother Reese idolized and the one he feared he’d never live up to.
Carefully, she returned the painting to its spot, then looked around the room for any other personal items—books or trinkets or any other clues that might help her understand Reese. A razor rested on a towel beside his washstand, and a lantern perched on the nightstand next to his bed.
But then, a few items on the top of his bureau caught her eye—a brass key and a pair of gold braided epaulets. She could easily imagine the epaulets on the shoulders of a scarlet jacket, and she was sure Reese had cut a fine figure in his officer’s uniform, looking one part dashing and two parts fierce.
Though she’d never seen him behave violently, she had no doubt Reese would be formidable in a fight. Something told her that when it came to his principles, he’d rather die than forfeit. A chill ran down her spine, and she said a quick prayer of thanks that Reese’s soldiering days were over.
She wondered about the brass key but left it and the epaulets on his bureau, then walked to a window, where she swept aside a gray velvet curtain panel and looked outside. The rain had slowed, and while the skies were still overcast, the sun had begun to peek through the clouds in a few spots.
The view of the garden was remarkable—from the third floor, she was able to see each of the main parts and features as well as the overall balance. Already it looked much improved from the week before. Vines no longer encroached on the walkways; weeds no longer lurked between the path’s stones. Water in the moat flowed freely, and the footbridge boasted a glossy new coat of black paint.
The section of the garden devoted to the gnarled, twisted poplars looked appropriately intimidating, and on the other side of the rotunda, the field of asphodels appeared delightfully haunting. The most mysterious part of the garden glimmered just beyond the main pavilion, promising magic and beauty in equal measures.
The garden was well on its way, but Sophie had some ideas for coaxing it along.
Intent on jotting down her thoughts, she strode to Reese’s desk, sank into his seat, and opened the top drawer in search of writing supplies. She found paper, pen, ink—
And something else: a small stack of letters. Unless Sophie was mistaken, they were the same letters she’d seen in Reese’s study last weekend. But now they were in his room—still sealed with wax.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then reached for them and examined the three envelopes more closely. They were all from the same person; the handwriting outside was graceful and feminine, and the name in the upper left corner read Mrs. S. Conroy.
Clearly, Reese was reluctant to read the letters for some reason, but why?
She couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Conroy was a past lover … or a current one. Sophie had no reason—and no right—to be jealous.
And yet, an unsettled, sickly feeling swirled in her belly.
She reminded herself that he was downstairs at that very moment, preparing her a bath. And that she was the one who would soon be engaged to another.
With a determined sigh, she proceeded to write her notes about the garden. When she’d finished, she put away the paper and pen—but she left the list she’d written and the unopened letters on Reese’s desk.
When she returned to her bedchamber, she found that Reese had placed the bathtub in front of the hearth, where a cozy fire burned. A pair of thick towels and a bar of soap rested on a stool. He strode into the room, carrying a bucket of steaming water that he proceeded to pour into the tub.
“Perfect timing,” he said. “I left a jug of cooler water near the tub in case you need to mix some in.”
“Thank you, Reese,” she said, more than a little touched by his thoughtfulness. “I can hardly wait.”
“It was nothing,” he said, shrugging. With his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and a full day’s growth of beard, he looked every inch the rogue. Just the sight of him made her belly flutter.
“It certainly is something,” she countered. “At least to me.”
“Well,” he mumbled, uncharacteristically shy. “I’ll leave you to enjoy. I’ll be in the drawing room if you’d like to join me when you’re done.”
“You could stay,” she blurted. “That is, we have so little time together, and if you wanted to stay so that we could … talk, I wouldn’t mind in the least.”
He froze at the door, one foot on the other side of the threshold. Heat flared in his eyes. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Maybe not.” She leaned over the edge of the tub, trailed her fingertips through the deliciously hot water, and sighed in anticipation. “But I trust you.”
“I know,” he said soberly. “And I want to keep it that way.” He pressed his lips into a thin line and uttered a curse before walking out of the room and closing the door behind him.
