by Meara Platt
Stop thinking of him naked.
Of course, she couldn’t. The mere thought of Ian without a stitch of clothing turned her legs to pudding and left her heart pounding so hard its rampant beat could be heard across London. No doubt Ian heard its rapid thump, thump, thump.
She let out a light laugh, feeling a little shabby, for she had on a simple day gown of dark blue wool, albeit a fine merino wool, and her hair was simply drawn back in a dark blue velvet ribbon. “I never realized quite how morbid some of these songs are.”
“Will you play another for me? A merrier one this time.” He surprised her by sinking onto the piano bench beside her, his broad shoulders grazing her slight shoulders as he settled awkwardly, obviously feeling pain with his every movement. He made no attempt to draw away. Did he realize that their bodies were still touching?
Dillie felt a rush of heat to her cheeks, not to mention her heart was still thumping so violently it threatened to explode. “Of course. I’ll look through these.”
He leaned closer to peruse the folios propped on the piano’s music stand. She caught the scent of lather on his now beardless jaw, and the subtle scent of sandalwood soap along his throat. She ached to tilt her head and nuzzle his throat, shamelessly inhale great gulps of Ian air.
The folios fell from her hands and clattered to the floor. The smaller, unbound music sheets simply wafted across the room. “I’ll get them!” Her twin often eeped when she felt uncomfortable. No one had ever made Dillie feel uncomfortable until now. Her cheeks were on fire as she jumped to her feet and began to gather the scattered papers.
She sensed Ian’s amused gaze on her as she bent and twisted her body under various pieces of furniture to gather every last one of them. Her face was flushed, something she could blame on her exertion and not on her heated response to Ian’s stare.
He grinned at her when she sank onto the piano bench, folios in hand, and attempted to prop them against the music stand. “Here, let me help you,” Ian said, no doubt taking pity when she failed miserably to right them. He reached out to catch a few of the music sheets that were once again slipping away, and accidentally caught her hands, which were all over those folios.
“Eep.”
His big, warm hands remained on hers.
“Eep. Eep.”
He grinned, that sensual Ian grin all mothers warned their daughters about.
“Ian, I can’t play while you’re holding my hands. Eep. Eep.”
He appeared reluctant to release them, but it couldn’t be so. “What’s wrong with you? Do you have the hiccups?”
She nodded. “I often get them when I play the piano. Eep.” She turned away and rolled her eyes. He wasn’t the idiot. She was. She shot off the bench and rang for Pruitt, ordering tea and lemon cake for Ian and herself. To keep herself busy until the tea arrived, she made a show of clearing her throat, as though attempting to rid herself of the hiccups she never had. Satisfied with her turn at theatrics, she returned to her seat at the piano, careful not to touch any part of Ian’s big body. Even the slightest contact would cause her heart to burst.
She imagined what the gossip rags would report. Remains of one Daffodil Farthingale were found exploded all over well-used piano in the family’s music room. Notorious rakehell Duke of Edgeware last to see her alive. Cause of death was determined to be excessive rapture. “You’ll be more comfortable over there,” she said, pointing to a pair of cushioned chairs by the hearth.
“Are you that eager to be rid of me?”
She nodded, though it wasn’t for the reason he believed. A delicious heat radiated off his body. That heat, mingled with his divine scent and glorious, sinewy strength, was devastating to her resistance. In another moment, she’d be cupping his face in her hands and drawing him down so that his mouth met hers. All that stopped her was that she didn’t know how to kiss. Indeed, she was ridiculously incompetent at it. She’d only been kissed the one time, two years ago, and Ian had been the one doing the kissing. “I don’t wish to accidentally hurt you. I play with my elbows out and I might jab you.”
Ian shook his head and sighed. “I’m not delicate, Dillie. Ah, tea is here. Set the tray down on the table beside the hearth, Pruitt.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Ian winked at Dillie. “See, he doesn’t call me an idiot.” He held out his hand to her. “Join me. You can play that merry tune afterward.”
