She understood what he was doing. He didn’t wish to hurt her. He wanted her to see that flirting was just something he did. He was a rake and wanted her to understand that. Perhaps a part of her thought so, but a larger part of her did not.
He had perhaps behaved like a libertine, but she had seen some of his mind, and he did not think like
one.
Was she more than just a diversion to him? She wasn’t sure, but he did care; to some extent he did care. Something in his eyes, in the way his mouth curved when he looked her way, made her think he was more than just a wayward rogue and that she was more to him than just another flirt.
He had a servant bring in a punch bowl and a great number of ingredients into the library. Robby was hovering about it, determined to get it started and drink his fair share. Donna was wagging a finger at her husband when the earl suddenly took over.
He stepped forward, waving his hand. “Stand aside, children. Ye doona know a thing aboot the fine art of making punch, but I, now I do.”
His Scottish accent beat a trail to Bess’s heart, and a shiver went through her. She loved his voice, his accent, his manner of speech.
“But don’t forget the nutmeg,” stuck in Robby. “I like nutmeg.”
“Nutmeg,” Donna said, shaking her head, “will ruin it.”
Bess turned away from them. Her jumbled thoughts were lined with emotions she didn’t want to face. Suddenly, all she wanted was to be alone with the earl. It was more than coincidence that he had walked into her life now when she was so ready to be loved. All the times he had come to Searington, so near, and yet they had never met till now.
It was fate. She was sure of it.
She had always broken rules, and she was being completely immodest by allowing herself to want him the way that she did. She wanted to feel his arms around her. She wanted to feel his lips press against her lips, part them, and why a woman should be thought a tart for wanting the man of her dreams was more than she could fathom. Men wanted, needed, took. Why shouldn’t a woman’s needs be fulfilled?
And if that made her a tart, so be it; she just didn’t care. She was ever honest with herself and simply saw no sense in denying that she wanted him lustily with or without the benefit of marriage.
She knew in that pivotal moment that she would let him take her to his bed and satisfy her as only he could. She wanted that. She wanted to taste him and know him in every sense. Faith, when had she descended into such wantonness? She couldn’t remember ever feeling this way.
Bess knew she was hopelessly in love with the Earl of Dunkirk, but she wasn’t sure if he was capable of loving someone as inexperienced in the fine art of lovemaking as she was. She just wasn’t his type. Sally Sonhurst was his type.
The touch of the earl’s hand on her shoulder made her spin around, and she felt the blush rush into her cheeks as she nearly collapsed into his arms. She managed to control herself, and then his voice saved her from herself as his tone caressed and he murmured, “What is it, lass? Ye look, disturbed, and it has me fair baffled. I thought ye had a lovely day?”
She smiled at him and asked, “Have you done overseeing the punch-making?”
“Aye, I have, so now then, answer me, dinna ye enjoy yer day?”
“Oh, my lord. I had the absolutely most wonderful day.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing …” she said, stalling for time. She had to regain her composure.
“Och, but doona tell me that, for we both know it isn’t so. There is something pestering at ye.”
“Oh, probably that incident today with that … that man, and of course what started it all—the boy I saw in the Gypsy wagon. I only caught a glimpse of him, but, my lord, he didn’t look like a Gypsy. He was so fair, and he seemed to have something in his mouth. And the scene seemed all wrong, but then I let it go, and now I am worried that I should have done something.”
“Well, as to that, many Gypsy women, well … they consort with locals, and a fair-looking child would not be extraordinary. And as to having something in his mouth, couldna it been a piece of bread?”
She frowned and with a heavy sigh continued, “I suppose, but it looked like a rag in his mouth, and he looked as though he had escaped some restraint, but his wrists seemed tied at his back. The Gypsy shoved him backwards cruelly.” She shrugged. “I don’t know … but then that awful man seemed bent on stopping me from investigating, for that was what I meant to do.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” the earl asked himself as much as he posed the question to her.
“Gypsy wagon?” Robby repeated as he approached them. “Are you saying there were Gypsy wagons at the Red Lion?” he asked with a shake of his head. “A carnival? Never say we missed a carnival?”
Bess allowed him a quick smile and shook her head as Donna intervened and took Robby in hand so that the earl could continue to speak with her uninterrupted. Her thoughts started nagging her again, and she felt her eyebrows come together.
“Again,” the earl said softly, “and because you are frowning—why?”
“I am not frowning,” she countered and blinked, as though blinking any would-be frown away.