“One would think you didn’t have cake at home,” I mutter into my teacup as I lift it to my lips.
A pink tint stains her cheeks, and she pauses, the cake frozen halfway to her lips, like she’s been caught in some despicable act.
“I didn’t say you should stop.”
“Aren’t you going to have anything?” she asks.
“In a minute.” I don’t want her to miss out on her favorites. Besides, I like watching her eat. She selects a raspberry tart next, and then a little cup of chocolate mousse, making mm noises as she scrapes at the sides with her spoon, determined to eat every last morsel.
I find the corner of my mouth quirking and clear my throat. “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here today?”
“You sound like the detective in a bad crime novel.”
“I’ve decided to ask for your help, Lady Wraye. In return, you may ask me any small favor that comes to mind, and I’ll consider it.”
It’s a generous offer, but Lady Wraye looks less than impressed as she selects a tiny éclair and pops the whole thing in her mouth. Once she’s finished chewing, she licks her fingers. “You want my help getting to know your daughter better?”
“That’s correct.”
“Shouldn’t you be having tea with her, then, Your Grace?”
My eyes narrow. “That was pert and ungrateful.”
Wraye picks up her teacup, takes a huge gulp and sits back with a satisfied sigh. I suppose she picked up those sorts of manners in the slums. Her mother should speak with her etiquette master, as Wraye doesn’t seem to be paying attention to her lessons.
“It’s not rocket science,” she says with a shrug. “Ask her how her day was. Ask her about herself. Act like you’re interested. Aubrey’s lovely. I don’t know why you’re so afraid of her.”
I can ask her questions. The trouble is, she starts wanting to know about me, too.
Lady Wraye studies me carefully and then puts her teacup down and stands up. “I can see from your expression that this is pointless. Goodbye.”
I sit forward and grasp her hand. “Sit down.”
“Why?”
I look at her slim fingers in mine. Short, unvarnished nails. Hands slightly roughened from hard work. “So I can practice on you.”
Wraye sits down slowly, her arm stretched across the coffee table, because I haven’t let go of her hand.
“Go on, then,” she whispers.
Reluctantly, I loosen my grip and sit back. I gaze around the lounge, searching for inspiration. “How are you finding your new home?”
Wraye looks quickly off to one side. “It’s fine. How are you finding this house, after prison?”
I look around at the baroque furnishings, white marble and wrought gold. Deep, plush sofas and thick carpets. I stand up quickly and go to the French windows, driving my hands into my pockets.
I feel Wraye come up beside me as I glare across the garden. When I glance down at her, I see that all the mockery is gone from her expression.
“She’s going to ask you questions, too. You should try to answer, even if it’s painful. Start slowly.”
Slowly. I reach up and touch her cheek. It’s soft and warm, and so touchable that my fingers keep exploring. To the silky hairs by her ear, then along her jaw and across her plush lower lip.
“This isn’t what we should be doing, Your Grace,” she whispers.
She doesn’t have to tell me that. She’s far beneath me in rank, she’s far too young, and she’s my daughter’s new best friend.
I dip my head and press my lips against hers. A hot, throbbing sensation spreads through me. She’s so sweet and soft, I could fall to my knees. Wraye opens her lips and, tentatively, places her hands on my chest.
My tongue seeks hers with hunger. Standing there in the sunshine, I cup her waist with my hands and pull her body against mine.
Lady Wraye draws her lips from mine and takes a shuddering breath. “We shouldn’t be doing this. I can’t even call you by your first name.”
I slide a hand into her hair and close my fist around it, drawing her face up to mine. “No, you can’t. So, do as you’re told and call me Daddy.”
Her tongue darts out and runs over her top lip, and I see mischief return to her expression. “Is that what you want me to call you at Court, Your Grace?”
I want to forget about Court for a while. If she won’t call me Daddy, then I’ll have to make her. I lift her up in my arms, and her knees grip my hips. I kiss her slowly as I carry her to the sofa and lay her down on the cushions.
“So pretty,” I murmur, tracing the back of my forefinger down her cheek to her floral blouse. Her breasts lift, as I run my finger along the pearly buttons, and then slide my hand down over her skirt and up her thigh, taking the fabric with me.