She ignored his hand, but agreed to move from the piano. She was eager to put some distance between them, though the chairs beside the fireside were only slightly separated by the small table upon which Pruitt had set the tray. She and Ian would still be too close for her liking, but not practically atop each other as they were on the piano bench.
He surprised her by taking her hand and placing it on his forearm. “I’m not delicate,” he repeated when she hesitated putting any weight on his forearm. “My injuries are healing nicely.”
“But they were serious. Half your body is still bound in bandages.”
He shrugged. “They’ll come off soon.” Then he shook his head and laughed. “I’ll give you fair warning before anything else comes off.”
She tried not to grin, but couldn’t hold back. “The sight of your naked backside as you rose from my bed is seared into my eyeballs. I’ll never forget it.” Her grin broadened. “Now I’m doomed to think of you whenever I look at a plate of firm and golden hot cross buns.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Firm and golden? I’ll accept that. Beats pale, wrinkled, and scrawny.”
He continued to gaze at her in a gentle, I’m-enjoying-your-company manner that made Dillie’s heart beat erratically fast again. She didn’t want Ian to like her. Nor did she wish to like him. She was used to his condescending arrogance, and found him easy to resist when he was his usual, irritating self. But a charming, attentive Ian was devastating to her composure. She wanted to climb onto his lap, put her arms around his neck, and kiss him senseless.
She cleared her throat as she reached for the pot of tea, struggling to concentrate on pouring the hot liquid into the delicate teacups and not all over her shaking hands. “I’ve given some thought to the Chipping Way curse. Quite a bit of thought to it actually,” she said, hoping to strike a casual tone.
“Have you now?” He eased into the chair beside hers and took the offered cup of tea, but he paid little attention to it as he waited for her to continue. What was he thinking? No matter, she preferred to do the talking.
“I have. And I’ve realized that you can’t possibly be the man I’m going to marry.” There, she’d said it. But his lingering silence began to put her on edge. “I’m sure you’re every bit as relieved as I am. Not that you believed in the superstition. Nor did I, not really. But one can never be too careful about such things.”
Still silent. Why wasn’t he pleased? Smiling in gratitude? She began to fuss over the refreshments, suddenly afraid to look him in the eye. Not that he was looking at her. He wasn’t. His gaze was now fixed on the fire blazing in the hearth.
“I see,” he said finally. “How did you come to that momentous conclusion?” He seemed tense as he spoke, but he couldn’t be. He’d made no secret of his thoughts on marriage. He didn’t wish to be tied to her any more than she wished to be tied to him.
“When my sisters met their husbands on Chipping Way... or rather, ran headlong into them on Chipping Way, it was their first meeting. It happened all four times. First Rose’s kiln exploded and Julian ran to her rescue. Then Laurel almost killed Graelem by running him down with her horse. Gabriel responded to Daisy’s cries for help and rescued our young cousin from a fast-moving carriage, and Lily met Ewan when his dog ran her over. These were all first meetings—love-at-first-sight sort of blinding bursts of attraction.”
“Like a brilliant show of fireworks.”
“Yes,” she said with a satisfied nod.
“And each first meeting was on Chipping Way.” Ian now turned to study her. “So that’s how you concluded t
hat we’re not destined for each other. Because you and I have known each other for about two years now, so our encounter of a few days ago couldn’t possibly be a love-at-first-sight sort of thing. But what of our first encounter? Two years ago.”
She tipped her head, confused. “It was an unusual first meeting, I will admit.” They hadn’t been properly introduced. In truth, they’d never met before. He’d swept her into his arms that night in her neighbor’s garden, wrapped his strong arms about her waist and drawn her so close their bodies had melted into one. She remembered it as though it had happened only yesterday. The memory of his hard, sinewy body in direct contact with her softer curves was still vivid.
Her body warmed each time she thought of it, but not because Ian had been holding her. Or kissing her. Holy crumpets! What a kiss!
No, it was simply because she had been so surprised.
