That was, if she went back, of course.
Eleanor made a face and moved over to the window. “She did not seem reliable.”
“We do not know that.” Demeter perched herself on the cream and gold chair opposite Chastity. “She said she—”
The bell for the front door chimed through the house. Demeter glanced at Eleanor. “Are we expecting anyone?”
She snorted. “No one wishes to visit with us. Not now I am a potential murderess.”
Aunt Sarah burst into the drawing room. Her cat ambled behind her, ignoring her flapping hands, and opting to jump onto the windowsill to stare out and judge whoever it was at the door.
“It is the Earl of Kendall.”
Chastity scowled as her stomach did several somersaults. Wonderful.
∞∞∞
Valentine felt as though he had walked into an art exhibition rather than the drawing room of one of the grandest houses in London.
Well, no. To be more precise, an art exhibition within the grandest house in London. A huge, elaborately woven rug made him aware of the grass he’d trekked across to get to the carriage. The cream sofa and matching chairs would fare no better with his horsehair-strewn clothing. When he glanced down, he spied red strands of horsehair against his buckskin breeches from a brief morning ride.
Even his beard itched.
The women stared at him. Scarcely a sound could be heard, and he suspected they all held their breaths. These sisters were a confounding lot. He’d been as close to his sister as a brother could be, but he’d never witnessed anything like the Fallon sisters and their aunt.
They remained frozen like statues as though they had been caught plotting to burn down Parliament or more likely cause him more trouble. Only the black and white cat upon the windowsill moved, his gentle licking of a paw preposterously loud in the silent room.
He set his gaze upon Chastity. The gown he’d seen her in last week was crumpled and he suspected beyond rescue. Of course, she would probably welcome the chance for a beautiful new gown. He almost did not blame her. With a figure like hers, all sensual curves, who would not want to dress them in beautiful silks and embroidery.
A sour taste rose in the back of his throat. What had happened to him? One night with the woman and he was willing to forgive all the follies of society?
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, the words coming out harsher than intended.
She cocked her head, revealing the elegant arch of her neck. “This is my house.”
“Well, you are my maid.”
The aunt chuckled.
Her lips rounded. He clenched the brim of his hat tighter. A mere glance at her lips and he was back at the inn, devouring them, tasting every generous inch of them. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to embarrass himself. While he might not care what Society thought of him, he could think of more enjoyable ways of spending his time than displaying his aroused cock to two innocents and one elderly woman.
“Would you like some tea, my lord?” Aunt Sarah asked, pulling the bell before he could refuse.
The aunt grinned widely and tugged her wrap tightly about herself. From her hair to her clothing, everything about Chastity’s aunt spoke of her lack of concern for the rules. Her gray hair hung loose and long and the bold purple sheath barely concealed the fact the woman wore pantaloons.
Was it any wonder Chastity was so bloody bold with an aunt like that?
Of course, fool that he was, he admired such an attitude. But Chastity was different to her aunt. She dressed appropriately at all times and cared about shoes and....well, other things. Society things. Things he did not give one fig for.
Did she not?
“I came because I heard of this witness,” he said.
“That was quick. I only just heard of it from my sister.” Chastity nodded her head toward Lady Demeter Fallon.
Demeter grimaced. “That woman was loud and demanding. No doubt the servants heard what she wanted.”
“Well?” he demanded. “What did she want? What did she have to say?”
“Such concern.” Aunt Sarah pressed a hand to his arm. “It is to be admired. There are few men of your standing who would care as much.”
He met Chastity’s gaze despite himself. She hadn’t uttered another word about his father’s manner of death and from the sour look she gave him, she had told no one else either, not even her sisters to whom she appeared to be so close. He supposed it was more than appearance, though. After all, she had put herself through such laborious work simply to free her sister of rumors that would never amount to anything.
Damn it. Did he have to keep finding things he admired about her? He desired her—he could not deny that. But it was physical and that could be conquered. A few additional lengths of the lake once the sun had dropped ought to do it.
“The woman claims to have seen someone running away from the house that evening,”
Demeter explained.
“Someone?” Chastity asked.
“A man. She could not describe him, though. It was too dark by then.”
“That’s not helpful,” Chastity muttered.
“Who was this witness?” Valentine pressed.
“A...lady of a certain reputation,” Lady Eleanor whispered.
A whore then. He shook his head. “We should not take her at her word.”
“Because of what she has been forced to do?” Chastity rose from the chair, her skirts falling back into place and highlighting the deep indent of her waist.
Her shoulders pushed back, and he bit back a groan. Was everything this woman did designed to frustrate him?
“Did she ask for coin?” He addressed Demeter, who glanced at the floor and nodded.
“There.” He gestured to Chastity’s sister. “She wanted coin and conjured up a false witness.”
“But do you not see? I have been speaking to women in the household. I should have been speaking to the men.”
“Or the woman lied, and we still have no idea who it was and at this rate, we shall never find out.”
