Chapter 9
Playing with Fire
Izzy made her way quietly up the attic stairs, carrying a plate of food. She had waited until her father had gone to bed and the household had settled, though she was impatient to see Boreas.
He was sitting up, propped against the pillows, a book in his hand.
He lowered it as she appeared, watching her.
Izzy paused at the top of the stairs, rivetingly aware of the way he looked at her, of the slightly predatory quality of his gaze.
Unlike Lord Alveston, whose admiration made her feel cold and clammy, as if he were mentally undressing her, this man-made heat rise from deep within her core.
It was just as unsettling, but entirely different.
The notion of Alveston wondering what she looked like in her skin made her vaguely nauseous.
Boreas, however, had always treated her with respect, not like a pretty child with no brain in her head, and his obvious admiration of her person made her wonder just what liberties she might allow him if he invited her to show him.
“Is that for me?”
For a moment Izzy thought he meant the plate she carried and opened her mouth to agree that it was. But then she realised he was regarding the way she was dressed.
Though she had not wished to do so, she had known her father would expect her to make a good showing for their guest, and so she had bathed and washed her hair, and Polly had helped her to arrange it prettily.
She had also worn her best gown, one Clementine had bought for her.
It was dusky pink and brought out the colour in her fair skin.
Feeling awkward, she shook her head. “No. My father had a guest tonight, and so I was obliged to make an effort.”
His expression sharpened, and he set the book aside, his gaze sweeping over her once more, taking in her hair, the rather daring cut of the neckline, and the way the dress clung to her curves. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“I hope he appreciated it. Your guest, I mean.”
Izzy glanced at him uncertainly and he returned a wicked smile.
“If he did not, I assure you, I do. You look quite magnificent, Miss Honey, and far too fine for these humble surroundings. Far too fine for my paltry company.”
There was a slightly bitter edge to the words that made her uncomfortable and so Izzy did not answer. She tried to ignore the strange, fizzing tension that seemed to dance over her skin as she moved closer to him. “I brought you something to eat.”
She handed him the plate and watched as he devoured the assortment of savoury and sweet pies and tarts that were among the delights Mrs Adie had prepared for the evening.
He seemed to make a show of ignoring the cutlery she had brought, and ate with his fingers, licking them with relish.
Izzy’s gaze snagged on his tongue as it swept the crumbs from his fingers, and she had to force herself to look away.
“An illustrious guest, I collect,” he said, watching her with interest. Gathering her wits, or trying to, Izzy nodded.
“He seemed to think so. I thought he was a conceited dandy.”
His lips quirked into a smile, and he set the plate aside. He watched her so intently that Izzy shivered, wondering what he was thinking and if perhaps he thought she looked so magnificent he would like to kiss her. Her insides quivered at the idea, setting her pulse racing.
“Did he flirt with you, Miss Honey?” He quirked an eyebrow, his head cocked to one side.
She shook her head, confused by the strange emotions that assailed her on all sides.
She took off her glasses, occupying herself with cleaning them, aware the movement betrayed her nervousness, but he seemed different suddenly, a stranger, when she had known him so well.
But that had only ever been an illusion, brought on by the fear that he would die.
“Oh, no. Not at all.”
“Then he is a conceited dandy and a fool to boot. How any man could see you looking so delectable and not do so, I cannot imagine. I am not so thoughtless.”
“So I see,” Izzy retorted, trying to appear bold and quite at her ease when his comments simmered beneath her skin, the pleasure of them warming her from her toes to far more intimate places that had no business making their presence known.
Yet she was suddenly aware of her body, of the frustrating way her stays pinched and confined her, of how the petticoats slid against the bare skin of her thighs.
Every sensation seemed heightened, and the sudden longing to feel his hands on her startled her so much that Izzy found she could not hold his gaze.
The look there was far too knowing, too aware of the effect he had upon her equilibrium.
“Come over here.”
Izzy looked up, watching in confusion as he removed a pillow from behind him, moving gingerly so not to tug at the stitches. He placed it on the floor on the opposite side of the mattress and patted it invitingly.
“Why?” she asked, at once suspicious, and yet hopeful her suspicions might be right.