An hour later, Sophie wore a fresh dress, and all her damp clothes had been collected and packed neatly into her portmanteau. She and Reese stood on the front step of Warshire Manor as the hackney cab rumbled up the long drive.
“Have you noticed that saying goodbye grows more difficult each week?” she asked.
“Aye.” He raked a hand through his sandy-brown hair, looking frustrated and impossibly handsome. “But I can bear it, as long as I know you’ll return next week.”
“Of course I will,” she assured him. “Barring something unexpected.”
His eyes turned wary. “Unexpected?”
She swallowed. “I don’t anticipate that anything will prevent me from meeting you as usual, but you must understand how terribly risky it is for me. I just don’t want to make promises that I might not be able to keep.”
“I know.” He scrubbed the back of his neck. “And I understand. I would hate for any harm to come to you because of me. We’ll be careful.”
As the hackney cab rolled to a stop in the drive, her fingers tingled with mild panic. She worried that they hadn’t made the most of their time. That the hourglass of their relationship was running out of sand much too quickly.
She longed to talk about what was happening between them, but it was far easier to discuss other things, like the garden. “I left a list of suggested garden improvements on your desk,” she said.
He nodded, as though pleased. “Consider them done.”
Summoning courage, she said, “I left something else on your desk too—the letters that were in your drawer. I don’t mean to pry, but is there a reason you haven’t opened them?”
Reese stiffened, and it was as though all the ease and affection that had flowed between them suddenly iced over. “Yes. There is a reason.”
If the hackney hadn’t been waiting, perhaps Sophie would have pressed him on it. But his fisted hands, distant stare, and clenched jaw said he wasn’t eager to explain the unread letters.
“You don’t have to share everything with me.” Even though the words were true, and she meant them with all her heart, they made her a little sad. She couldn’t tell him about the Debutante Underground. He wouldn’t tell her about the letters. She’d grown close to Reese over the last few weeks, but maybe they’d come upon a blockade.
When he didn’t reply, she sighed, picked up her portmanteau, and slowly descended the steps toward the hackney cab, keeping her chin raised so he wouldn’t guess how much his silence hurt her.
She gave Fiona’s
address to the driver and started to climb inside.
“Sophie.”
She turned to find Reese striding down the stairs. “Next week,” he said, coming to a stop beside her. “Ask me about the letters and I’ll…” He swallowed as though he were in physical pain. “I’ll try to tell you.”
She nodded and shot him a grateful smile. The wall that separated them was still there, but it seemed to Sophie that it shook and crumbled a little. “You have a deal, Lord Warshire. I shall see you next week.”
Chapter 16
“How was last night’s meeting?” Fiona asked.
“Hmm?” Sophie looked up from the potted fern she was watering, blushing as she realized that she, Fiona, and Lily were supposed to be discussing plans for the next Debutante’s Revenge column.
Fiona arched an auburn brow and smiled knowingly. “Were there any topics of particular interest at your Debutante Underground meeting?”
Sophie frowned, trying to remember. Last night’s gathering at the tailor’s shop seemed ages ago, but a few snippets came back to her. “There was a lively decision about whether it’s preferable for one’s partner to make one big, grand gesture or several smaller, thoughtful gestures.”
Lily sat on the edge of her desk, swinging her feet as she pondered the question. “Why must it be an either/or proposition? I think that a worthy gentleman should be capable of both.”
“Agreed,” Sophie said, and her mind filled with images of jewel-colored lanterns, flower crowns, and steaming baths. “But what if, for the sake of argument, you had to pick one or the other?”
Fiona looked up from her easel. “I’d choose small, thoughtful gestures. They’re more meaningful.”
“A big, grand gesture for me,” Lily said. “The sort of thing that a woman will remember forever,” she said dreamily, running her palms over the top of the gorgeous desk—a surprise gift from her handsome husband. “What about you, Soph? Which would you prefer?”
“The small things, I think,” she replied. “More than anything, I’d like someone to hold my hand. To give it a reassuring squeeze at just the right times.”