“So shall I delay any packing, my lord?”
“Yes,” Valentine snapped. “Did I not just say that?”
“Yes, my lord.”
With a grunt, Valentine ducked out of the room. He did not need Lane questioning him, especially with that vaguely amused look. Did Lane think it was to do with the appointment of Mrs. Whitaker as a maid?
No doubt her attractive looks had drawn the attention of many of the servants and they would suspect he had hired her because of said looks but they knew him better than that surely? He had not had a proper lover in decades, preferring the briefest of discrete moments and even then it had been years.
He paused by one of the bedrooms when he heard a pretty tune being hummed. He knew before he saw her who the sound belonged to and yet could not stop himself from peering in. Mrs. Whitaker had her back to him while she cleaned the inside of the windows, her hand making brisk sweeping movements.
His throat tightened. The uniform was designed to be basic and practical but now he wished he had put them all in shapeless sacks. There was no disguising her womanly figure and it made his blood heat.
Gripping the edge of the doorway, he dug his fingers into the wood until they hurt. The temptation to step forward beat a heavy pulse all the way down to his boots. He almost moved until he heard a cough behind him.
He spun on a heel. “Lane, what the bloody hell?”
“Just wanted to see if you needed anything else from me, my lord?”
“Of course not.”
Lane smiled briefly and far too smugly for his liking, then dipped his head and headed down the corridor. Valentine glanced briefly at the open door; grateful Mrs. Whitaker had not heard either of them. Grateful to Lane too really, despite his annoyance. His valet saved him from making an utter fool of himself.
Chapter Six
Smothering a yawn, Chastity stumbled down the hallway. The open courtyard to one side of the building offered teasing glimpses of the pending sunlight, casting the wood paneled walls in a tawny radiance.
She narrowed her gaze at the clear skies. No human should be awake at this hour, most especially not her. She was not designed for early mornings. Her eyes were gritty, and her head pounded with a dull throb. Even an additional hour of sleep would have been welcome, but she needed to speak with Lord Kendall before the rest of the house rose for the day which meant dragging herself out of the far too narrow bed at this ungodly hour.
At least fatigue weighed so heavily upon her, she had passed out straight away last night, not even missing her luxurious feather pillow and sumptuously large mattress at home. Mrs. Cooke’s declaration that there would be no work for her had been entirely wrong. She had never spent so much time on her feet.
A quick glance around told her she had risen early enough. The only sounds were the creak of the floorboard beneath her boringly simple black shoes and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere. She twisted the door handle slowly and winced when it squeaked.
Thick damask curtains kept the room in darkness and once she shut the door gently behind her, the gloom swallowed her, forcing her to take a moment to let her eyes adjust. Heavy breaths indicated the earl remained asleep until she was able to make out the shape of him in the grand four-poster bed and confirmed he was indeed still slumbering.
Not for long, though. She had promised to keep him abreast of matters and he might be able to give her some indication that she was on the right path, though from the sounds of it, Lord Kendall spent so little time in London that he knew few of the servants here—only the ones who followed him to his estate in Devon.
Why would an earl wish to spend all his time in the country? As much as she enjoyed the break during the heat of summer, winter in the country would be tiresome, especially when visitors could not make it through the snow to any of her father’s houses. The thought of sitting around with nothing to do made her palms itch.
She tiptoed over to the bedside, now able to make out most of his features. She scowled at how peaceful he appeared. Gone were the creases between his brows and the slight furrows of persistent annoyance. He looked almost...childlike. Entirely unlike the overbearing lord she had dealt with these past few days.
Chastity gave his shoulder a gentle nudge. He remained asleep, entirely unbothered by her. She supposed her light touch would feel like no more than a biting fly to him. There was no denying the man had an admirably strong figure—something she wished she had never noticed. What he did to maintain it she had yet to discover but if he rode in any of the London parks, she would have known. There was no chance an earl could mount a horse in any of the popular spots without being noticed. The man really did take this whole reclusive act to the extreme.
She tried again, pushed a little harder and made him rock onto his back. He muttered something and snatched the blankets, pulling them higher over him. She blew out a breath.
“My lord,” she whispered, touching his shoulder again. “My lord, I would speak with you.”
He reached out for her and took her wrist in a firm grip. She didn’t realize what he intended until he tugged her close and she stumbled atop him, landing flat upon his hard chest. His other arm looped around her and pinned her to him. The breath shot from her lungs.
She struggled for several moments, fighting to wriggle from the strong arm but then the other released her wrist and looped about her, sealing her fate.
Oh boy. Fighting his hold proved impossible. She sagged into his hold, resigned to her fate, her cheek flat against his chest.
At least he no longer smelled of Lime cologne anymore. She might well have thrown up upon him if he did. No, instead he smelled of soap and musk—a rather stupidly appealing combination.
Warm against her cheek, his chest rose and fell with deep easy breaths. The cotton of his nightshirt was soft and she felt the texture of the crisp hair upon his chest through it. The temptation to close her eyes and follow said breaths and fall into a deep sleep of her own ate so deeply it made her stomach hurt. She had not enjoyed the touch of a man since the death of John and that had never bothered her before.