“Even if she saw someone, they could have been doing anything.” He folded his arms and drew himself up to his full height. Though he was already taller than all four of the women so he could not fathom why he needed to.
“I do not think I can come home,” Chastity told her family. “I should see if I can find out anything from the male servants.”
“You were going to come home?” he asked, the words feeling hollow in his throat.
He’d nearly been free. The torment would have been over.
“I thought the maid charade should come to an end, yes.” She twined her fingers together in front of her. “But I need more time, I think.”
The faint thrill of triumph burned up through him like the wick of a candle that had been cut too long. He crushed it down. Hard. He wanted her out. Now. Sooner if possible.
“Accompany me in the carriage. Mrs. Cooke will notice your absence before long and I cannot make excuses for you.”
She took a step forward, then paused. “You can drop me off at Printer Street. I’ll walk from there.”
“Of course.”
He grimaced. Perhaps the Lord was punishing him for his many sins. It was the only explanation. Or she had finally done it and he should be put into an asylum for good. Because why in the devil had he volunteered to spend yet more time alone with her?
Chapter Fifteen
Fool. That was the only word to describe her.
Or halfwit, she supposed. Nincompoop too. Buffoon perhaps?
Very well, there were many, many words to describe her and none of them were flattering.
Chastity stared at the embroidered interior of the town coach, occupying herself with following the golden swirls with her gaze over and over. Anything to distract herself from her own idiocy. She gripped the leather seat beneath her as they bounced over a particularly rutted street. Valentine barely spared her a look.
Of course, there were numerous reasons to call h
er any number of things. Firstly, she had only thought to question the women in the household, believing this idea Julian was desperately in love to be behind his death, but did she not recall how John had died? Men rarely died at the hands of women.
Then she had decided to go back to her position as maid. She had given up comfort and pleasure to go back and work her fingers to calloused stumps. Oh yes, and to try to spend her time avoiding Valentine.
What an excellent job she had done of that so far.
To compound her stupidity, she had been so flustered at his appearance at her father’s house that she had forgotten to change and slip out of the back of the house so now she would have to hide behind a bush to change once more.
Or do it here.
She glanced at Valentine’s stoic expression. The wiry hair on his chin made her hands twitch. She recalled pushing her fingers through it and the tips of her fingers tingled. She’d only ever associated beards with elderly gentlemen or the portraits of ancestors from centuries ago. Never before had she thought them appealing but there was something wildly exciting about his lack of care for fashion.
Heck, if he could torture her with his stupid beard, she could torture him with undressing here in the safety of his carriage.
She contorted herself to find the top button of the gown.
His dark gaze met hers. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Unless...” She struggled to press the button through the loop, “...you wish me to try to undress in a bush again, I need to get back into my uniform.” She nodded toward the bundle upon the seat next to her.
“Stop that,” he ordered.
“I need to change.”
“Why you need to insist on changing all the time I do not know.”
“I cannot have the servants see me in a maid’s uniform. Word of my disguise will spread within hours. You already heard of this witness, after all.” The first button successfully popped through the loop and she narrowed her gaze as she focused on finding the next little fabric-covered button.
“I bet a man designed these,” she muttered.
“What?”
“A man probably designed these buttons.”
“I would have thought a modiste designed your gown.”
“My gown, yes, but not the idea of tiny little buttons.” She blew out a breath and shoved the next button through. “He probably decided it was a good way of making his wife’s life more difficult.” She affected a masculine voice. “Oh I know how to keep my wife from nagging me about how much time I spend at White’s. I shall simply ensure she has to while away the hours trying to get out of her wretched gown.”
“Not all men hate their wives.”
“In my experience, they do.” She pressed her lips together and let her hands drop to the side. Why had she said such a thing?
The clacking of the wheels on the dry ground and the gentle tap of the lamps on the side of the vehicle were deafening compared to the sudden silence that fell over them.
“I hate these gowns anyway.” He gestured up and down her.
“You do?”
“I cannot stand seeing you this way.”
She blinked a few times. “Goodness, that’s a little extreme.”
“All...ladylike.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “I am a lady.”
“I know. And I hate it.”
Well, she had little idea how to respond to that. Most men thought her attractive indeed in her finest gowns. Her late husband had preferred it when she dressed properly and could usually be counted on to only make one or two snide remarks if she did not have the latest fashions. She was to be an ornament on his arm of course.
The gown slipped from her shoulder and his gaze flew to her bare skin. His jaw ticked.
She eased out a breath. “I do not see what I am meant to do about being ladylike.”
His gaze grew blacker as his pupils widened. “I know what to do.”
All the air sucked from the carriage, leaving her lungs starved. Every fiber of her being contracted. Getting in the carriage had been a huge mistake. Undressing in front of him even more so.
All she had to do was tap on the roof and get out. Go change in a wretched bush again. She’d done it before, and she could do it again.
