“At this particular point in time,” he drawled, “I can’t think of any reason not to.”
She closed her eyes as his delectable mouth brushed across hers. Like the touch of a flame, it ignited answering fires throughout her body. His damp hair trailed coolly along her cheek, and further drips found their way into the warm cleft between her breasts.
His mouth widened against her own and she pulled back to stare at him. Yes, incredibly, Lord Ansford was happy. And what a devastating smile he had. It knocked all the air out of her.
“You . . . you should smile more often.”
“I haven’t had much reason to, before now.” His deep, intriguing voice washed over her like a benediction as pleasure swelled within her.
“And you should come out more often with your hair down and no underclothes on,” he added.
There was a faint clink. Her nervous fingers had dropped the key. She made no attempt to retrieve it. Nor did he.
He reached out to the ties closing the flap at the front of her dress. She was completely in his thrall now, unable to do anything to restrain him as he tugged at the bow and smoothed the cloth back from her breasts.
Intent on what he was doing, Tia no longer clung to the tree. Instead, her hands were glued to the silken skin on his back, her fingers digging into the firm flesh, pulling his body closer. Her breasts were now bared to his view and his warm, knowing hands. One palm cupped her tender flesh and stroked it admiringly. She heard his breath catch in his throat as his other smoothed across the taut nipple, brushing its peak with his thumb.
Hot desire gushed into her belly, between her legs, in all her deepest, most intimate places. Oh Lord, oh Lord. This should not be happening. He was her benefactor, her superior, a dangerous, unpredictable man. There was no need to put herself even more into his power than she was already. And if this caress were to lead to anything more, what effect might it have on her future, her mother’s future?
No, it wasn’t worth the risk. Lust was shallow and quickly sated, she’d heard. Succumbing to it was too high a price to pay.
She was summoning her scattered wits to put a stop to the caress when Hal suddenly pulled away, swearing softly.
“What the deuce am I doing? Galatea, cover yourself, I beg you. Forgive me. I’m a fool and a brute—I’m so sorry. I swear on my worthless life I’ll never take advantage of you again.” He swung away from her and strode back to the pile of his clothes.
She collapsed against the tree like a deflated balloon. As her shaking fingers struggled with the ties of her dress, she sought to congratulate herself on a fortunate escape. But her body, throbbing with unfulfilled need, told her quite the opposite.
Moments later he returned, no longer a moon-etched god of the night, but an awkward and angry English aristocrat in a damp shirt.
“The key, if you please.”
She bent and fumbled about among the old acorns and leaf mold until her hand touched metal. As she handed it to him, his fingers brushed hers, and she experienced again the heady leap of desire. But he had already retreated from her, back into his melancholy isolation.
He hung the cord around his neck and gathered up his jacket. “I’ll walk you back to the house. I know my way through these woods far better than you.”
Eager now to be away from the man who’d exerted such devastating power, she kept her distance. Only when they reached the shadow of the archway did she break the loaded silence.
“My lord . . . Hal. I’m sorry I’ve mistrusted you. I hope you can forgive me for being such a nuisance. You have my promise I won’t pry into your affairs, or your past, any further. I’ll keep away from the folly, and the library, and the cloisters and—”
He turned and caught her gently by the elbow. “Galatea, I appreciate that promise. I insist on the folly alone being sacrosanct. Your presence in the rest of the abbey I find I can bear very well. In return, I ask only that you forget tonight and carry on exactly as you always did. Agreed?”
She peeped at him from beneath lowered lashes. Truly, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, particularly when his face was soft and earnest like this, mellowed by the darkness. She nodded slowly as he held the cloister door open for her to enter.
“I will,” she agreed.
But she knew it was a lie.
Chapter 18
Hal smote his fists on his desk, making the inkwells jump. This was the third time he’d attempted to check Lynch’s figures—and the third time he’d come up with a different total. Very well, if he wasn’t in the right state of mind for figures, he’d write the long overdue letter to his aunt, Dorothea. They’d barely exchanged a word since Mary’s death, but he knew Dorothea adored children and would love to know how Polly was getting on.
Reaching for a quill, he discovered it was blunt and started whittling it irritably with a pocketknife. His first attempt was a failure and all he achieved was blots. His second attempt was even worse, so he gave up in disgust and marched across to the window.
Flinging it open, he gazed out at yet another beautiful day, the first of July, the weather sultry and hot, the air filled with the lazy buzzing of bees and the distant cooing of doves. He wondered if Polly and Galatea would be outside enjoying themselves.
Galatea. Tia. His stomach tightened as he tried to thrust away the unwelcome memories of yesterday evening. What in heaven had he been thinking? He had no right to kiss her, to maul her in such a debauched way. Deuce take it, he’d never treated any woman in so ungentlemanly a fashion. Had he become a barbarian since his retreat from Society?
He chewed on an inky forefinger but barely noticed the bitter taste. Why was he letting himself care what Tia thought of him? By now, he should be indifferent to the opinions of others.
