Kathryn Smith (12 page)

Blythe’s half boots clicked softly on the pale rose stone floor. The stone was smooth and unpolished, and the high luster of the marble made its circular patterns stand out all the more. Even though she had stood in this hall many times, it never ceased to take her breath away.

She snuck a glance at Devlin. Part of her wanted him to share her love for the house, while another part wanted him to hate it so that it might still be hers.

He gazed around the hall in unconcealed wonder. “It is amazing.”

Blythe smiled at his awe. “Yes. It is. Come. Let us look around.”

She should be trying to talk him out of buying the house rather than asking him to tour its rooms and share his plans for them, but she loved Rosewood. Even if it was against her best interest, she wanted Devlin to see its beauty as well. Of course there were things that needed to be repaired—the staircase banister, for example, and some plasterwork in one of the drawing rooms—but nothing serious.

First they walked through the curved corridor with its collection of Dartmouth ancestor portraits.

“I hope Dartmouth plans on taking these with him,” Devlin remarked, staring at one particularly sour-looking woman.

Blythe couldn’t help but smile. “I imagine he will.”

They then moved through the large, welcoming library, several small parlors and drawing rooms, a gentleman’s
study, dining room, games room, music room and then up the stairs to the family rooms. Devlin looked at each room and their covered furniture with obvious pleasure, but it wasn’t until they reached the master suite that Blythe knew she was in trouble.

He entered first, stripping the holland covers as he went. Blythe was right behind him, coming around on his left so she might see the expression on his face when he saw the room in all its splendor. His face lit up like a child’s at Christmas.

Mahogany furniture complemented a blue, gold, and wine Axminster carpet with a simple diamond and fleur-de-lis pattern. Deep blue velvet curtains draped the floor-to-ceiling windows. The walls were a soft beige with no other accent except a few paintings, each of which was crafted with bold strokes in deep jewel tones that matched the carpet. The ceiling was pale cream with delicate yet simple plasterwork, but it was the bed that was the true focal point.

The frame and posters were made of solid, beautifully carved mahogany. The mattress was almost three full feet off the ground, with polished steps at the bottom for those who needed assistance climbing up. The bed itself was also long enough and wide enough for two large adults to lie down and not touch unless they wanted to. There were no hangings to take away from the beauty of the wood, only a dark blue velvet bedspread that matched the drapes and several gold and wine cushions to add more color.

Devlin immediately went to the bed. “
This
I’m keeping.”

Blythe didn’t tell him that Lord Dartmouth intended to include the bed, as well as most of the furniture in the house, with the sale. She wanted to tell him, wanted to be the one to give him the happiness such knowledge would bring, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

She watched, a large lump in her throat as he tossed himself onto the bed. He lay there, across the width of the mattress, his boots hanging over the side.

“You have to come try this,” he enthused.

“I cannot lie down with you,” she admonished, even though she wanted to. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

No, it would be downright
dangerous.

Smiling, he left the bed and came toward her. His smile was entirely too cocky and mischievous for Blythe’s liking.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, backing away from him as a mouse might from a cat.

He moved quickly—so fast she couldn’t even defend herself. He grabbed her around the waist and half twirled, half carried her protesting to the bed. Instead of tossing her as she suspected he would, he lowered her to the counterpane gently, almost reverently. He followed her down, settling his weight on top of her, pressing her into the mattress.

So this was how it felt to have a man lie on top of her. It felt good—naughty and right at the same time. He wasn’t as heavy as she would have thought, even though the full length of him was upon her. He held her hands above her head, pinned her skirts with his legs. She couldn’t escape even if she wanted to.

His gaze was dark and bright and he stared at her as though he had never seen a woman before.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her, his voice rough.

Blythe opened her mouth to automatically disagree, but he cut off her protest with a kiss—a slow, deep, aching kiss.

“I’ll think of this,” he murmured when he eventually lifted his head. “Each night when I climb into this bed, I’ll think of this moment when you were on it with me.”

