by Erica Ridley
“I should’ve set it for twelve hours,” she muttered.
His eyes twinkled. “I don’t know what you’ve heard… but the middle eight hours would probably be me sleeping.”
She leaned forward with interest. “And the other four hours?”
“Spent exactly how you think,” he responded at once, unrepentant wickedness glinting in his eyes. “Toss me a towel?”
She handed him her wool-lined baking mitts, still reeling from their kiss… and the idea of experiencing far more for hours.
He pulled the tray out of the oven and set it on the cooling cloth in the middle of the table.
“Should I start the chocolate?” she asked. Her voice was surprisingly steady, but her trembling legs threatened to melt into a puddle at his feet at any moment.
“The chocolate is for you.” He stepped close and lifted her hand as if to kiss it, then turned it over to press a soft kiss to her wrist instead. “You smell delicious.”
“It’s the biscuits,” she blurted. But she deserved the awkward reminder.
It wasn’t the biscuits. It was Duchess, rudely reminding her that Nicholas was simply responding to biological urges she’d chemically engineered for precisely this purpose. Her stomach twisted.
She wished she was worse at chemistry. That his extremely pleasing reaction was to her, not to a complex blend of compounds and extractions. That she had never started this trial at all.
He straightened his jacket and gave her a crooked smile. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”
“You aren’t staying for biscuits?” Her heart gave a lurch of disappointment.
He paused. “Is that what you want?”
“Are we… still talking about biscuits?” she stammered.
“We should figure that out,” he said, his gaze intense. “And possibly allot ourselves more than twelve minutes.”
“But you’re a rake,” she babbled. For a man famed for his conquests, Nicholas was proceeding remarkably slow. Curse her inability to instigate properly! “What is there to figure out? This is what you do.”
“Wrong,” he said, his voice rough. “You are not ‘what I do.’ This is something else entirely. Something I’m not certain either of us is ready for.”
She hesitated. “Because I’m a virgin and you’re not?”
“Perhaps there’s more than one way to be a virgin,” he said at last. His brow furrowed as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m always ready for a tumble. I’ve never had it mean something before.”
Her heart stopped. “What does it mean?”
His intense gaze focused on hers. “That continuing down this path would be dangerous.”
And with that, he was gone.
Chapter 11
Nicholas warmed the tip of his blowpipe in the fire. The simple, calming act should have made him relax. Made him feel at peace with the world and himself.
It did not.
He clenched his jaw. Although this rented space did not fully replicate his workshop back home, the smithy was not the cause of Nicholas’s unrest. A certain tempting chemist was. She had haunted his thoughts since the moment he walked out of her home.
Perhaps he should have stayed for biscuits. He shoved the tip of his blowpipe into molten glass. No. He should not stay for biscuits. There were no biscuits. There was only hot, sweaty lovemaking, which was especially odd phrasing, given he had never made love to anyone before. His liaisons had just been meaningless tumbles.
Not that he was in love. He wasn’t that foolish. This was a mere infatuation. His first. No wonder it was so confusing.
Every moment with Penelope was like being with… what? A friend? A lover? Something in-between?
That was the problem. He had friends and he’d had lovers, but he’d never had an “in-between” before. It marked a perilous crossroads. Friends were forever. Lovers were temporary. If Penelope crossed from one side to the other…
He whirled the molten glass onto the end of his blowpipe. Being afraid of losing Penelope was ridiculous. Walking away had always been the plan. He was on holiday, not some bride-hunting expedition like his brother.
Not that Penelope was the sort to seek empty promises or try to change him. Was that what stung? That there was no ambiguity?
She had clearly been open to full physical intimacy. The reason was clearly because he was a rake, therefore loving and leaving was “what he did.” And he clearly should have taken her up on the offer because great Zeus, he could not concentrate on blowing glass into a mold.
What had he been hoping for? That she would fall in love with him? He snorted. That would also be a first.
He slumped forward and rubbed his temples with one hand. She expected things from him. All the wrong things.
Or perhaps logical things, and he was the one who had changed. He didn’t want his old life anymore. He wanted something better.
He wanted her.
Nicholas broke the blowpipe from the clay. There he went again. He had planned to craft a turtle. Or a pheasant. Anything would do, as long as it had nothing to do with Penelope.
Of course, that was not what happened. Even as he’d fashioned this mold, he’d known its glass figurine wasn’t for him, but for her.
It would get locked in his cupboard with all the others just the same.
He shoved the clay mold aside and began to pace the workshop. He despised not knowing what to do. Penelope wanted a liaison with a rake. Nicholas happened to be a rake. An obvious solution presented itself.
Except he didn’t want to be a rake. Had unconsciously stopped the same day he met her. Now that they’d spent so much time together, he had thought she’d seen something more in him than a caricature.
He had been wrong.
Wanting a true connection, dreaming of “love” like an utter lunatic, those things weren’t for him. He’d learned long ago not to reach for what he wasn’t meant to have.
He had to go back to what he knew. Penelope wanted one night with a rake? He would give it to her. It would have to be enough for both of them.