Her hands were weighted though. Her body had to weigh as much as the carriage. She could not move a muscle let alone open her mouth to tell him to stop.
He moved forward, his gaze never leaving hers. She could not even tell him to cease with her eyes, but instead she found herself willing him to come closer. He dropped to his knees in front of her and put his hands to her thighs.
She gasped. His touch seared through the fabric. She watched while he bunched up the fabric, revealing the ribbons at the top of her stockings and the skin there. When he pressed apart her thighs and ducked his head, she feared she might pass out. Letting her head loll back against the soft seat, she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from crying out.
The warmth of his breath teased the tender skin of her thighs. She closed her eyes and gave into the need to touch him, winding her fingers through his soft, too long hair.
He shocked her with one long swipe of his tongue, making her jolt from the seat and press hard against his mouth. He used the opportunity to slide a hand higher and cup her bare rear. Then he teased her with his tongue, settling upon her most sensitive spot. He grumbled a sound of appreciation and she gasped.
“More,” she begged.
Oh yes, she was the biggest fool in Christendom. And for some reason she was a fool for this argumentative, brooding man.
∞∞∞
Need thrummed through Valentine’s veins. Not to claim or possess but to have her quivering in his arms again. Maybe even crying out his name. He didn’t have to wait long. The rhythmic rocking of the carriage aided his ministrations. He clutched Chastity tight, his gloved fingers sinking into yielding flesh as the scent of her filled his carriage—soap and musk.
A groan escaped him when she clutched him tight and squirmed against his mouth. The first tremors of her pleasure quivered through her thighs and he moved his tongue faster, harder.
Then it happened. His scalp tingled in pleasure-pain from where she gripped him.
And she called his name.
If he had not been so preoccupied between her thighs, he might have punched the air in triumph. He had little idea as to Chastity’s history of lovers but none of it mattered at present because she had said his name. No matter what happened between them in future, he had this moment, those syllables upon her lips echoing in his ears from here to eternity.
He rose slowly and settled her skirts over her legs before sitting. When he met her gaze, he knew things had changed for her too. She eyed him, her cheeks flushed, and she sagged against the seat. He could not help but grin.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“I prefer you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Not so ladylike.”
She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Because now I match your ungentlemanly appearance?” She gestured to his beard. “I still do not understand why you do not shave.”
“Is that a complaint?”
She shook her head. “It does have a certain appeal but surely you can see it draws disapproval?”
He lifted his shoulders. “I do not care for anyone’s approval.”
“At least we make a good match now,” she said on a sigh then straightened, her eyes widening. “Not that—”
He held up a hand. “We make a good match,” he agreed. “At least in the bedroom.”
“Yes.” Tidying her skirts, she plucked at a crease and tried to smooth it between two fingers. “Or the carriage,” she murmured, her lips curving.
“That too.”
Her gaze lifted to his, two sea-green pools that he could not help but read as full of desire. Still. For him of all people. It wouldn’t take much from her. The slight purse of her lips or the arch of her neck and he’d
be willingly back on his knees and drawing out every ounce of pleasure from her while he ordered his driver to loop the entirety of London.
“What are we to do about this?” She gestured between them.
“I can think of a few things.” He kept his tone low and saw a tiny shiver wrack her shoulders.
It gratified him to know she felt this as intensely as he did. This desire knew no rhyme or reason. It did not care that she was technically in his employ or that despite sharing similar circumstances of birth, they were from different worlds. He had narrowed his eyes to a sliver. Hers were wide open. He still wanted no part of that.
But his fingers flexed with the need to touch. His mouth dried when he thought of kissing her again. His cock twitched as he recalled driving into her softness. This desire for her would not abate if he did not satiate it. He could blame too long being celibate, but it was more than that.
It was her.
“Valentine, be serious.”
“I’m deadly serious.” He held up a hand, ticking his fingers off one at a time. “My bed, a chaise maybe, a plush rug in front of a fire...”
“It’s summer,” she pointed out.
Damn. And if his plan worked, he would not have her in his arms by winter. He shoved away the feeling clawing deep at his gut that felt too much like regret for his liking.
“The library,” he added.
Her dark brows rose. “The library?”
He nodded.
“It sounds as though you have been thinking about this.”
“Most intently.”
Her mouth tilted. “Good. So have I.” She folded her arms, drawing his increasingly distracted attention to her curves.
Her gown remained draped across one shoulder. If anyone had ever told him his strong self-control would be snapped by a mere shoulder, he might have laughed at them but that bare shoulder was responsible for quite a lot at this point. It was going to change the course of his life—at least temporarily.
“We should pursue this,” he declared. “At least while you are investigating. Clearly, I cannot control myself around you...”
“And I do not seem to have much control either.”
Valentine managed to keep his expression and shoulders straight, but the fact she suffered as much as he pleased him. If he was to have to suffer, at least he would not do it alone.
Temptations of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 2) Page 12