He shrugged, looking far too innocent. “Because the light is better here, and I want to look at you.”
Izzy turned to regard the lamp. Possibly there was a little more light that side, but barely. Her heart picked up speed as she got to her feet and walked around, sitting carefully down on the pillow.
This was his uninjured side, she realised as she sat, feeling like a mouse settling down for a nap beside a large tomcat.
Could her lungs have shrunk since she entered the attic, she wondered, for it seemed remarkably difficult to catch her breath now.
The quiet surrounded her, so dreadfully intimate and so still that she became aware of her heart thudding in her ears.
The church bells struck the hour, startling Izzy to such a degree that she nearly leapt out of her skin.
Boreas chuckled, low and a little tauntingly as she blushed.
She met his eyes, the crystal blue depths warmer than she had ever seen them before, inviting her in, if she dared.
“Poor Miss Honey, are you sat upon thorns?”
She swallowed, heart pounding, trying to find her voice.
“No,” she retorted, feeling gauche and silly.
Nothing in her nineteen years had prepared her for him, for a situation like this one.
No doubt he was used to far more sophisticated women than she, ones that knew how to please a man and did not get themselves all in a tangle just because he gave her a compliment and flirted with her.
“Little liar. Come here, sweetheart. Let me put you out of your misery.”
He reached out his hand to her and Izzy stared at it, hardly able to believe what she was seeing.
“C-Come where?” She shifted uncomfortably on the cushion, too aware of his proximity, of the warm bare skin of his chest. Whilst she had touched his skin many times while he was ill, she had never touched him simply because she wished to.
The overwhelming desire to reach out now made her ache, longing penetrating every fibre of her being from somewhere deep inside.
“To me, of course.” His voice was low, warm and seductive, making her shiver. “I want to kiss you. I owe you thanks for saving my sorry life, and there’s little I can offer, but I’ll give you this… if you still want it?”
There was that teasing quality to his words again, not mocking, but gently amused. Still, Izzy bristled, putting up her chin.
“What makes you think I ever wanted you to kiss me?”
He grinned, pure masculine arrogance glinting in his eyes. “You deny it?”
Izzy opened her mouth to do just that and then closed it again. If she denied it, he would not kiss her, and she wanted him to, had wanted him to since the very first time she’d set eyes on him.
“I thought our guest was a conceited oaf, but you’re even worse,” she grumbled, resenting that he could read her so easily.
“I thought not.”
He reached out and this time Izzy went to him, hardly able to believe what she was doing. She settled herself awkwardly beside him on the mattress.
“Closer,” he told her, a gruff quality to his voice now that made her nerves leap and anticipation rush through her veins.
How different he was now. When she had cared for him, he had needed her, he had been hurt and vulnerable, and she had given him all she could. She felt that now, the familiarity of him even as he became ever more a stranger.
Shifting closer, she lifted her face to his, her breath catching as he brushed his lips against hers.
Oh, so this was what it felt like to be kissed by him.
His beard was a little rough, yet not so prickly as she’d imagined, but his mouth, oh, that wicked mouth was soft and warm, and so inviting. Her breathing sped, short little gasps as her fingers hovered in mid-air, wanting to touch him but not yet daring.
He teased her with his lips now, not his words, tempting her to ask for more as he pressed light kisses against her mouth. She made a sound of protest, appalled the moment the whimper of frustration was wrenched from her, aware of her cheeks blazing as a rumble of amusement vibrated through him.
“Do you want more, my delicious Miss Honey?”
“Yes,” she said, shameless and impatient as she dared to reach up and slide her fingers around his neck, pulling his head down. He paused long enough to remove her glasses, setting them carefully aside.
She felt his smile against her lips, but this time he ceased toying with her. His mouth firmed, his tongue tracing the line of her lips and she opened to him instinctively.
This was what it must feel like to be drunk, she thought hazily, intoxicated by the taste of him.
Her heart, already in danger, raced on heedlessly.
One hand drifted from his neck down to his chest, revelling in the touch of his skin, so warm and silky, and then the coarse scattering of hair.
Her fingers tangled through it. Boreas made a low sound of pleasure that seemed to light her up, striking the hidden place between her thighs until it throbbed with desire.