by Shana Galen
She glared at him but put her arms around his neck, at least giving the impression of returning his embrace. He brushed his lips over hers, which certainly would have been enough to convince Mrs. Spencer, if she had doubts, but it wasn’t quite enough for Brook.
Even though she wore a wrapper and nightgown, the material was thin and didn’t conceal her lack of undergarments. She’d taken her stays off to sleep, and he felt the hard points of her nipples through the fabric. The sensation teased the bare skin of his chest, causing him to pull her closer.
He had no illusions that he’d aroused her. She was most likely cold, but whatever the reason, he couldn’t help but want to feel her body pressed against his. The thin barrier of cotton was the best he could hope for.
Her lips parted slightly from the surprise contact, and he took advantage of the motion to kiss her lower lip and then to run his tongue lightly along her upper. Soft, plump lips that begged to be suckled, nibbled, kissed until swollen.
Lila’s fingers dug into his shoulders, making him remember their audience. He gave her a playful flick of his tongue and slowly withdrew.
His mistake was glancing at her face. He’d thought she’d tightened her hands to compel him to release her, but her pink cheeks and dark eyes told him he’d misjudged.
She wanted him.
He would have lifted her and carried her straight to the bed had their audience not been watching. Instead, he stepped away, pulled on his boots, and dug in his valise for a clean shirt. When he was thus attired, he left Lila in the cottage and collected the basket.
Mrs. Spencer did not meet his eye, keeping her gaze on the sky. He thanked her and returned inside, leaving the basket on the table. Lila did not look at him, pretending to be busy stoking the fire. It was a hopeless cause. They needed more wood. The knife wound still hurt, but he felt better for the sleep and the healing that had come with that time. He’d check it later, but the bandages didn’t show fresh blood, and he had no fever.
After he ate, he’d fetch wood and take a look around the cottage and kitchens. He told Lila this and she thanked him. Strange how often she thanked him, as though she actually appreciated his assistance and didn’t expect it.
But he knew her kind, knew she’d grown up to expect others to jump to do her bidding. The minute he thought she’d changed was the minute he became the poor, besotted boy he’d been the night he’d proposed to her.
As there was only one chair, he used it and ate first, dividing all the food in half so she would have her own share. She could eat while he took care of seeing to firewood, fresh water, and the like. She managed not to glance in his direction once while he ate, a feat of some note considering the smallness of the room they shared. Was she angry at his insistence she call herself Lady Derring?
To hell with that. She was Lady Derring until he had the marriage annulled. She could hold on to her title all she wanted, but he’d call her Lady Derring every chance he had. It wouldn’t hurt to bring her down a peg or three.
Or perhaps she was embarrassed by the kiss they’d shared. Undoubtedly, she hadn’t meant to respond to him as she had. Perhaps she didn’t hate him as much as she pretended.
He couldn’t quite rid himself of that notion, and for the next several hours, it played in his mind as he hauled water, lay firewood out to dry in the sun, built a new fire, attempted to make the kitchen serviceable, and surveyed the property. It had been some time since he’d been there, and he wanted to know the lay of the land if he needed to leave quickly.
And all the while, he wondered what Lila would do if he kissed her again. For about an hour he told himself he didn’t want to kiss her again, but even he couldn’t convince himself of that lie. He did want to kiss her. He wanted her in his bed. He might not like her, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy her.
That thought played in his head as he returned to the cottage and pushed open the back door. The fire still smoked, and Lila had left it partly open to give the smoke an outlet. He stood in the opening of the door, wondering where she’d gone, when he finally spotted a tattered quilt hung before the bed.
She’d meant it as a screen for privacy. He understood that immediately because she’d done a poor job of hanging it. If he’d been standing directly in front of it, he would have seen nothing. But from the side, she was clearly visible. She sat on the bed, one foot poised on the edge, pulling a silk stocking up and over her calf. His first thought was that silk stockings were entirely impractical for their situation. His second was that he’d like to feel the silk of that stocking against her skin and test which was softer.
She stretched her leg out, the skin white and nicely rounded, giving him a view of the inside of one thigh. He drew in a breath, wanting to go to her and slide the hem of her chemise higher so he might reveal all of that thigh and what lay at the apex.
Instead, he stepped back outside and pressed his back against the wall.
He had to grab hold of his desire. He didn’t spy on women. He didn’t kiss unwilling women. He couldn’t control his thoughts or his erotic dreams, but he could control his actions.
Why should you?
The thought came unbidden, but with such clarity, Brook couldn’t ignore it. Why shouldn’t he have her? She was his wife. She legally belonged to him. This was no sham marriage. They’d said the vows. He’d signed the license, and her father had agreed to the contract terms.
They might plan an annulment, but that would only mean the marriage hadn’t happened in the eyes of the law. Everyone else would know it had occurred. He wouldn’t ruin her if he took her to his bed. No one would assume he hadn’t.
