“Come here.”
He lay beside her, taking care to keep the injured leg away from her.
“Do you know what I like best about being with you?” she asked.
“My diplomacy and charm?”
“That there are no secrets between us. I don’t have to hide anything from you, and you don’t have to hide anything from me.”
“This is different,” he said seriously.
“You’re right. It’s not a character flaw. It’s a scar, and I hate it if you want to know the truth.”
He recoiled slightly.
“Not for the reasons you think. I hate it because it represents the suffering you went through and still endure, and because it reminds you of the day you lost your friend, and because it makes you feel inferior when nothing could be farther from the truth.” She reached behind him and skimmed her hand over a taut cheek of his buttocks and down over the twisted muscle and
ridges that marred his thigh. He tensed but allowed her to continue stroking his leg, and before long, he seemed to relax.
“I have a confession,” she said.
“There’s a third portrait? And you’re completely naked in it?”
“Very funny. No. I didn’t notice your leg earlier, because I was too distracted by your…”
He propped himself on an elbow and grinned. “By my what?”
“You know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ll have to be more specific.”
She cast her gaze down—at it—and then quickly looked away. Good Lord. Fine. She’d take the challenge. Steeling her resolve, she looked directly into his icy blue eyes and ignored the heat that flooded her face. “I was talking about your, ah… manhood.”
“You mean my cock.”
“Er, yes.”
He leaned closer and rasped in her ear, “Why don’t you say it? For me.” He kissed her neck and the pulsing between her legs began again; she grew damp with wanting. “Say you were staring at my cock.”
“I was”—she gulped—“rather enthralled with your… your…”
He licked his finger and lightly rubbed the tip of an erect nipple. “Say it.”
“… cock.” She exhaled shakily.
“That’s a very good start. I’ll have you talking like a sailor in no time.”
She grabbed a pillow from beneath her bum and
swatted him on the side of his head. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so happy.
The swatting led to kissing, which then led to other sorts of wickedness. Ben tortured her exquisitely by trailing the fringe of her shawl over her breasts and across her stomach. Everywhere the fringe traveled, his mouth went, too. And the fringe went
everywhere
.
Her body was both relaxed and aroused when he lowered himself gently onto her, settling between her legs and pressing gently, insistently at her entrance. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me,” she said with more confidence than she felt. She’d just seen him in all of his naked glory, after all, and was now aware of the relative size of things. “I want this,” she reassured him. Of that, she was certain.
Slowly, he pushed at her entrance, and while she did her best to accommodate him, she began to despair of them ever fitting together properly. But then he began kissing her deeply and rocking his hips in the most wonderful rhythm. She ran her hands over his chest. His heart thumped wildly—hers did, too. His breath came in quick, hard puffs—just like hers. Their bodies worked together, rising and falling, thrusting and retreating, until at last he eased his way in. Stretching her, filling her. Completely.
He went still then, his entire body tensed. A sheen of moisture appeared on his forehead. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, smoothing the line between his brows, but her own hand trembled. “More than all right. How are you?”
He closed his eyes briefly and muttered something that might have been a curse. “I want this to be good for you,”
he said, “but you feel so… right. I don’t know if I can last long enough to—”
“Don’t worry.” She brushed an errant lock from his eyes. His expression was dark and brooding and… hungry. “I want to give you the pleasure you gave me. I suspect I’ll like it, too.”
He began rocking again, moving slowly within her, stretching her more than she’d ever thought possible. “What makes you so sure?”
“I’ve liked all the steps leading up to this moment.”
“You’re amazing, do you know that?” He kissed her like he would die if he did not have her. He thrust harder and deeper. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him to bring him even closer, and he growled as though pleased. So she moved some more, arching her back to take him deeper and he moaned. Or maybe she was the one moaning, because the sweet, insistent pulsing had begun again and she could think of nothing but kindling it and letting it burn to its completion.
Ben lowered his head and kissed her neck and shoulder, the slight stubble on his face abrading her skin. The rocking grew more intense. Faster and faster he pushed, teasing the most sensitive part of her with every thrust.