Yet, she would never forget the way he’d lowered his head and... oh, the feel of his firm, possessive mouth on hers. Exquisite. Nor could she forget that all his heat and passion were meant for another. He’d simply come upon the wrong girl. “We both know I wasn’t the lady you expected to find.”
“But we did first meet on Chipping Way. Right next door in Lady Dayne’s moonlit garden, to be precise. You were hiding behind the lilac trees, spying on her guests.”
She set down the slice of lemon cake she was about to pop into her mouth, and felt the warmth of a blush begin to spread across her cheeks. Even the tips of her ears were hot. So was her neck. “But I was in her garden. Not on the street.” Though Rose and Julian hadn’t met on the street either. Their first meeting was right here, in the garden attached to the Farthingale townhouse. “And I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Well, not very wrong. I was merely curious about the party. You make it sound as though I were up to no good.”
“You were lurking in the shadows.”
She added two lumps of sugar to her tea, and then took a long sip in order to temper her hot retort. He was goading her again. But why? She was trying to put him at ease, assure him that there could never be anything more than friendship between the two of them. “I was innocently peering, not lurking. Since when is curiosity a crime? And speaking of innocent, your kiss was anything but that.”
He frowned lightly. “Don’t remind me. It isn’t my practice to frighten genteel young ladies.”
“We’ve gotten off the point.” She took another sip of her tea. “All I wished to say is that you’re not destined to be my husband. So we can both breathe a sigh of relief. I won’t be burdened with a husband who doesn’t love me, and you won’t be burdened with a wife you don’t want.”
He didn’t appear convinced. “If anything, you seem to have proved quite the opposite point. If there is such a thing as the Chipping Way curse, then you and I are doomed to wed.”
She shot out of her chair, her hands curled into fists at her side. “Are you purposely trying to distress me?”
He calmly set his cup down on the tray and rose to his impressive full height. “It’s you who has distressed me, Daffy.”
Ugh! He was riled. She hated when he called her Daffy.
“I hadn’t thought of our first meeting,” he continued, “until you made a point of raising it just now. As for sparks flying and love at first sight... well, it might not have been love, but that first kiss between us was anything but tame. Don’t even think to deny it.”
About to protest, she clamped her mouth shut instead.
He was still staring at her as he spoke. More like glowering at her. “I kissed. You responded. Ardently.”
She glanced toward the door to make certain no one was nearby. “How dare you!” she whispered harshly and came around the small table to stand directly in front of him. “I wasn’t ardent. I was struggling for breath. You had your tongue stuck halfway down my throat. And if you call me Daffy again, I’ll pour hot tea over your swelled head!”
“Are you seriously going to deny enjoying our first kiss?”
“Our only kiss. I hated it.”
There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Perhaps hate was too strong a word.
“You melted at my touch. Must I prove it to you again?”
“Go ahead. I dare you.” She tipped her chin upward in indignation. A bad move, because his arms clamped about her waist and the next thing she knew, she was up against him. Oh, he felt so good! Say no! Tell him to stop.
But she didn’t. She wanted that second kiss.
Ian, the bounder, must have seen the yearning in her eyes. He let out a wrenching groan as he closed his lips on hers. All rational thought fled her brain. She was left with nothing but a hot coil of sensation that wound tightly in her stomach and then burst throughout her body in a shower of flames.
She was so shaken she couldn’t remember her own name. Not even if her life depended on it. What was it again? Phlox? Peony? Bugloss?
He let out a husky, animal growl that cut the legs out from under her. In a good way. In the best way. Fortunately, she was still swallowed in his arms and he didn’t seem ready to let her go. She would have fallen otherwise. Her legs were softer than pudding. “Ian,” she whispered, her voice laced with exquisite agony.
He dipped his tongue between her lips, gently parting them. Gently probing. Not so gently invading her mouth as he deepened the kiss and urgently plundered. She was already hot, practically on fire, but it felt as though he’d turned up her furnace to as high as it could go. To infernal-fires-of-hell hot. And even hotter than that.