The lump in Blythe’s throat turned into a mountain. Tears burned the back of her eyes as she gazed up at him and his wonderful, sadly beautiful face.

That moment she decided not to tell him about her own claim on the house. She could tell he had fallen in love with it, and she would rather have him crawling into this bed and thinking of her than crawl into it herself, alone, and think of him.

Devlin was quite busy for the next week. The deal for Rosewood went through without a hitch, and he divided his days between Brixleigh and his new home. When he was at Rosewood, he spent the hours preparing to take over the household, making note of repairs and purchases. The repairs needed weren’t major, but several were quite extensive and would take some time. More time for him to spend at Brixleigh, he supposed. When he was at Brixleigh, he spent most of his time sleeping, eating, and stalking Blythe.

It was difficult to find her alone. Sometimes when he was at Rosewood, she would come and join him. He allowed her to pick out all the new carpets, draperies, and other furnishings. It made perfect sense to him, seeing as how he was entertaining the notion of making her mistress of it all.

When the thought had first occurred to him, he couldn’t quite say. Perhaps it was that day a week ago when he’d kissed her on the bed, or perhaps it had happened sometime after that. Perhaps the day when he secretly bought her a new pair of trousers because her old ones were almost worn through in the knees. The kiss she had given him as thanks kept him in a state of semi-arousal for much longer than a man his age should have to suffer through.

Or perhaps it was the day he saw her running around the lawns at Brixleigh with the estate dogs playfully nipping at her heels. Some hair had slipped from the knot on the back of her head, and her cheeks were flushed with exercise.

Then again, perhaps it had happened the day she had looked at him as though she thought he could do anything. He had run out into the tide after two local boys and their boat had been carried out farther than they intended. It was hardly an act of bravery. He was one of the only men there who could actually swim. He just did what had to be done, but when he brought the boys to shore, Blythe had gazed at him with such open appreciation in her green eyes that Dev
lin had almost grabbed her and kissed her right then and there. The only thing that stopped him was the boys’ thankful mother throwing her arms around him in a very tearful and exuberant hug.

Yes, that was more than likely the day he decided that he wanted to possess Blythe Christian. He wanted her to love him, if such a thing were possible. He wanted to be worthy of such devotion, even though he knew it was impossible.

If only he could decipher her feelings on the subject. He knew she liked him—that was obvious enough—and he knew without a doubt that she wanted him physically just as much as he wanted her. Some of those days at Rosewood it had been a chore for both of them just to keep their hands off each other.

And it didn’t look like he was going to get her alone tonight either. He was dying to kiss her, but he couldn’t just jump up and do that in the middle of Varya’s performance even if it would be vastly more entertaining.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the music; he did. Varya’s playing of the pianoforte was incredibly accomplished, but unless she broke into a round of bawdy ballads or old folk songs, it wasn’t likely that he’d recognize any of it. It was another reminder that for a son of a viscount, he was shockingly lacking in culture.

However, he wasn’t lacking in taste, a point that was proven by his acute attraction to Blythe, who sat very near the front in an evening gown of sapphire silk. He stared at her openly, not caring who saw the depth of his regard. He didn’t believe in the social rule of hiding one’s feelings as his parents had.

But he did believe in hiding one’s past—something he was going to have to do if he was going to win Blythe. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he wasn’t prepared to admit to being a murderer, not when it would mean seeing disgust in her eyes.

“This is rich,” purred a voice to his right. “The lion has fallen for the lamb.”

Devlin didn’t even spare Lady Ashby a glance as she slid into the empty chair beside his. Lion? Lamb? He certainly didn’t see himself as much of a lion, and Blythe was far from being a lamb.

“She will never have you,” the blond woman whispered.

“You know that, do you not? You are a little too rough. A little too
much
for such a naive innocent.”

Still Devlin did not look at her. He focused solely on Blythe and tried to keep the muscle in his jaw from tensing.