But then again, she hadn’t enjoyed John’s touch either—not since that very first year of their marriage when she thought them to be the perfect love match. So one could not totally blame her for enjoying the warmth and comfort. Really, she could be in the arms of any man and she might enjoy it. It had absolutely nothing to do with whose arms she was in.
Or did it?
No. This was silly. She put her palms to his chest and pushed away. Or tried to. Whatever he did for exercise, he did it well—giving him the sort of lean strength that meant he did not have one ounce of fat upon him. It made her more aware of how soft she was against his hardness, of the contrast between them.
It made her like it.
She grimaced and wriggled and pressed away with all her strength. “My lord,” she hissed. “You must let me go.”
He murmured something nonsensical, then rolled, dragging her with him. She peered at the dark shadows of his chest as she lay beside him. Were it not for the crushing hold he had upon her, it would be like they were lovers, waking up together.
At least the man wore a nightshirt, she supposed. If they were truly lovers, they would be naked together.
She rolled her eyes at herself. Now why did her mind have to go there?
“My lord,” she said through gritted teeth. “Let me go. Now.” She gave him a light slap on his cheek.
He roused abruptly, grumbling. Even in the darkness of the room, she made out the sudden snap from a soft, relaxed expression to a scowl.
“What the devil are you doing here?” His voice remained gruff from sleep. “And why are you hitting me?”
∞∞∞
Soft. Everything was soft. Apart from the palm to his face. Valentine shifted back marginally to peer down at the woman in his arms while he fought to make sense of the situation. The room remained dark, so the hour had to be early. He could not recall what day it was.
/>
Bloody hell.
Or how Chastity Whitaker came to be in his arms.
In...his...arms.
He stumbled over the words several times, trying to frame them in his sleep-addled mind. He kept getting distracted by the warm thighs lined up with his and the gently curving spine beneath his palms. He flexed his fingers against her body, and she gave a little squeak.
“Let me go,” she hissed.
Or more to the point—why was she in his bed?
He released her as though she’d scalded him. Which was not far from the truth. Every part of him remained heated from the contact. She rolled swiftly away and stood. The shadowy offering of his bedroom meant he had to stare at her for a while before being able to make out much of her features while she fussed with her skirts.
At least she was fully dressed, he supposed, which was more than he could say for himself. Of course, he had not expected her to be so bold as to slip into his room while he was sleeping or he might well have wrapped himself up in every layer of clothing he owned.
Especially given his current…uh…situation.
Who could blame him really? He was but a man and he’d been asleep. It was hardly his fault his body did not know the difference between a sensual woman and Chastity Whitaker. Not that she wasn’t sensual. Hell, the bloody woman seemed to breath sensuality. But his mind knew better.
Now he just needed to think of bland things. Dull things. Like turnips or cabbage. Or the long journey back to Devon. Or…the plays put on by the local theatre group at his estate. They were endless and exceedingly dull despite their best efforts.
He drew in a long breath. It was working.
Perhaps.
Finally, he found the mental capacity to push up to a sitting position. “What are you doing here?”
She hastened around his bed and swished open the curtains. He blinked at the sudden invasion of daylight and then looked to her. It would have been easier if they had remained in the dark.
Her cheeks were rosy. Embarrassed, no doubt, and it would be worse if she figured out quite what she had done to him. The brazen woman had no right to be sneaking into his room. If anyone spotted her...
Well, it would be worse for her than it would him, but he had no desire to be known to be bedding servants, even ones who looked like Mrs. Whitaker.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Oh!” Her gaze darted from somewhere around his chest upward. “I needed to speak with you. Alone.”
“And this was the only moment you could find?” Valentine scrubbed a hand over his face, lingering over the start of a beard.
She eyed his movements then gave herself a visible shake.
Valentine smirked. No doubt she was used to elegant dandies who cared more for how they looked than anything of substance. A society woman like Mrs. Whitaker would want to be in the company of those who cared for their appearance as much as she did.
Though, he had to admit, despite the uniform being nothing other than practical, the apron about her waist did flatter her figure and there was something mildly appealing about her hair in a cap, forcing one’s gaze to focus only on her features.
The heat lingering in his body flickered then ignited. Damnation. What was he doing to himself? He shifted in his bed and gritted his teeth then eyed the curtain behind her. Nothing of interest there.
Not that he was interested in Mrs. Whitaker. It was simply a natural reaction of having had a curvaceous lady in his arms. It had been some time since he’d bedded a woman after all.
Really, he would have reacted this way to any woman.
Of course, not just any woman was in his bedroom.
He subtly adjusted the bedding around him and fixed her with a stern glare. “Well?”
Her throat bobbed. “Um, it’s just...you know you do not need to be here.”
“In my bedroom?”
She laughed briefly. “Oh no. I mean in London.”
