The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (82 page)

A smile grazed his features with understanding as he removed his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and sank to his knees next to the bath. He picked up a cloth and soaked it, then smoothed it with soap. “I apologize for not having a more feminine banquet of scents for you. I shall make an effort to change that for you today.” He gave her a sultry smile as he smoothed the cloth over her back.

“Please, milord, I beg you not to make a fuss.” She sighed, realizing she was already countering her previous vow to allow him whatever he wished of her.

He smiled. “Allow me. You will, won’t you?”

She drew her legs up and rested her cheek, nodding against her knee as she watched his understanding dawn.

“If I must endeavor to ask your permissions, you must endeavor to accept my attentions, is that the tacit agreement?”

She nodded again as he gently pushed her backward and smoothed the cloth over each breast, then across her belly. She watched his hand move across her, and knew he watched her as well, waiting for the panic to set in. She tensed slightly as he reached the vee of her thighs, but arched into him as he trespassed there, dropping the cloth. Her eyes widened and caught his, then looked back to his roving hand.

He heard the door to his bedchamber creak and pulled back, walking to the entry of the bathing room that he’d left open.

“Harper.”

“My lord, the modiste has arrived for Miss Lilly.”

“Of course. I will see that she makes her way to the parlor momentarily,” he said rather off-handedly. Lilly exhaled. Without effort or realization, he was a constant reminder of the great divide between them.

Perry heard a soft click as her door closed behind him, and he was left alone. He exhaled and kicked his boot against the doorframe.

Lilly decided that acquiescing to the viscount would be more difficult than she had imagined. The modiste and her assistant had their hands all over her, and though she remained fully clothed, it made her wary and uncomfortable. She supposed this was her lesson for the day. Allowing others to handle her. It was an admirable trait for anyone of notable birth, but for her it was unnecessary and merely served to bother her already quite overwrought nerves. In future she need only ever be handled by one man: whoever deigned to take her to wife.

She closed her eyes and thought of Perry’s hands…on her. Caressing, smoothing, softening, quieting the very nerves that exasperated her. She eased under the modiste’s ministrations, then smiled. Lesson learned.

Perry glanced at the ledgers open on his desk, then stared hard at them. He picked up his pen and tracked his last entry, then stopped. It wasn’t a number. It wasn’t even recognizable.
Perhaps a ride in the curricle
, he thought. He couldn’t take her to the park because it wasn’t exactly a statement he wished to make to the grand dames of the
ton
. His forehead hit the desk. He now understood why his brother was often mounted and screeching hell-bent for nowhere.

A knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” he said as he lifted his head, not realizing at first that the page he’d fallen to was now stuck to his forehead. He pulled it off quickly as Lilly swept into the room. He tensed and rose. She was a vision in pale yellow muslin, a simple dress, high-waisted and draped easily about her frame. It shifted as she walked, and the color brightened her person, lightening her smile.

“Oh.”

She looked at him quizzically. “My lord, I wanted to thank ye, eh-hem, you. Again.”

He shifted his stance as she approached and shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry. Quite, quite dry. He tried to clear his throat, but words weren’t finding their way out.

She rounded his desk and reached up to his face. Her fragrance assailed him, mixing with his, a feminine twist to his own familiar scent.

He cleared his throat again. “What are you—”

She touched his forehead with her gloved hand and pulled back, showing him her blue thumb. “Milord...my lord…you seem to have some ink,” she said with a hint of concentration to the set of her jaw.

He gazed at her thumb, taking her hand in his and stroking her fingers. He then realized what she was saying and turned, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Her speech was slow as she enunciated each word. “I did not mean to offend.”

He shook his head. “And none is taken, sweet. Your speech is lovely,” he added, trying to change the subject.

“The clothes, they seem to require it of me.” She gave him another smile.

He watched her intently, saw how her face grew more serious with every word, then broke with a flashing smile at the end of the sentence. He couldn’t help but to laugh and take her in his arms.

She seemed to melt against him, and he soaked in her warmth as her hands slipped around his waist to find the muscles of his back. His abdomen tightened as he stared down upon her. “You are simply amazing,” he said, his hands moving to frame her face. He took her mouth then, capturing her sweet lips with his, driving yet holding, forcing while yielding, controlled yet wild.

Her hands smoothed across his muscles as they rolled and tensed under her touch. He slid his hands into her hair and held her, pulling her away from him slowly. He needed to harness his demons. His hands dropped to her shoulders and he set her back from him, though her arms still stretched toward him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then looked on her and smiled.

“I beg your pardon, sweet, I seem to have gotten away with myself.”