It wasn’t as if he’d set out to make an impression on the woman. Quite the opposite in fact, but now he found he couldn’t bear to have her thinking badly of him. Any normal fellow would find ways of making amends, but he’d removed himself so far from normality, he had no idea how to proceed.
Cursing himself for his cowardice, he’d deliberately avoided going down for breakfast this morning, knowing how uncomfortable the atmosphere would be. He would surely have betrayed himself with a look, a gesture, or the tone of his voice. Until he’d plotted out how to gain Tia’s forgiveness, it was best to avoid her.
Turning away from the window, he stared up at Mary’s portrait. These last three years, he’d continued to converse with her shade, asking it, too, for forgiveness. Now, there was no vestige of her left, except what he could see in the face and demeanor of Polly. Did his self-sacrifice, his punishing regimen, the monument he was building to Mary’s memory, serve anyone but himself?
And was he really doing the right thing for Polly by hardening her heart?
The blue-gray eyes in the painting stared back at him, bright and lively, as Mary had been in life. He waited for the familiar pang of distress, and when it didn’t come fast enough, forced himself to remember her as he’d last seen her, lying bleeding and broken at the foot of the folly tower. Closing his eyes, he reminded himself of the huge wash of guilt he’d experienced as he made that last, most painful farewell.
A soft tap on the door roused him from his reverie. His breath caught when he opened it to find Tia standing in the passageway, twisting her hands together in agitation. Steeling himself to show nothing but regret, he stood aside and ushered her in.
She walked across to his desk and pressed her palms flat on the top. Closing the door, he stood with his back against it and waited for her to speak. It wouldn’t do, venturing too close, not knowing how far he could trust his self-control.
“You didn’t come down to breakfast.” She kept her face averted as she spoke.
“No. You must know why.”
“You didn’t wish to see me. You di
dn’t want to remember what happened last night.” Was there a wobble in her voice?
“You’re wrong there, Tia. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what I did last night. I can’t forgive myself for behaving like a callow youth.”
She spun to face him, a charmingly rosy flush staining her cheeks. “Callow youth?”
“Precisely. No matter how much I might have wished to touch you, that was not the way to go about it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “So how should you have gone about it, Hal?”
Was she teasing him? “Can’t we let the subject drop? I asked for your forgiveness last night, and I beg for it even more humbly now. You have my permission to avoid me if you wish. I won’t blame you for it. If you want to slap my face, or stamp on my toe, perhaps empty a jug of water on top of me, please do so. I fully deserve whatever punishment you can derive.”
She raised an eyebrow at this. “I never thought to hear such humility from you. Believe me, I don’t expect you to do penance for a misguided action. However, I am thinking of blackmailing you with your indiscretion.”
He hadn’t expected that. His mouth twitched. “Out with it. What must I do?” He banished the grin. Ashamed he might be, but she mustn’t think him soft.
“I want you to let me take Polly to the fair. Mama doesn’t wish to go—she has an invitation with Mrs. Brooks she’d like to honor.”
“You don’t want to go to the Brooks’ too?” Secretly, he was pleased she hadn’t made mixing with the local gentry her priority.
“No. Polly has behaved herself impeccably, and as I mentioned before, has earned her reward. You’d be proud of her. Please say we can go. I’ll see she comes to no harm.”
“If your mama’s not going, who’ll chaperone you?”
The blush on her cheeks spread farther, heating her neck and—he was ashamed to notice—her breast. He grazed his fist against the stone of the door frame, needing the distraction of pain.
“I wondered if perhaps you would accompany us. The fair is on the twenty-second of this month.”
“Me?” He was flabbergasted. She wanted his company? Impossible.
“Indeed. It has to be yourself, or else a servant. I wasn’t sure you’d want us to go to Chippenham with only a servant. I need someone who can drive your Stanhope gig.”
“I’m certain I can spare Aldergate.”
She regarded him levelly for a moment with those melting brown eyes of hers. “For Polly’s sake, Hal, I think it had far better be you.”
“Galatea, please. How can I show myself in such a public place when I’ve lived here so quietly for so long? I’d find it intolerable.”
“You were once much used to being seen and heard in public. A country fair is nothing compared to the noisy chambers of Westminster or the glittering ballrooms of Carlton House. Or so I imagine. At the beginning of this conversation, you agreed to do whatever I asked.”
Silence drew out between them while she held his gaze expectantly. An unwelcome sensation, of being about to lose a battle, swamped him. “Very well, I’ll come to the fair. At least I have some time to prepare myself mentally.”
Her dark-lashed eyes still traversed his face, and her delightful rosebud mouth was solemn.
He rolled his eyes. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“I’m afraid so. I . . . um . . . I think we would attract less notice in Chippenham were you not dressed entirely in black. Perhaps a colored waistcoat for the occasion?”
Hal blinked. “A colored waistcoat? Tia, you ask too much.”
“And a blue superfine jacket instead of your black one?”
His mouth tightened. “If you’re ashamed to be seen with me, why ask me at all?”
“For Polly’s sake, as I told you. If you won’t change your apparel, can I at least cut your hair? I believe I’ve done a tolerable job with hers.”