And who was to say she’d be unwilling to kiss him if he attempted it again? He knew what desire looked like, and she might not have wanted to admit it, but she wanted him.
They were stuck there for the time being. Why shouldn’t they make the best of the situation?
You want to teach her a lesson.
That was his conscience, and he couldn’t argue with it. Yes, he wanted her as a man wants a woman, but he also wanted to punish her for the way she’d humiliated him in the past. What better way than to make her want him and then leave her desires unfulfilled, as she’d done all those years ago?
Could he do it? Hell yes. She was a virgin. What did she know of the pleasures between men and women? What if he could make her love him, and then, once he had her affections, toss them aside as she’d done to him?
Cruel and callous, this sort of behavior. But hadn’t she done the same to him? And he wouldn’t force anything on her. He wouldn’t make her any promises, wouldn’t give her any lies. Her emotions, her body, her affections were her own to give.
Brook considered he’d spent far too much time amidst the morally corrupt if this was the sort of scheme he contemplated.
A better man would act the gentleman and vow not to use his worldly experience to seduce an innocent. A gentleman would not touch a lady he had no intention of honoring—permanently—with his name.
As Brook pushed away from the wall and stepped back into the cottage, he had to admit, he was no gentleman.
Ten
Lila hadn’t been able to dress properly. She had no lady’s maid to help with her stays, and her dresses didn’t fit quite right without them. She couldn’t even don one of her gowns without assistance. All of them had fastenings in the back or needed pins, and she couldn’t quite place the materials in the appropriate places.
Her peach gown had been the only one she could put on by herself, and now it was past repair. She’d slept in her stays at the flat in London, but she couldn’t stand them for another night, especially when she’d had to sleep on a quilt in front of the fire. She was uncomfortable enough on the floor. She didn’t need the undergarments making her more so.
She’d spent half the night hating Brook Derring for taking the bed and half worrying he’d grow feverish and die, leaving her all alone. She supposed she might have shared the bed with him, for the sake of warmth
if not comfort, but she hadn’t been able to swallow her pride and climb in beside him.
She might also have asked him to help her dress. Once again, her pride prevented it. Not to mention her modesty. She didn’t want him ogling her. Although, if the truth be told, she actually thought she might rather enjoy a bit of ogling from him. She hadn’t expected to enjoy his kisses or the sight of him half-dressed quite as much as she had. Who was to say she wouldn’t have enjoyed more of his attentions?
Of course, she would never know because after he kissed her this morning—all a show for Mrs. Spencer—he hadn’t so much as looked her way. It might have been the pelisse she wore over her ill-fitting gown. It might have been that she had not remembered hairpins and could do nothing other than plait her hair so it did not hang in her face.
It might have been that he hated her.
She could hardly blame him. She’d treated him abominably, but would he hold that against her for the rest of her life? She’d been eighteen and foolish.
Now she was five and twenty, and probably just as foolish, if in a different way. She couldn’t quite stop herself from watching him under lowered lashes and wondering just when she might have another chance to see him without his shirt.
Not that it would matter if she did see him thus. He’d made it quite clear he didn’t like her and could barely stand to be in the same room with her. He’d spent most of the day outside, clearly happy to keep his own company rather than share hers.
Finally, the sun had dipped low, and she laid out the remains of Mrs. Spencer’s basket for the evening meal. Only one of them could eat at the table, and he had taken a seat before the fire. She brought him a bowl of broth and a slice of bread, but when she turned to take her own seat at the table, he surprised her.
“Sit with me by the fire.”
She could hardly object. The wood had dried and didn’t smoke, and the night was cold. The fire was warm and cheery.
She nodded and moved to join him, her heart beating a little faster at the chance to be close to him.
He watched her, his dark eyes cool and assessing. “I thought you’d refuse.”
She’d been smoothing her skirts down, but now she looked up quickly. “Why?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to sit on the floor.”
“Oh.” She looked down at it. At one time she might have found the notion appalling. But she’d done far worse, not even counting the tasks she’d performed the past day or so. “I don’t mind.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not at all?”
She took a bite of bread. “I could be more comfortable, but at least it’s warm,” she finally said because he seemed to expect a response.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, Lila searching her brain for some topic of conversation. She’d always been witty and garrulous, though never so much as to be considered forward. But now she found she could not think of a single topic of conversation that would not sound completely inane.
Finally, she settled on the weather. “Do you think it will rain tomorrow?” she asked at the same time he said, “I have a proposition for you.”
She shifted with astonishment. “Pardon?”
“You asked about rain?”
She nodded but gestured to him to go on. “No, please, you first.”
“Ladies first. And to answer your question, I saw rain clouds in the distance tonight. I think we’ll see rain tonight into the morning.”
“Oh.”
“You seem disappointed.”
“I had hoped to go for a walk tomorrow. I thought I might look for berries or something else we might eat.”