Her breath came in short pants; little beads of perspiration formed on his brow. “Daphne.” It was a plea, but she didn’t know what for. “Come. Like before.”
She wanted to. Dear God, she wanted to. But how did one go about it? “I’ll try,” she said seriously.
He smiled. “Close your eyes.”
She did, and he touched her where their bodies joined, rubbing little circles until she squirmed with sweet,
breathless anticipation. All the while, he continued moving in and out, harder and faster until—
“Oh my God.” Pleasure shot through her. Wave after wave overtook her and as soon as the last delicious one passed, Ben withdrew. Chilly air rushed over her as he pulled away, grabbed cloth—a handkerchief perhaps?—and spilled his seed into it.
Suddenly self-conscious, she drew the shawl over her.
Ben returned and sat beside her, so she sat up, too. He laced his fingers through hers but didn’t say a word. She wished he would explain what had just happened. Not the physical part—she understood that. For the most part. She was far more curious to know what it had meant to him—or what it hadn’t—and why he hadn’t spent himself inside of her. Well, obviously, he did not want there to be a babe. Still.
“How are you feeling?” he finally asked.
Glorious. Confused. Like I want to cry.
“Fine.”
“We’ve made a mess of things, haven’t we?”
It wasn’t a mess to her. “How so?”
“I’m supposed to be helping you recover the portrait, not seducing you.”
“Can’t you do both?”
He grinned. “Yes.” He released her hand, stood, and retrieved her clothes, giving her ample opportunity to admire his backside. The hollows on the sides of his buttocks and the muscular lines of his back made her sigh.
“Did you say something?” He handed her the chemise and gown.
“No.” Feeling inexplicably modest, she turned away from him as she wiggled her arms into the chemise, pulled it down, and shimmied into her dress. When she
faced him again, he wore his trousers and was pulling on his boots, wincing as he struggled with the right one.
“I’ll go speak to Charlton tomorrow,” he said.
Ah, it was much easier to discuss the portrait than any future plans they might have. Coward. “Thank you,” she said.
“I’ll let you know what comes of it.” His boots on, he stood, favoring his bad leg.
“I brought you some more comfrey.” She’d almost forgotten. Deep in the pocket of her gown was the bag that Mrs. Norris had procured from the apothecary. She handed it to him. “I’m happy to make you a poultice any time that you need one, but I thought you should keep some of this with you, in case I’m not available.”
He took her hands in his and gave a knee-weakening smile. “I thought you were my round-the-clock nurse.”
Lord help her. Any normal girl in her situation would be demanding a proposal of marriage. After one rakish grin, she was on the verge of happily accepting a full-time nursing position. “You are a difficult patient.”
“How can I compensate you?” A wicked gleam shone in his eyes.
“Take care of yourself and your leg.” She put the bag of comfrey in his palm, matter-of-factly.
He scooped up the lantern and handed it to her. “You go first. Be careful,” he said, kissing her forehead.
Her legs wobbled a little as she walked away. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Of course.” He glanced away, making her doubt the truth of his words. “Good night.”
She skulked back to her room, hoping that the night she’d spent with Ben was the beginning of something wonderful… and not the end.
I
’m sorry, Lord Foxburn. Lord Charlton is not receiving.”
Ben launched a dazzling smile at the housekeeper. At least, he hoped it was dazzling. It might have been desperate. “Receiving? At this time of the morning? I should think not. This isn’t a formal call, just a friendly visit. He seemed to respond so well the last time I came by, and I wanted to pay my respects once more before I head back to town. I’m leaving in a few hours, you understand, so it’s not as if I plan to set up camp. I just want to say farewell to the good fellow.”
Mrs. Parfitt shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Lord Charlton hasn’t been conscious for two days.”
Jesus. “What happened?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. He’s been quite ill.”
Odd that Hallows hadn’t mentioned his father’s sudden turn for the worse during his visit yesterday. He’d been
drunkenly jovial throughout the game of cricket. “What does the doctor say?”