After cleaning up the workshop and himself, Nicholas made his way straight to Penelope.
“One night?” he demanded.
His heart pounded. For the first time, he had arrived empty-handed. Today he had nothing to give but himself.
She peered up at him. “What?”
“One night?” he repeated, his voice cracking. “That’s what you want?”
A frown marred her brow. “Isn’t it what you want?”
“Yes or no.” He jerked a hand through his hair in nervousness. “We can be intimate, or we can leave things as they are. I need to know before I come inside.”
She bit her lip. “You’ll come inside either way?”
There was his answer. He gave a crooked smile. “I’m satisfied with a simple plate of biscuits.”
“I’m not.” Her cheeks flushed pink, but she didn’t look away. “I want it all.”
Even better. He swung her into the house, kicked the door shut behind them, and covered her mouth with his.
Her lips were warm, and familiar, and welcoming. Returning to her arms was like coming home. A cozy fire, protected from all the snow. He could not help but deepen the kiss.
She smelled heavenly, and she tasted like… cinnamon sugar? His pulse jumped. He fervently hoped the kitchen alarm wasn’t about to sound.
He lifted his mouth from hers. “Are you baking?”
“I was.” Her lips curved as she gestured behind him. “I set your biscuits out by the chimney. Do you want to start with a snack?”
“I do not.” Yet he made no attempt to drag her to the closest horizontal surface. He needed to make certain they both understood what they were agreeing to. “I’m here on holiday.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“A fortnight,” he clarified. He wished he could stay longer, but he had given his word to his brother. Chris deserved the chance to bride-hunt without Nicholas’s presence getting in his way. He let out
his breath. “My holiday will be over in two days.”
She nodded again. “And then you return home.”
“Yes.” He gazed into her eyes, willing her to understand. “At present, I have no plans to come back to Christmas.”
She tilted her head in confusion. “I know all that. What does it have to do with tonight?”
“I…” His mouth dried.
Blast it, his logical chemist understood perfectly. He was the dreamer.
“It has nothing to do with tonight,” he admitted. He lifted her chin with his knuckle and brushed his lips over hers. “Tonight is about us.”
“You smell different.” She nuzzled closer, as though to breathe in his aroma. “I like it.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s not a perfume. I smell like…”
His laughter cut off with a start. Had he really been about to say, “a blacksmith?” Was he mad?
He was heir presumptive to a dukedom. Society’s most celebrated scoundrel. The only thing a man like him was expected to do with his hands was to—
“You smell like what?” she prompted, her wide brown eyes gazing up at him.
His heart stuttered. He’d come here to make love to her, not to lie to her. If puncturing the bubble of his “dashing rake” persona made him no longer of interest because it spoiled the fantasy…
At least she would know who he truly was.
“The smithy.” He cleared his throat. “I smell like a smithy. I’ve been renting it to use as a workshop.”
She seemed to think this over. “Your hobby is… blacksmithing?”
“Art,” he said hesitantly. “I know it’s foolish mummery, but—”
“The petal,” she breathed. “You made the petal?”
The back of his neck heated. He hadn’t expected her to guess what it was, much less that he’d made it by hand. He gave a short nod.
“It’s not mummery, you daft man.” She put her hands to his chest and pushed him aside. “It’s beautiful. Even prettier than the rock you gave me. You’re very talented.”
He watched, immobile, as she crossed to the mantel. First, to inspect the stone that had reminded him of her eyes, and then the glass petal.
“This rose petal is perfection. Delicate and strong.” She turned it over in her hand. “I can’t believe the papers don’t give as much ink to your art as they do to your bedsport.”
Nicholas was glad of it. He had gone to great lengths to keep the secret.
She glanced up when he didn’t answer. Her eyes widened in shock. “They don’t know?”
“Nobody knows.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Except Chris. And now you.”
“Nobody knows?” she repeated in disbelief. “Why doesn’t anybody know?”
Because Father’s lack of patience for unmanly behaviors had resulted in some of the worst moments of Nicholas’s childhood. The harsh punishments for each infraction had caused art to intertwine with self-recrimination until he could no longer separate the two.
“Just a lad trying to make his father proud,” he muttered.
Her brow furrowed. “With art?”
“Without it.” Nicholas cleared his throat. He hated discussing private embarrassments. “Father felt it wasn’t manly.”
Penelope stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “But art isn’t manly.”
His stomach hollowed in shame and guilt. “I know. That’s… literally what Father always said.”
“Was he a man of science?” she demanded. “Because I am a student of the genre, and I find his conclusions lacking.”
Nicholas blinked. “What?”
“Art isn’t manly or womanly or anything else. It’s humanly.” She frowned in thought. “I haven’t done enough research to determine if other animals display a similar trait.”
“What?” he repeated blankly.
