“Come here.” He crooked his fingers at her. “Barnes is going to make a pot of coffee—real coffee, not the swill they have in Frome.”
“No, I—I think I should return home.” She cast another awkward glance at the servant. “Thank you for taking me in last night, when I became lost in the rain.”
Charlie met her gaze evenly. He knew as well as she did that Barnes, of all people, wouldn’t believe that tale. “Barnes would never breathe a word of anything improper he might witness in my employ.”
“Absolutely not, my lord,” said the valet promptly. “Not that I ever see anything improper in your household.”
“Precisely. And what sort of host would I be if I let a woman who caught a chill in the rain last night walk over a mile into Frome this morning?” Tessa bit her lip, and Charlie sat up. “Barnes makes very good coffee. Not quite as superb as my chef in London, but highly palatable.”
“I do my best, my lord,” murmured the valet.
“Go to it, then,” he said, watching Tessa. She looked scrumptious, wearing his dressing gown with her hair streaming down her back in wild waves. If she’d stop watching Barnes as though the man were a constable come to arrest her, Charlie was sure he could get her back into bed for a proper morning greeting. And then there would be coffee. “Make it strong, and bring some treacle with it.”
Barnes slipped silently from the room. Tessa edged away from the door to let him out, but then didn’t come any closer. Charlie threw back the blankets and got out of bed to fetch her. “Were you planning to sneak out on me?” he asked, closing the door with one hand and reaching for her with the other.
“Yes,” she said, staring in fascination at his chest.
“Ah.” He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, then to her palm. “Why?”
“Charlie, you’re naked . . .”
“Yes.” He kissed the fluttering pulse on the inside of her wrist. “Do you find that objectionable?”
Her gaze dropped lower. He loved the way her face stilled in open desire when she looked at him. “No.”
He smiled. “Then come back to bed.”
“Eugenie will be worried,” she said, letting him lead her.
“So she will be.” He left her beside the bed and went to a writing table across the room, coming back with a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper. “Lie down.”
“Why?”
“So I can write her a note, easing all her fears,” he explained reasonably, tugging her hands away from where she still clutched the dressing gown closed. “You could be more cooperative. Remember this is for Mrs. Bates’s peace of mind.”
“I don’t think this is the most efficient way to write a letter,” she said, but she let him lead her to the bed.
“How your mind works,” he exclaimed, divesting her of the dressing gown and then the shift. “Who said I must be efficient about it?”
She was trying not to smile as he pressed her back until she lay on the bed, her hair fanned across the discarded dressing gown like a mermaid’s, caught out of water. “I don’t think this is a decent way to write a letter.”
“Hold still, or my penmanship will be deplorable.” He laid the paper on the flat plane of her belly and set the ink between her breasts.
“Charlie,” she said, before her voice dissolved into a long sigh as he leaned over her to swirl his tongue over one nipple.
“Yes?” He continued as he was, and she even cupped her hand behind his head as he sucked lightly on her flesh.
“You’re going to spill the ink,” she gasped as he moved to her other breast.
“Indeed,” he murmured, groping for the pen. With a magnificent effort, he sat back on his heels and surveyed her, spread out before him like a pagan sacrifice. “Very well, if you insist . . .” He nudged her knees apart and moved between them. She shifted to allow him, and even linked her ankles behind his back. “Now I can begin.” He uncapped the ink and dipped his pen, settling his elbows comfortably astride her thighs. “ ‘Dear Mrs. Bates,’ ” he read aloud as he wrote, “ ‘have no fear for Tessa. She is safe with me.’ ”
She laughed.
“Be still,” he scolded her. “You’ll smear the ink.”
“It tickles,” she protested.
“Good.” He lowered his head to kiss the middle of her belly. “You ought to be tickled more.”
“With an ink pen?”
“Then let me finish.” He dipped the pen again. “ ‘After wandering out in the rain, she happened by my cottage, and I took her in so she wouldn’t catch pneumonia,’ ” he wrote. He’d have to seal this letter before Tessa saw it, for his handwriting was a misshapen scrawl at best. His eyes were drawn more to her pert breasts, cradling the ink pot, and to the easy, almost dreamy look on her face as she stared at the ceiling and idly twirled a lock of hair between her fingers. She looked so happy—with him. She was also lying naked on his bed, partially wrapped in his dressing gown, which was sinfully seductive. He needed to finish this letter immediately. “ ‘As soon as I am satisfied she is in no danger, I will return her to you in Frome,’ ” he added to the letter, ignoring the splatter of ink on the last word and signing his name with a flourish.
“In no danger.” There was a smile in her voice as she twisted her head to look at him. “With you?”
“You are in very great danger of being thoroughly ravished before you have coffee,” he told her, capping the ink and removing paper and pen to the floor behind him. “I didn’t think it prudent to say that to Mrs. Bates, though.”
Her smile bloomed, mysterious and coy. “I didn’t even ask for coffee.”
“Good.” His answering grin felt wolfish. “Barnes takes a long time to prepare it.”