“There’s nothing to be done, except to spoon broth down his throat when we can. I asked my sister to come and care for him. I sit with him when I can, but too many duties call me away from his bedside. I feel better knowing that someone’s there in case he wakes. Agnes is keeping him as comfortable as possible.”
“Lord Charlton is fortunate to have such a resourceful and thoughtful housekeeper.” He stroked his chin idly. “Mr. Hallows must be distraught over his father’s condition.”
She frowned, puckering her chin like a strawberry. “One would think so, but no. Mr. Hallows is preoccupied with other matters.”
“Such as… gambling and drinking?”
Mrs. Parfitt pushed her spectacles up her nose and glanced over her shoulder. “Precisely.”
Ben still stood awkwardly in the foyer, neither in the house nor out of it, and his leg was beginning to ache. But he suspected that the housekeeper might be an ally. “Could you spare a moment to sit and chat, Mrs. Parfitt?”
She wrung her small hands. “I am certain Mr. Hallows would not approve.”
“He’s still sleeping?”
She nodded.
“I won’t impose for long. I have an idea about how we might help Lord Charlton.”
“Follow me, please.” She toddled down the hall to her tiny office in the back of the house and waved him in. “Please, sit.”
Jars and tins filled the shelves above the table where
he sat, and the comforting aromas of coffee and peppermint permeated the air. Mrs. Parfitt stuck her head into the hall and looked both ways before closing the door and sitting in the wooden chair across from his, her back as straight as an elm, her hands in her lap. She looked at him expectantly.
“During my last visit, Lord Charlton mentioned that some of his possessions had gone missing—cuff links, a watch, items of that nature.”
Her face flushed red. “There’s not a member of my staff who would stoop to stealing.”
“I didn’t mean to imply they would.” He paused to let the truth of that sink in. “Mr. Hallows, however, could be responsible.”
“I would not dare to make such an accusation.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” But Ben could tell from the look in her eyes that she had her suspicions about Lord Charlton’s reprobate son. “I’m merely suggesting that while the baron is ill, you keep a close eye on Mr. Hallows. Don’t give him access to valuable items like jewelry, collectibles, silver… treasured paintings.”
Mrs. Parfitt blinked behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. “We cannot dictate where Mr. Hallows goes or what he does. However, I do feel better knowing that Agnes is stationed beside Lord Charlton. She is not a small woman, and it would take a very bold sort of person to waltz into his bedchamber and remove his personal articles.”
The problem was that Roland Hallows
was
bold. And stupid. And, very likely, desperate. “You might mention something to the male members of your staff as well. Instruct them to be discreet but watchful.”
“I agree that would be prudent.” Mrs. Parfitt’s gaze flicked to the clock on wall. “Forgive me, Lord Foxburn, but I have a rather forward question to ask you.”
“The only kind worth asking. What do you want to know?”
“Why have you taken such an interest in Lord Charlton’s well-being?”
By getting directly to the heart of the matter, she’d spared him the trouble. He was prepared to tell her a little about his dilemma… as long as he could protect Daphne’s anonymity. A delicate balancing act.
“There are two reasons. The first is that Robert considered him a friend and would have offered to help if he could. The second reason, as I’m sure you have guessed, is infinitely more self-serving. Lord Charlton owns a painting that I wish to purchase—for reasons of a very personal nature. I don’t want anything to happen to the painting before I have a chance to speak with him about it.”
“The English Beauty portrait.”
The small hairs on the back of Ben’s neck stood on end. “You’ve seen it?”
“Indeed. It’s one of Lord Charlton’s prized possessions. He won’t want to part with it.”
“When he hears the sum I’m willing to pay, he’ll agree to sell it. Do you know where it is?”
The housekeeper stiffened slightly. “Of course I do. Lord Foxburn asked me to have the footmen take it down and move it to a safe location. I confess to being perplexed at the time. However, I now see the wisdom of his request.”
“I don’t suppose you’d reveal the hiding spot to me?”
“I would not,” she said primly. “But you may rest assured that it is secure.”
“For now,” he added. “Hallows wants it. He said as much when he was at Biltmore Manor yesterday. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tore apart the house looking for it.”