She shook her head. “No, my lord, do not.” She smiled. “I am fond of your, uh, well, this, as it is all we have.” A blush raced across her face, and she turned, putting the desk between them.

Her words struck him then. The realization that all they had was this electric fire between them—this inimitable and intangible force of attraction that seemed to belong to them and no one else. It couldn’t be the end, the all, the total sum of their experience.

“Sweet, if you will allow me a bit of time to finish here,” he said quietly, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would accompany me on a drive in my curricle.”

She nodded with a bright grin. “Oh yes, my lord, I’d very much like tha’.” She curtseyed deeply then turned and left him there, staring after her.

He finally took a decent lungful of air, filling and expanding his chest, then deflating in a great shudder of breath. He leaned over the desk, resting heavily on his hands as his body calmed. His smile, however, refused to fade.

Once outside the study, Lilly didn’t know what to do with herself. What did ladies do when they had naught to do? She felt like polishing something. She stood in the entryway, looking around to the multitude of closed doors, and wondered where they all went. She knew there was a parlor, a study, and a dining room, and she imagined there was a library. There must also be a ballroom somewhere.

“Miss Lilly,” Harper said from the back of the entry, making her jump.

“Oh, Mr. Harper, I didn’t see you there.”

“Perhaps you would like to wait in the library?”

“Would I?”

Harper gave her an easy smile.

“Well then, yes, sir, I believe I would.”

Harper showed her to a door across the hall and handed her into the library.

“I shall inform Lord Trumbull of your whereabouts.” He shut the door.

Lilly stared at the back of that solid door, the echo of that click resonating in her mind. She was completely alone in this room. She turned to see the shelves full of beautifully bound volumes. She had never actually appreciated a library, as she’d never been taught to read or write. She had only ever dusted and cleaned the most beautiful of libraries. Every one of them impressed her. Books drew her, their mysteries locked away from her so easily.

Not for the first time, she wished she knew how to read, if only to pass the time. She pulled down a large leather volume in deepest green with gilt edges. Her fingers played over the supple cover, then leafed through the pages. It was naught but a series of jumbled strokes of ink.

Her skin prickled, and she steeled herself. His deep voice came from just over her shoulder.

“The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence, but in the mastery, of his passions.”

She shivered.

“And have you mastered your passions, Lord Trumbull?”

“With every breath I take, I make an effort to master passion.”

There it was again, that fine shiver that coursed her spine. He was very close behind her, the warmth of his body bringing her blood to the surface.

“That would be a first edition of Alfred Tennyson’s
Poems
.” His arm came around her and moved the pages, the fabric of his sleeve caressing her bare arm. She could feel the fine hairs stand on end as though they too wanted to be much closer to him.

“You can see here, on the flyleaf where it was inscribed to my mother, Melisande, the duchess.” He said that almost as an afterthought, almost as a reminder that he was the son of a duke. A duke. But who was he trying to remind, himself? She was all too aware of his status, not to mention her own—which, previously, had never mattered in the least.

“They met at Buckingham, when Her Royal Highness was attempting to convince Tennyson to accept a baronetcy. He never has, of course.” His laughter settled into her, and she shifted away from him suddenly.

“It is a beautiful book.” She held it out, but he raised his hand.

“Please, if you would like to read it, you may keep it with you.”

She shook her head, a certain sadness sinking in. “It must mean a great deal to you, if only for the remembrance of your mother.”

“Yes, it does in fact have a distinct sentimental value for me, but idle pages are a devastating transgression, according to her, and as such she would have been overjoyed to have this book well read.”

“I simply canna, I—” She turned away from him, holding the book reverently, trying to discern a solution. Her fingers played over the ridges and valleys of the intricate cover.

He took advantage of her distraction and wrapped his arms around her from behind, enclosing her in a solid embrace. “Merely one more lesson,” he said against her ear.

She sighed then shuddered, a small tear escaping.

He kissed it away before it fell.

She leaned into his strong, secure form. “You—” She stopped herself. “My lord, you make me—”

“What is it, sweet?”

“I feel safe, I— I simply feel so very safe. It should not be like this between us. You, a chosen son, and I…”

His arms steeled around her, enveloping her. “You will always be safe with me.” He allowed the words to lie between them, felt her realization settle in, felt a peace come over her. He began in that moment to figure out how he could ensure his words to be true.

They stood together until the long case clock in the entry rang, and he turned her toward him. He took her hands, kissed the tip of every finger, then the backs of her hands. Turning them over, he kissed her palms, shifting the book from one hand to the other before kissing the insides of her wrists.

“What is it?” she asked when she felt a smile against her wrist.

“You have it wrong. My brother is the chosen son, I’m merely the spare.”

“You are also a rake, not nearly as safe as you profess to be.”