He bent over her again, no paper or ink in the way. This time he was in no rush. Today, in the bright light of day, he had all the time he wanted to explore her skin, as smooth and fine as fresh milk. He found the small mole on her right knee, and kissed it until she laughed. He studied the lofty arch of her foot, and how her toes curled when his fingers brushed them. He was entranced by the hollow of her navel, the delicate lines of her ribs, the plump curves of her breasts.
He supposed he spoke, effortless mindless words that spilled out of him, not to seduce or impress but only to marvel at her. At times she murmured replies, although he was too lost in a haze of desire to distinguish the words; all he recognized was the tone, the meaning. She liked what he did. She was every bit as lost in him as he was lost in her. For once, there was no argument from her lips. Everything he whispered, he did, and she responded to it like straw to a flame.
It was almost ironic, really; the most idle rake in London found himself undone by a woman who knew no artifice, who practiced no seductions, who told the truth even when it was the foolish thing to do. She opened her eyes, her pupils so wide with arousal her startling eyes were almost black, and Charlie knew that any chance he’d had of letting her go was gone.
“Do you want me?” he breathed. “Here?” His fingers ran up her thigh, into the dark curls there, until she convulsed with a gasp.
“Yes.” Her nails dug into his wrist as she tried to pull him closer.
“Now?”
She nodded, a feverish flush overtaking her face. “Yes!”
Sweat broke out on his brow. He was in real danger of coming right now, his erection so hard it hurt. But he loved hearing her voice, breathless and throbbing with need. Tessa, so in control, so poised, so sure of herself, melted into a puddle of the same incoherent lust that was drowning him. He didn’t want to blink and miss a moment of it.
He pushed two fingers inside her, flicking with his thumb. She made a strangled squeak, and then her own hands covered his. Rocking her hips back and forth, she guided his hand, showing him how to touch her, inside and out. His vision narrowed down to that sight, and he almost stopped breathing.
“Now,” he growled, yanking his hand free. With one arm he swept her up, toppling her over onto her hands and knees. So eager his hand shook, he pressed the head of his cock against the soft, wet entrance to her body. “My God,” he choked, sliding deep. “Tessa . . .”
“Yes,” she sighed, bowing her spine, driving her hips against his. He held her still a moment, just to get himself back under control, and then he didn’t, holding her by the waist as he stroked into her. When she dropped her head and her shoulders dipped, he paused only long enough to roll her onto her back. He wanted to see her face when she reached completion—he could see it coming, from the way her breath shifted and her arms tensed—
And then her eyes squeezed shut and she threw back her head, her lips parting in a sensual, soundless cry of release. Charlie barely had time to catch his breath before the convulsion of her body pitched him right over the edge into his own release.
For a while he thought it had killed him. There was a buzzing in his ears and his lungs seemed to have stopped. When he finally dragged in a full breath, it was Tessa he inhaled—the passion-damp scent of her skin, the faint hint of rosemary in her hair, the fresh bite of rainwater. Her head was turned away from him, but he could see her profile when he forced his eyes open, sated and content and even blissful. Warmth bubbled up inside him, bringing a smile to his lips. He relaxed, brushing a light kiss on the pulse at the side of her throat.
Even God couldn’t help him now. He was absolutely lost.
Chapter 16
By the time Barnes brought the tray with coffee, Charlie had dragged the blankets back over them. Tessa wasn’t sure she would ever move again, but she jumped like a startled deer when the valet knocked lightly at the door. Charlie only grinned as she grabbed for the covers and sank still lower beneath them when the valet came in bearing a tray covered with dishes and a pot whose fragrance made her poke out her nose like a hound on the scent of a fox.
“What sort of coffee is that?” she asked after Barnes had set the tray down and bowed out of the room.
“The best sort,” Charlie replied, getting out of bed and going to the tray. “Not merely palatable, but delectable. Do you like it sweet?”
“A little.”
He gave her a raffish grin. “Excellent. Prepare to be overwhelmed by ecstasies of delight.”
Tessa laughed as she sank back into the pillows. She already had been overwhelmed by ecstasies of delight, and they had nothing to do with coffee of any kind. She watched Charlie, still naked, pour and prepare two cups of coffee. He was beautiful, long-limbed, strong and lean, his skin golden in the morning light. His dark hair fell in rumpled waves around his neck, sliding forward to hide his face as he poured milk into the cups. Helplessly her eyes feasted on his arm, how the muscles moved as he stirred, how his fingers gave a little tap to the spoon before setting it down. He twisted, reaching for something else on the tray, and her gaze slid down the strong lines of his back. She admired his legs, strong and muscled from years of riding, and thought of how those legs felt tangled with her own. How his feet, so much bigger than her own and yet elegant as well, gently batted hers under the covers. He stooped to collect the coffee, and she almost leered at his backside, as firm and perfect as the rest of him. It made her blush to think how she was lying here ogling him, until he cast a simmering look over his shoulder.
“Are you enjoying this, madam?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s not every morning a gentleman makes me coffee.”
He turned fully around, as aware of his beauty as she was. “Your passion for coffee must exceed my own, judging from the look on your face.”
She blushed hotter. “It isn’t every morning a handsome, naked gentleman prepares my coffee. I find I like it exceedingly.”