“Facts. I can name hundreds of ‘manly’ artists,” she continued. “Titian married his housekeeper after she gave him two sons. When Rembrandt’s wife took ill, he took her nurse as his lover. If by ‘manly’ you mean ‘shameless roués.’ I shall refrain from listing the countless men who painted erotic nudes of their paramours to keep them warm on lonely nights, or I won’t cease talking all evening.”
“You know about art?” he stammered.
“The artifacts on display at the Egyptian Hall in London made me curious about the chemical progression of paint composition over the centuries, which led me to—” She snapped her teeth closed and took his hands firmly in hers. “Nicholas. I regret to inform you that your sire was a blithering idiot.”
He stared back at her speechlessly. What if she was right? His heart pounded. What if she was wrong, and unmasking his true passions earned him nothing but scorn and humiliation?
She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. Too direct?”
“Your mind may be scientific,” he said at last. “But other people—”
“The opinions of strangers are irrelevant. Live for yourself.” She squeezed his hands. “Be yourself. All they’ll have is gossip. You’ll have art.”
Vertigo assailed him. Tonight he would have something even more precious than art. He would have Penelope.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her from somewhere deep in his soul. A secret place he’d been hiding his entire life. She’d seen through his defenses, torn away his shell, and liked what she found.
With her, he was not some empty Lothario, but an artist. Which meant tonight, he could come to her not as a rake, but as a man.
As himself.
He slid his fingers into her hair as he kissed her. She was the work of art. He savored the softness of her skin, the sweetness of her scent, and the heat of her mouth. Yet her kisses were more than just Eden for his senses.
Touching her was no mindless diversion, but a startling bond that grabbed his heart and refused to let go.
The thought of an emotional connection terrified him. His pulse would not stop racing. Wild thoughts slashed through him like lightning strikes. Kissing her was a perfect storm of pleasure and vulnerability and desire.
But with her, he didn’t want some forgettable encounter. He wanted to cherish this night for the rest of his life. No matter how much it scared him.
“One night?” he murmured between kisses. “You’re certain?”
She grinned up at him. “This very night, if you’re so inclined.”
“I’m actually here for two more days.” He kissed each corner of her smile. “I can make room in my schedule for a second visit.”
She twined her arms about his neck. “Let’s start with tonight.”
A lead weight punched into his gut.
Not a yes.
His first time asking to prolong a liaison. The first woman with whom he could not begin to guess how many nights together could ever be enough. And she did not feel the same. Yet, he reminded himself.
The evening was not over. He would make it perfect.
He swung her up into his arms and kissed her with everything he’d been holding back.
“Bed?” he gasped, when he came up for air.
“Too far.” She gestured behind them, panting. “Chaise longue. Much closer.”
He would have preferred a bedchamber. More romantic, more special, more… official. But the evening wasn’t about him. It was about Penelope. Anything she wanted, he would give her.
In less than a heartbeat, they were reclined on the chaise and back in each other’s arms. His pulse galloped in urgency. Perhaps it was their proximity to the fire that simmered his blood and fogged his brain.
Or perhaps it was the knowledge that this might be their last night. Their only night, if he didn’t do this right. He cradled her face and kissed her.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “Like you did before.”
With pleasure.
That was, until a belated thought struck him.
“The alarm isn’t set, is it?” he asked suspiciously. He loved the taste of spiced sugar but did not look for
ward to falling off the chaise in a blind panic. “How much time do we have?”
Her gorgeous brown eyes twinkled up at him. “Is sunrise long enough?”
He gave her a lopsided smile. He rather suspected a thousand sunrises wouldn’t be enough.
Chapter 12
Penelope’s heart raced in anticipation of Nicholas’s touch. Although she now knew how intimate her breast would feel in his hand, the decadent sensation still took her breath away when at last he gave her the delicious torture she sought.
His kisses were just as magical. Heady and disorienting, full of wicked promise and incredible sweetness. She wanted it all.
When he broke their kiss, she raised her head to complain—until he tugged down her bodice and placed his mouth to her breast. With a gasp, her head fell back against the cushion to revel in the sensation.
Had she thought his fingers were delicious torture? This was a hundred times worse and a thousand times better. It defied science. It was pure feeling, pure desire. Her body didn’t just yearn for the sex act. She yearned for him.
Nicholas was the active ingredient in this combustible formula. His kisses made her lightheaded because he was the one doing the kissing. His touch made her desperate for more because it was him that she wanted.
He saw her as more than some bluestocking spinster. More than a science-obsessed lady chemist. He saw her as a passionate, sensual woman who was all those things and so much more. Worthy of his desire, and her own. She threaded her fingers into his hair.
He, too, was far more complex than appeared at first glance.
Although she did not know art as well as chemistry, she understood wanting to make new things with one’s hands. She happened to do so in a laboratory, and he with a kiln. They were more alike than one might think. It frightened her.
Any woman with a pulse would beg for a chance to share physical pleasure with a man like Nicholas. The realization that they might form a compatible compound made her glad he was going away. She could not stand to have him close, and still not have him.
But for a few hours, he was hers.
Her back arched with pleasure at his touch. She could not wait to copulate with him. He was all she could think about.