“I shall have Amy bring it right up,” Mrs. Cox replied.
“There’s no need. You may send Amy off to bed as I will not require her services tonight.” She waved her hand over the front of her clothes. ‘I shall follow you to the kitchen and then you must get yourself off to bed, too.”
Miss Beaufort was obviously determined to test his patience.
He watched them walk off down the hall before she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Good night, Lord Danesfield,” she said softly. Her gaze swept over him: a look that made him feel as though she had stripped him of his clothes and was pleased with what she saw.
“Good night, Miss Beaufort,” he replied, refusing to allow the smallest spark of disappointment show.
He waited until she was out of sight before climbing the stairs to his chamber.
Once inside, he took the candle from the side table and lit the wall sconce. He removed his coat, waistcoat, and cravat and draped them over the back of the chair, which he casually dropped into in order to remove his boots.
Whilst visiting Labelles had proved to be fruitful and had given him plenty to consider, he could not seem to focus on anything other than his delectable guest.
No one had ever captured his interest to this degree.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t predict her mood. She had shocked him when she’d thrown herself into his lap. So what the hell was she doing eating blasted syllabub when she should be in bed with him?
Perhaps he should go to her room and simply knock the door. But what would he say?
He relaxed back in the chair and closed his eyes, indifferent to the fact he was creasing his clothes. But even in the darkness, she was still there, straddling his lap, thrusting soft mounds of creamy flesh at him as the tip of her tongue traced her lips.
Bloody hell!
He stood abruptly and dragged his hand down his face in a bid to quell his raging desire. Perhaps she just enjoyed teasing him. Perhaps she’d thought on the matter and decided he was not worth the effort. Or more to the point, not worth her virtue.
How could he argue with that?
Pulling his shirt over his head, he stomped over to the washbowl and thrust his hands into the cool water, splashing it over his face and arms, yet it provided little relief. Perhaps he should secure a betrothal before seducing her, he thought, removing the rest of his clothes and climbing in between the cold sheets.
He laughed as he remembered something James Beaufort had said about trying to trap lightning in a bottle. He had a strange feeling securing a betrothal from Miss Beaufort would be even more difficult.
He was still awake when he heard the gentle tap on the door, but she did not wait for a response before entering. Feigning sleep, he watched her through half-closed eyes as she stepped inside and gently closed the door. She stood motionless for a moment, her back pressed against the jamb, her slow, deep breaths audible.
She came closer, her eyes drifting over his bare chest and he took the opportunity to study her.
Her ebony hair hung in loose waves and although it was much shorter than he preferred, there was something alluring about the way it danced upon her shoulders. He had no idea what she was wearing for she had wrapped a red plaid blanket around her shoulders like a cloak. Her eyes roamed back up towards his face and he noticed she was biting down on her lower lip. Guilt gently pricked his conscience, but he was far too intrigued to open his eyes fully. It was then that the blanket slipped from her shoulders, sinking to the floor in a pool around her feet.
He had died and gone to heaven.
It was either that or he was lying in his bed at the complete mercy of an angel.
Like a scene to rival any of Madame Labelle’s erotic paintings, she stood in a thin chemise, the outline of her curves visible, yet muted by the soft candlelight. He almost groaned in appreciation, but his mouth was dry, every muscle in his body taut with anticipation. When she stretched out her hand and let her fingers glide over the muscles in his chest, he stopped breathing. When they trailed down over the muscles in his abdomen to the sheet straddling his hips, his blood pumped through his veins at so rapid a rate he thought he may lose consciousness. He had never been so hard in his life.
No other woman had ever aroused his passions to this degree. No other woman had ever seduced him, mind, body, and soul.
As her fingers skimmed the edge of the sheet, he could no longer restrain himself. “You could have at least woken me so I may participate,” he said softly, his tone betraying his arousal. “Or are you simply hell-bent on pleasurable torture?”
She jumped back, her hand shooting up to her mouth to smother a gasp and when she eventually lowered it, he was greeted by the tips of two perfect nipples protruding through the fine fabric. He closed his eyes with a low, guttural groan.
“I wasn’t sure … I didn’t know if …” she stuttered.
One did not often find an innocent in the guise of a wicked temptress, one who sought to secure her own ravishment.
“I thought you’d changed your mind,” he sighed.
“I … I thought you might come to my room.”