“You have competition,” Lady Ashby went on, her breath hot against his ear. “See how a certain
ram
looks at her?”

If he gave her a good shove, would she go away? Even as he thought it, he found himself listening to her babble. His gaze drifted across the crowded music room, lighting from head to head until he found the one she meant.

Carny. Obviously he found Blythe more interesting than the music, or even his own wife. And while Devlin wouldn’t call the expression on the fairer man’s face lovelorn, it was definitely—
something.

“She will never take you over him, even if he is married. I think you know that as well.”

No, he didn’t know that. Blythe had told him she didn’t love Carny anymore and he believed her. She might still harbor some feelings for him—bitterness for one—but nothing he was worried about. Or rather, nothing he had been worried about until Joyce the Jackal sat her scheming arse down beside him. Carny’s feelings really didn’t matter. He was already married.

“If you marry her, how long do you think it will be before she runs off to have an affair with one of her own kind? How long before the novelty of your rough, quiet nature wears off and bores her to tears?”

The muscle in his jaw was twitching now. Damn it, he shouldn’t let her see that she was getting to him. He knew better than to allow a tactician like Lady Ashby to get the up
per hand over him. If this were a battlefield he’d simply put a ball between her eyes.

Christ, did he actually think that? Yes, he had, and he felt no remorse for it either.

“You need someone who knows how to stroke your fur.”

Oh good Lord. Did the woman always talk such foolishness?

“What I need, Lady Ashby, is something you are incapable of giving.” He turned to look her straight in the eye.

“Loyalty.”

He thought Lady Ashby might have actually hissed at him before getting up and swishing away, but he couldn’t be certain. He was just glad she was gone. That woman made him feel dirty in a way no one else had ever managed—not even himself.

He sat for another few minutes, his arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankles, and watched Blythe—and Carny—some more.

He was jealous. Jealous because she had once loved Carny. Jealous because Carny had known her longer. It didn’t matter that he probably knew her
better
than Carny did. It wasn’t the same thing.

Thank God Carny hadn’t been awake to see him kill the soldier, or he would be able to tell Blythe all about it. He didn’t want to think Carny capable of such betrayal, but when a woman was concerned, friendship often suffered.

The tune Varya was playing tinkled to an end. Devlin joined the applause, his gaze still focused on Blythe. He lost her for a moment as guests stood and the talking started.

Rising to his feet, he quickly caught sight of his quarry again. Being tall had its advantages on occasion.

Blythe was among a small group of women drifting toward the music room door. No doubt they were on their way to the ladies’ retiring room. He almost turned away, but then
Blythe’s gaze met his, and he knew in an instant that she wanted him to follow.

He did. When the ladies turned right in the corridor, Blythe turned left and headed for the French doors that led out into the courtyard and garden.

He caught up with her near the maze. “In here,” she whispered, taking him by the hand and leading him through the dark twists and turns with the smooth skill of someone who knew the path like the back of her hand.

In the center of the maze was a fountain surrounded by benches and illuminated with softly flickering torches. A mermaid arched up among stone waves in the center of the fountain, water raining from her hands and tail. It was lovely. And Devlin couldn’t have cared less about it.

As soon as they reached the fountain, Blythe turned to face him. Neither of them spoke. They wrapped their arms around each other as their lips met in a fierce, breathless kiss.

An eternity seemed to pass before they broke apart, each of them breathing a little more shallowly.

Blythe spoke first, leading him to one of the benches where they could sit. He enjoyed this part of being alone with her almost as much as the kisses. They could talk about anything. He never felt boring or silly around her. They had similar interests, and even when they didn’t, Blythe was always interested in hearing what he had to say and would then share her own opinion.

“We cannot keep doing this. We are going to be caught.”

He brushed the velvet lobe of her ear with his finger. She shivered. “So?”

“I do not want people to talk about us like we did something wrong.”