She felt so good wrapped in his arms, loved his strength and the heat radiating off his big body. Loved the warmth of his lips on hers, the subtle scent of sandalwood on his neck. Her hands moved higher, her fingers curling in his clean, thick hair to draw him even closer and keep his lips planted on hers.
Oh, no! This can’t be happening. We don’t like each other.
Or do we?
No! We can’t!
She was on the verge of tears by the time he ended the kiss. She didn’t want exquisite bursts of fireworks. She didn’t want starlight or intoxicating kisses in the moonlight with Ian. He was a hound and a dissolute. She refused to be another of his conquests, another notch on his bedpost.
“See,” she said, struggling to hold back sniffles. She was still in his arms and not quite ready to pull away. “Nothing. There’s nothing between us at all.”
“Right. I can see that.” He traced his thumb along the curve of her cheek. “Dillie, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I don’t know what the hell I was doing just now. I’m an idiot, as you well know. I know you don’t love me. What I made you feel was passion. Desire. I manipulated you into feeling these sensations. It isn’t the same as love. Don’t be afraid that it might be.”
“Are you certain?” she asked against his chest. She wasn’t crying. Not crying, though his shirt and vest were now moist. “Because if the Chipping Way curse applies to us, then I think I might jump in the Thames right now and let myself sink into that dirty water. I want a husband who loves me, who thinks I’m special. I’ll never have that with you. You don’t even like yourself.”
He sighed. “I think I had better go.”
She nodded, but remained leaning against him, loving the gentleness of his arms around her. “Yes, please do. You have a full pouch of work upstairs. I won’t detain you. I’ll close these doors once you leave so my piano exercises won’t disturb you.”
“No. I mean I had better go. Leave this house. I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He eased her out of his arms. “Will you be all right?”
She nodded. “Most certainly.”
“Very well, I’ll... in a moment.” He sighed. “Hell, I can’t leave you like this.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “How? Knowing that you have the power to melt my bones with your kisses? I should have known better than to challenge a rakehell at a sport in which he excels. You wouldn’t be much of a rakehell if you couldn’t kiss the slippers off a girl. It doesn’t change anything betwe
en us. You don’t wish to marry. And I don’t wish to marry you. Nobody’s hurt.”
He cast her an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll have my valet pack my things, what little was brought here. I’ll be gone within the hour.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “A wise plan. Oh, and Happy Christmas, Ian.”
He arched an eyebrow. “It’s a little early yet.”
“But Uncle George and I will be leaving for Coniston in a few days, as soon as his other important patient is on the mend. I doubt you and I will see each other until next year, so I thought to wish you happy holidays, even if it is a little early.”
He cast her an appealing, but guarded, smile. “Happy Christmas to you, Daffy.” He tweaked her nose, and then leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, a soft, lingering touch of his lips that was so poignantly tender it brought an ache to her heart. She realized this might be the last time they’d ever touch. Apparently, he realized it as well and wanted her last memories of him to be gentle. “I wish you every happiness,” he whispered.
***
Ian didn’t let out the breath he’d been holding until he reached the safety of Dillie’s room. His valet looked up in surprise as Ian shut the door and then fell heavily against it with a groan. “Pack up my belongings at once, Ashcroft. We’re leaving right away.”
“Your Grace, you don’t look at all well.” The poor man appeared quite alarmed.
“Didn’t say I was, but I have Miss Farthingale’s reputation to consider. I’ve been here almost a week and word is bound to get out if I remain in her care any longer.” Of course, the real problem was his raging desire for the girl. He’d kept it under control for two damn years, and then lost all reason and kissed her again in the music room.
He was an experienced scoundrel and ought to have been wiser, but no. He was still an idiot when it came to Dillie. Nothing had changed. She still turned his blood molten. His heart still slammed against his chest whenever she smiled. Her lips were still as soft and sweet as summer peaches.
Lord, he loved peaches.
Damn the girl. Damn her pure and innocent heart.