“You woke me up and risked being seen sneaking into my bedroom to tell me I do not need to be in London?”
“Actually, that was not my first point. But it is one of them. I was told you never spend longer than a few days here. I wanted to assure you I am entirely capable of investigating this on my own and that you may return to your estate whenever you wish.”
“How kind of you.”
“I did not mean it like that,” she snapped.
“Oh no, I knew precisely how you meant it. Lady Chastity wishes me to return home and I must do her bidding.”
She scowled. “It has been a long time since I have been a lady.”
“There is hardly any forgetting it,” he pointed out. “You might look like a servant, but you are a duke’s daughter through and through.”
“I believe I have your staff fooled.” She folded her arms.
“I’m trying not to think how Mrs. Cooke would react if she found out I knew of your deception. She would likely poison my supper.”
“Mrs. Cooke is protective of you.”
“Do you think I need protection?”
“Hardly.” She gestured to him. “Your scowl is enough to drive anyone away.”
He did not even think he was scowling at present. He thought a smile had been flickering upon his lips and he did not like it one jot. There were precisely zero things about this situation that were amusing.
Firstly, she was in his room when she should not be. Secondly, he had the memory of her all warm and lovely in his arms. Thirdly, he was bloody aroused, and it would not take much for her to spot it.
He could not bunch the sheets around him without drawing her attention but if he did not, they would reveal him. If only the evenings were cooler and he’d slept with a thick blanket. But naturally he had not anticipated Mrs. Whitaker invading his privacy.
Nor creating such a reaction. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt such desire eating down into the very core of him.
“The point of this visit, if you please, Mrs. Whitaker? Let me guess, you are leaving.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Please call me Chastity. I loathe Mrs. Whitaker.” She pressed her lips together, as though regretting the confession. “And I am not leaving.”
He kept his expression neutral, but he could not help note the admission. He knew little of her husband, save that he had been incredibly wealthy thanks to some previous generation’s business endeavors. Old enough money for a duke’s daughter to still be interested. But perhaps the money had not been enough.
Not that he cared. He didn’t need to know any of this. He needed her to find out what the servants knew and then be gone. That was it. Ideally, exceedingly soon.
“So apart from telling me I should not be in my own house, what else did you want?”
“Well, I have three suspects for who might have been his lover.” She dropped down on the end of his bed suddenly, dragging the sheets with her. “Oh!” Her gaze landed immediately on his crotch.
“God damn it,” he grumbled and snatched the sheets higher.
Her eyes remained wide. “Perhaps I should...” She leaped from the bed as though he were a snake about to strike and knocked into the washstand, making the bowl rattle and the jug waver for a few seconds, sloshing water over the porcelain.
Then she twisted again and stumbled when her foot caught on the rug underfoot.
“It’s a bit hard...” A hand flew to her mouth. “That is, to explain...right now.” She stilled, folded her arms, and lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “We can talk another time.” She gave a little dip, her gaze now cast down, and Chastity rushed out of his room as though she were a cat with its tail alight.
Valentine groaned and dropped his face into his hands.
He’d always known having her under his roof was a mistake, but this confirmed it more than ever. The sooner he found out what had happened to Julian, the better.
Chapter Seven
One benefit of having grown up in many grand houses and having run her own house was she knew a surprisin
g amount about being a maid. Most of her duties revolved around keeping everything clean and tidy and the earl was hardly the messiest of men so even with a relatively small number of staff, her duties were not as vigorous as they might be, had he been the rakish sort, who held balls and dinner parties and entertained ladies all the time.
She had to admit, it was rather refreshing.
Chastity paused to eye the bland landscape on the wall in front of her. The house held few family portraits save for one of a woman she assumed to be his mother. He had no siblings apparently and not even any close cousins. One would have thought he had been married at least once—much like herself—but no.
If he ever had love affairs, they were so secret that not even Charlotte, the most talkative of the maids, knew of one. He was, she supposed, the very epitome of a recluse. But did he feel no pressure to marry? To sire an heir? How baffling he was.
Of course, she had seen for herself he was not entirely immune to the opposite sex but she did not want to think on that. Or how it made her stomach flutter. After all, it likely meant nothing.
The door behind her opened and she jumped and swished a cloth over the picture frame as though it was the most important job in the world to her.
“Come with me.”
His voice rumbled through her, the timbre of it far too inviting. She stilled her hand and sucked in a breath when fingers latched around her wrist.
She tugged briefly before relenting, like a woman whose fate was sealed.
She had successfully avoided the earl for several days, but she could not delay speaking with him forever, especially considering he was her employer—in two ways she supposed. He might not be paying her to investigate Julian, however, Lord Kendall had been tantamount to her pursuing this investigation and he had declared her answerable to him.
Not a position she relished. It had been a long time since she’d been under the rule of a man. But it was necessary to securing her sister’s happiness.
He pulled her into the library, shut the door, and turned to her. She forced her attention upward. Whatever she did, she must not think on what she had seen the other morning. She must not think on it.
Temptations of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 2) Page 5