He laughed. “And you haven’t even tasted the coffee!”
For the way he looked at her, and the way he settled back in bed so comfortably beside her, drawing her close to his side with one arm, Tessa thought he could serve her water drawn straight from the Thames and she would enjoy it. He handed her a steaming cup, and she smiled, raising it to her lips for a sip.
“Well?” prodded Charlie a moment later, watching her from beneath lazy eyelids with a knowing smile.
“It is divine,” she sighed, sipping more. “More than divine. I’ve never tasted the like!”
“Good,” he murmured, raising his own cup.
“How did you learn to make this?” She inhaled over the cup before taking another long, rapturous sip. “I could drink the whole pot!”
“Now I have spotted your weakness,” he said. “Ah, yes, Barnes did rather well today. Almost as well as Gilbert, my London chef.”
“Your chef makes better coffee?” she exclaimed. “Good heavens, how?”
“I have no idea, but I pay him a fortune to continue making it.” Charlie leaned his head back against the wall and sighed, feeling exceptionally pleased with the world today. Tessa, curled warm and soft, against his side, moaned with sensual pleasure every few minutes as she sipped his mixture of coffee, treacle, and whipped milk. Barnes was a clever man, to bring everything ready in separate pots so he could have the glory of mixing it himself for her. Charlie rather liked that look of incredulous admiration on her face, as if he’d hung the moon and stars for her.
She finished her coffee and looked into the empty cup with a sad sigh. “You really are the most wicked fellow.”
“Ah, but you seem to enjoy this bit of wickedness.”
“I do,” she admitted readily.
“You also seemed quite pleased last night.”
“Vanity,” she accused him with a smile and a faint blush. “You know I was.”
“I like making you happy.”
Her smile turned dreamy. “You do.”
His heart constricted. He looked at her lying easy and relaxed in his bed, her hair wild around her bare shoulders and her eyes soft and glowing—at him. She looked at him not with coquetry and calculation, not as an earl, heir to a wealthy dukedom, but with warm, open affection. And the realization that she cared for him, not for his title, struck him like a blow to the chest. He wanted to make her happy forever. He wanted to see her look at him this way for the rest of his life. She saw him as he was, and admired him all the same. When he was with Tessa, he wanted to be a better man, even as he wanted to make her laugh and make her sigh in pleasure and hold her next to him every minute of the day.
“I must return to Frome,” she said, although without the stiff, uneasy tone she’d used the last time she said it. This time it sounded more like regret. “Eugenie will be wild with worry.”
Charlie took a deep breath. Barnes had sent off his letter to Mrs. Bates, who—he hoped—would understand its real meaning. And whatever damage was done by Tessa’s overnight stay at Mill Cottage would hardly be undone by her return to town now. “I was hoping you’d stay. I would like your help.”
Her eyes opened, bright and curious. “With what?”
He smiled grimly. “Exposing Hiram Scott.”
“Is this all?” She surveyed the stack of cursed marriage registers with a distinct lack of apprehension. By the time the coffee was gone and they ate breakfast, Barnes had produced her frock, looking quite as good as new. Charlie offered to help her dress, but his true motives must have been plain; she batted his hand away, laughing that he would spend the entire day in bed when there was work to be done. It was shocking, the effect her attitude had on him. Once he explained what he had to do, Tessa was ready to get down to it, and strangely enough, Charlie even found himself filled with renewed determination.
He flipped one journal open. He had explained everything to her, about the clues his father left and the progress Gerard had made, the role they suspected Scott had played in their disgrace, and how he needed proof to establish his right to the dukedom. He would have told her everything anyway, b
ut it had struck him that of all the people he knew, Tessa was the most likely to be able to help. She had a logical mind and the diligent patience he lacked. Even the full revelation about Scott only made her mouth tighten and her eyes flash, though the man had done her almost as great a harm. And as he should have expected, she was ready to tackle the problem at once, which was what brought them out into the sunshine and the little table where he’d first offered her lemonade, ready to face the wedding registers—but this time together. And it didn’t seem so ominous anymore. “They are sixty years old or more, faded from age and half ruined with damp. What I’m looking for may not be in them at all. So you see it’s really not as simple as finding an entry for new stockings in the household accounts.”
“But there are only eight, and you’ve already scoured three. Does Mr. Scott know about these?” She took the chair he pulled out for her.
“I’ve no idea.” Charlie looked at the registers again and remembered his brother’s tale of discovering them buried in a stable in a remote country village. “I believe he does not.”
“Excellent.” She gave a rather vindictive smile as she picked up one register and opened it. “Then he will have no suspicion we’re about to trap him.”
“If he has any indication of it, he’s hidden it remarkably well.”
“Snakes never have telling expressions.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “You’ve taken his actions remarkably in stride.”
She calmly turned the pages and settled back to read. “Why do you think I’m helping you ruin him?”
Charlie stared at her a moment, then burst out laughing again. “God help me if I ever cross you!”
“As if you haven’t already done so, many times!” she exclaimed in apparent affront, but he could see the smile lurking at the corners of her mouth.
The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke Page 20