What You Desire (Anything for Love 1)

“Sophie, I do not have a mistress. Trust me, you are the only woman who has had the pleasure of being in that bed,” he waved his hand casually in the direction of the bed, which was a ridiculous gesture when he came to think of it, for there was nothing casual, nothing temporary about the way he felt about her. Indeed, she was the only woman he would lay with from here on in. “I thought you knew better than to listen to servant’s gossip.”

“Are you saying you’ve never had one of your mistresses at this house, that Amy is mistaken in her belief you’ve escorted women home in the middle of the night?”

He was going to say she’d misunderstood and a jealous ear hears only what it chooses, but thought better of it. He glanced around the room for his shirt and located it on the chair.

“I am saying, you are not informed of all the facts,” he replied, shrugging into the crumpled linen. If they were going to have a serious conversation he would not be distracted by pretty blue eyes roaming over his bare chest. “Perhaps it is time I told you how I have been occupying myself these last few years.”

He dropped into the chair, stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles with languid grace.

“You do not have to explain yourself to me, my lord,” she huffed.

“My lord?” he sneered jerking his head back. “What happened to oh, Dane, please, Dane.” He smiled to himself as her face flushed a pretty shade of pink. “Surely, after all that has passed between us, you must feel a little curious. Surely, you must be eager to learn more about the character of the man you have taken to your bed.” He had said the words purely to shock, but there was a glimpse of some unnamed emotion in her eyes. Was it pain or resentment? He certainly did not mean to cheapen their union or imply she was only concerned with the more base of needs.

“Perhaps it is best I don’t know,” she replied turning her head away from him to stare at some invisible object on the wall.

He sat up straight and narrowed his gaze as he contemplated her reply. “Ah, I see, Miss Beaufort,” he began, mimicking her use of formal address. Although he took no pleasure in it, for it placed an element of distance between them that he found unnerving. “You believe I’m guilty of the type of licentious pursuits the villagers of Marchampton love to gossip about. What is it that disturbs you? That I squandered my inheritance or that I spent it on women with loose morals?” he mocked. “I had credited you with more sense than to take notice of such tittle-tattle but, obviously, I was mistaken.”

She turned sharply and her eyes locked with his. “I know what I have seen,” she challenged. “John Hodges’ daughter nearly died from the cold, damp conditions they were forced to live in. Where were you when the rain came pouring in through their roof? When their daughter needed medicine and they could not afford to pay for it.”

He swallowed deeply in the hope it would ease the pain of regret. Why did she have to mention Mary Hodges? He had been forced to make a choice. If he had stayed at Westlands, the lives of all his tenants would have been at risk. Not a day had gone by when he had not thanked the lord for Mary’s recovery.

“It is not what you think,” he replied solemnly.

“Well, please feel free to enlighten me,” she said in the tone of a stern governess but did not wait for an answer. “If you were not carousing around the Continent with a courtesan, what were you doing?”

He stood, walked over to the bed and leaned against the wooden post. “I was working,” he answered humbly.

There was a moment of silence where she simply stared at him, a frown marring her brow, and he could almost hear her repeating his words for fear she had misheard.

“Working? What do you mean?”

“May I sit,” he said gesturing to the end of the bed.

She snorted. “It is your bed. You may do as you please.”

He ignored the sharp edge to her tone. Perhaps it was her way of preparing herself for whatever unpleasant revelation she believed he was about to make.

He perched himself on the end of the bed. “You should eat something,” he said in response to the deep growl rumbling from her stomach. He nodded towards the plate. “Eat and I will tell you.”

With a sigh, she removed the plate cover and studied the selection of cold meats. Casting a wary glance at the sheet tucked under her arms, she asked, “Would you mind buttering my bread roll?”

“Of course not,” he replied.

Picking up a knife, he cut and buttered her roll then gave it to her and watched her take a bite. There was something comfortable, something intimate in so informal a gesture and he longed to hold on to it, to nurture it into something deeper, something more profound.

“You must understand, I would never have left Westlands if there had been any other alternative. It is something I deeply regret.”

That was not entirely true. He was sorry his

tenants were forced to endure the effects of his father’s cavalier attitude towards money. But the experience of working alongside Dudley, of righting some of society’s wrongs, well, it had been life changing.

“Tell me, honestly,” he continued, “what was your opinion of my father?”

She narrowed her gaze as though intrigued by the question. “I believed him to be a good man, a family man, a man who was diligent in the running of his estate.” She paused, bit down on her lip and then took a deep breath. “He looked after his tenants and they respected him for it.”

“Unlike me,” he snorted.

“Well, …” she shrugged.