“Berries? In the middle of winter?”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose I want something to do. I’ve all but finished the book on the Peloponnesian War.”
He frowned at her. “Is it that interesting, or are you merely that desperate?”
She smiled. “Both, I suppose.”
He gave her a slight smile, and she realized this was the first time they’d had a pleasant conversation in seven years.
“Well, we must eat. If Mrs. Spencer does not come to our rescue again, I will walk to the posting house. It’s a couple hours’ walk, but if the weather is not too bad by afternoon, I could be back by dinner.”
She took another bite of bread. “Thank you.”
His head jerked up, startling her.
“Stop thanking me.” His brows lowered in anger.
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically, confused by his sudden explosion.
He rose abruptly, forcing her to look up at him. “And don’t apologize. You won’t think me deserving of it when you hear what I have to say.”
A tremor of unease rippled through her. The bread tasted stale in her mouth, and she set it down. “You’re leaving me.”
The look he gave her was one of astonishment. “No.”
She sighed in relief.
“You don’t want me to leave?” he asked carefully.
“No.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. He’d never bothered with a waistcoat or cravat, and he’d removed his coat when he was inside for the night. In the firelight, she could see hints of his skin through the fine lawn.
“Then you enjoy my company.”
“I…” He’d been little company the past few days, but she supposed someone was better than no one.
“Might I propose a way for you to enjoy my company more?”
“Of course.”
He looked away and into the fire. “You are so innocent.”
She had no idea what he meant by that. He didn’t seem inclined to enlighten her. “I thought we might look for a deck of cards,” she said. “I’m rather good at piquet.”
He gave her a cocky smile that had her heart fluttering. She pressed a hand to her belly to quell the butterflies there.
“I don’t want to play cards with you. What I propose is rather more…intimate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t. I shall have to be clear.”
Lila didn’t know why this admission should make her shiver, cause her breath to come short. She had no reason to worry.
Did she?
“What I want, Lila, is to take you to bed.”
Her hand went to her throat, and she thought for a moment she’d misunderstood. And then his gaze traveled lightly over her body—what little she imagined he could see of it—and she knew she had understood perfectly.
“Sir—”
“Don’t call me sir, and don’t go missish and formal.”
She rose, hastily pulling her pelisse closed protectively. “I don’t know how else to respond to such a…a…”
“Request?” he supplied. “This isn’t rape I suggest. You may say no.”
“N—”
He held up a hand. “Hear me out first.”
“There’s nothing to hear, not if you are proposing what I think you are.”
He moved toward her, like a predator stalking his prey. “Oh, I am proposing exactly what you think. More than you imagine, I’m sure.”
“I don’t want to hear this.” She turned, but he grasped her arm and turned her gently back. Only a finger or two touched her flesh. Most of his hand caught her pelisse, but that feel of skin on skin made her crave more.
She knew if he did not withdraw the request, she would not say no.
“First of all, I would point out we are married. What I propose is not immoral. It’s not fornication.”
She felt heat rise in her cheeks. This sort of conversation would never have been remotely appropriate just a few days ago. Except, of course, now she was married. He had a point there. He was allowed to talk thus to her, and she didn’t have to blush like a virgin.
Only, she was a virgin!
His hand slid down her arm to capture her wrist lightly. She inhaled sharply but didn’t pull her hand away. “No rejoinder?”
“I…”
But his thumb began to mov
e in slow circles on her wrist, and she forgot what she had wanted to say.
“Very well, here’s what you should point out. We don’t intend to stay married.”
His thumb continued its gentle circles, and heat spread from her wrist up her arm. “Are you arguing against your own point?”
“I’m no rake trying to take advantage of you.”
She looked down at his hand, where his thumb had moved to her palm and now stroked the sensitive flesh lightly.
He gave her a cocky grin. “I’m not a rake. I didn’t say I was a saint.”
His thumb made a tiny circle in the center of her palm, and the light touch both tickled and aroused. Lila attempted to gather her thoughts. “As to your point”—the circle widened, and her entire body tightened—“your point…”
“The annulment.”
“Right.”
His thumb moved to her fingers, stroking each.
“I cannot argue your point because annulment or no, everyone will assume I—you—we—”
“That I deflowered you?”
“Oh, how I detest that phrase.”
He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed the pads one by one. Lila felt the room spin.
“No, you are no fragile flower. I won’t pluck you unless you want to be plucked.”
“Good Lord that’s an awful metaphor.”
He grinned. “It is, isn’t it? But you understand my meaning.”
She couldn’t quite tear her gaze from his lips as he kissed another of her fingers, the tip of his tongue reaching out to flick the end. The room felt quite warm now, far warmer than simply the heat of the fire in the hearth. And her heart pounded in her chest, her body tense and seemingly poised to flee or… What was the alternative? Surrender?
“Another point you might argue,” he said, “is that our actions might produce a child.”
She closed her fingers before he could continue to kiss them. “You really have thought about this.”