“Symons always trims my hair.”
“Yes, but I wager he’s never had to cut it when it was so long before.”
Was there no winning an argument with the chit? He was beginning to think he ought to go back to avoiding or ignoring her.
There remained the option of sending her away.
Something close to panic sprang to life in the pit of his stomach and goosebumps broke out on his skin. Could he do that now? Could he really send her and her mother away?
“All right. You may cut my hair. Best do it now before I change my mind.”
“Now?” The blush seemed to have spread even farther. Exactly how far down her lovely breast had it progressed?
Running a finger around inside his cravat, he pondered his body’s reaction. He’d been chilled a moment ago, but now the room was unpleasantly hot.
Tia hesitated. Maybe she hadn’t expected so speedy a capitulation. She was nervous of him, anxious to get too close—not without good reason—and had perhaps hoped for time to build herself up to the moment. He’d stolen that time away from her and was fascinated to see if she would renege.
But Miss Galatea Wyndham was made of stern stuff. “Very well. I’ll fetch an apron.”
“And I shall ring for warm water to be brought up to my chamber,” he offered. He held the door open for her as she left, and paused there a moment, watching her trot down the stairs, wondering if she had any idea at all how momentous a decision this was for him.
He sincerely hoped that, unlike Samson, the shearing of his locks wouldn’t render him as weak as a child. For he was going to need all his strength to resist the allure of Miss Galatea Wyndham.
Chapter 19
With her new striped dress protected by a pinned apron, and fully armed with her sharpest sewing scissors, Tia arrived at Hal’s suite some ten minutes later.
The baron had replaced his outer clothing with a thin silk dressing gown, beneath which his shirt flopped open at the neck. A white towel hung about his shoulders, a second one within reach beside the porcelain basin.
She sucked in a breath and took a tighter hold on her scissors. The valet was absent.
Hal’s blue eyes met hers. “I sincerely hope I can trust you, Tia.”
“That remains to be seen,” she teased. “Now wet your hair for me, please.”
He sat forward and obligingly dunked his head in the basin, then reached blindly for a jug so he could pour more water over his head.
When he came up again, his hair clung to his face and neck in a way that reminded her vividly of how he’d looked the previous night, naked and dripping in the moonlight. A shiver of desire sang through her body. Hurriedly she thrust a towel onto his head and began kneading to take some of the dampness out, making sure he couldn’t see her expression.
When she’d regained control of her errant imagination, she draped the towel across his shoulders and took a fortifying breath.
What had she been thinking of when she offered to cut his hair? It meant she’d have to touch him, bend her head close to his, hear the sound of his breathing and smell the compelling musky scent of his body. How was she to keep her own reactions under control and wield a pair of scissors at the same time? If she couldn’t calm her response to him, he was going to end up an absolute fright.
She sensed him observing her and steeled her features to a businesslike demeanor. “First I must take out the tangles.” She jabbed a tortoiseshell comb into his hair. It caught in the knotted ends, and he winced.
“Bother. I’ll have to do it with my fingers.”
“I shall endeavor to be brave,” he promised.
She worked her way around him, striving to keep her distance, teasing out the knots between her fingers until she was able to apply the comb without resistance. Such thick, heavy hair. It sprang up from a widow’s peak and a central parting to frame his superbly sculpted face. But his locks were definite
ly too long.
As she reached for the scissors and began to cut, she sensed his gaze on her face in the mirror, like a physical caress.
“Why are you staring at my reflection?”
“Sorry. Am I putting you off?”
He most certainly was. “Yes.” She tutted in annoyance. Struggling to retain her composure, she circled to the front of him to tease some of his hair forward. It flopped into his eyes, causing him to close them, but this did nothing for her equanimity, as she was forced to brace her legs against his knees as she leaned toward him.
Damnation. Now she couldn’t get the vision of his moon-silvered, naked body out of her mind. It was as if someone had etched it onto the inside of her eyelids and it was all she saw, whenever she closed them. Or blinked.
Concentrate, Tia. Concentrate. She had a lethal weapon in her hands and, if she failed to wield it correctly, it would leave the eighth Baron Ansford looking worse than before she started.
Carefully, she thinned out the hair at the front, bringing it forward to brush his forehead, just enough to soften the hairline and partially conceal the worry lines that gave character to his brow.
Curse it. Now she had to fight the urge to run her fingers along the creases, smooth them out, rub away the furrow between the brows and stroke the soft skin at his temples.
She bit sharply on her lower lip to bring herself back to her senses. Best get the front part dealt with quickly, before attending to the back and sides. It was too easy to be distracted by the play of light and shadow on the man’s face, the strong cheekbones, the mobile mouth with its full, eminently kissable, lower lip.
What if she were to reach out a finger and trace the tantalizing crease between his lips? Or lean forward and brush her own against them? Would he once again become an elemental creature of the night, taking charge of her body, binding her soul?
For now, he was under her control, tamed, obliging. But she sensed the veneer of respectability was thin. He’d need little invitation to reach for her again, caress her breasts with his warm, knowing hands, and drag her hard against his body.
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