Nonsense. She shook her head. As much as she could, her muscles barely capable of functioning.
He caught her chin, kissing her hard as his hips bucked, grinding his shaft against her hand, slow at first then faster. She didn’t dare move her hand, didn’t want to, then he moaned her name and shuddered, eyes closing fast as he rolled against her hand a final time with a muttered curse. He held her body up, held both of them up. Or rather, they kept each other standing, leaning toward one another, the melting angles of their bodies their only foundation.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He kissed her gently, sipping from her, languid and lovely. “Can’t remember the last time I lost control like that.” A huff of a laugh. “Of course it would be with you.”
She should take offense. She possessed no energy to do so. Better to be limp in his arms, head resting against his shoulder as her heart calmed and feeling returned to her legs.
Sometime later, his deep sigh ruffling the hair by her ear, he said, “It’s time for you to leave. No shaking your head.”
Was she shaking her head? Oh, she was. She stopped.
“When we leave this cottage, I expect you’ll go back to cutting barbs and eye rolls, and I’ll return to annoying you as if it’s my life’s mission. But here”—his arm around her waist became a chain she had no wish to escape—“we are possible. So if you’re looking for a lover, hellcat, a man to make youhappy, my door is wide open. I’m yours for the taking.” He kissed the warmed, sensitive spot on her neck right below her ear. “Now…” He lowered his leg until she no longer rode his thigh, holding her shoulders to keep her from crumpling to the floor. When he was sure she could stand alone, he left her, returning with a blanket he draped around her shoulders. “It is time for you to leave.”
He opened the door and pushed her through. The last thing she saw before the door closed in her face was Richard Clark, body of a god and mouth of a sinner, mind of demon and… and the man she hated most—his lips swollen from her kisses, his jaw tight, and his eyes… somehow… sad.
Seven
Much could happen in two days, even when nothing much happened at all.
Games, conversation, excellent food, Spanish wine provided by her father for the entire party, a gift for the couple he’d sent with Beatrice. After she’d asked him to. And after taking the price of it out of her allowance. The daily diversions blurred together without much incident. Perhaps the missing Richard Clark leant an air of lazy peace to the affair.
Missing why, though? Had their interaction in the cottage run him off? He’d not seemed particularly deterred that day.I’m yours for the taking.
Beatrice left her writing implements and opened the library window, hoping some fresh air would sweep through and cool her off. But it remained as absent as Mr. Clark. He’d disappeared, showing his face only to eat, toss some of the wine down his throat, then run off once more. She expected nothing less. He was a man, after all. Eternal disappointments, the lot of them.
Even Peterson, who could never be found when she wanted him and always showed up when she didn’t. Alone in the garden—he was nowhere to be found. In a crowded room—he’d disappeared. While she was busy puzzling through a translation—right at her side. Breathing much too loudly.
Still, his continued attention was quite encouraging. He’d offered tiny touches, too. His fingers at her waist, pale compared to Richard’s. His shoulder brushing hers, shorter, narrower than Richard’s. His hand escorting her, not a single tingle penetrated the layers of glove between them.
No matter. Beatricewouldkiss the man. What better way to banishotherkisses after all. Now, more than ever, she must take a lover, a man to show her Richard was not the only one who could make her shatter.
After this afternoon’s work, though. The legal terms were particularly difficult to perfect at times. And they were the most important.
“Miss Bell?” The library door creaked open, and Peterson stepped inside. “Ah, there you are. Your cousin told me I’d find you here.”
“Good morning. I’m busy at the moment. But after I finish this, perhaps we can walk in the garden?”
“Ah.” His gaze dove toward the open window. “Yes, lovely. Do you mind if I remain with you until you are done?”
She tried to keep her eyebrows from collapsing toward one another. “That is…” Not fine. “Yes, you may.”
If it had been Richard, she would have told him to jump out the window. She couldn’t be as fierce with other men. As truthful.
Peterson sat nearby, sitting poker straight in a hard-back chair. He crossed one leg over the other. And began to shake his bottom leg up and down. Vibrating the entire bloody library.
She bit her tongue and turned back to her work, dipped her quill in ink and?—
“Miss Bell, what is it you are working on?”
“A contract.”
“Are you translating to or out of… What language?”
“Spanish. My father’s ships carry wine.”
“Ah.” He settled into the back of the chair.
And in the blessed silence that followed, Beatrice completed several sentences.
