Chapter 13
“Miss Collins, it is always a pleasure meetin’ ye.” Mr. Ewen Brodie pressed a kiss to her bare wrist.
Talia smiled. No, a smile was too benign for what she did. She swooned, baring all thirty-six teeth, her face alight, her eyes sparkling, her stance… Well, his tight grip kept her upright anyway.
She had never been kissed so intimately, so daringly. Ewen looked up with the slow sensuality of a feline locking eyes with its prey and fixed his striking blue eyes on her.
“Summon Mrs. Thomson,” she instructed the maid who had walked her to the morning room.
“Mrs. Thomson is under the weather at the moment.”
The words carried to her on the wings of a flock of canaries and settled on her shoulders like a breeze. She was well aware of Amber’s condition; she herself had prepared a brew for the woman that morning.
Ewen’s touch addled her brain. She could only stare transfixed as his thumb massaged the pulse in her wrist.
“Then fetch Lady McGhee.”
He worked his way down to her fingers, then she felt the circumference of his bicep as she squeezed his arm to keep her upright. Her mouth went dry at the sheer strength she felt in them.
“Nay one has seen the mistress all morning, miss.”
“Whatever shall we do?” she sighed and let herself be led into the room without the presence of a chaperone.
Orlagh was jittery with nerves, pacing about her room, as she awaited the knock and the familiar face of her trusted maid.
She needed to leave the door to her chambers unlocked so her partner in crime could easily meet with her.
The iron bolt beckoned, but staying near the wardrobe so that she might hide if someone else came in was more important.
It was imperative that she not be discovered.
Because her heart beat so loudly, she could not hear the footfalls of servants or the heavy-footedness of her son. If he, of all people, came upon her, her plan would go to hell.
Just as she had decided to press her ear to the door and listen for the footsteps of her maid, the familiar face burst into the room, looking very much elated.
Orlagh rushed to her and took her hands in her own, overwrought. “Did ye do it?”
She did not need to ask. From the maid’s countenance, the whole castle had fallen into her ploy, which was to foster the relationship between her son and the beautiful Miss Collins.
If the kiss they had shared—dutifully brought to her knowledge by Amber—and the chemistry between them were anything to go by, she was well within her rights to tug the strings of fate.
What better way to help her son realize his feelings than throwing Talia into the arms of a potential paramour and having him come upon them?
“Aye, Miss Collins is alone with her suitor at the moment.”
A grin spread across her face, and she clapped her hands together. “Good, now fetch me son and let him ken about the situation.”
“Ye’re absolutely incorrigible!” Talia cried.
“What have I done?” His feigned cluelessness was always so charming.
His lips stretched out, baring sharp, pointy fangs. Talia inched away for a closer look. That was how close he sat to her.
“Ye call on me so early in the morning—”
He shifted closer, as if punishing her for putting distance between them. “I missed ye.”
“—in yer Sunday best—”
“I am always dapper every day of the week.”
“—and ye refuse to behave.”
“What do ye mean?”
Her admonishments seemed to pull him even closer.
They shared a large sofa, long enough to sit four people of similar builds to her, with enough space between them for comfort. Her guest, however, found it more proper to press his knee against her thigh. His arm hung loosely over the back as he assumed the pose of an unrefined rake.
She found him entertaining. He was the sort who flirted because he could, because his looks allowed him that courtesy.
It made her curious to know whether he would actually act on the things he said or if they were barely superficial remarks to elicit her laughter.
When he smiled, it was hard to believe he was morally corrupt.
Witnessing the less tamed version of what he had portrayed in front of Orlagh, she wondered what else he could be hiding. One thing she was sure of, anyway, was that if he would not be her husband, he would be a very entertaining friend.
“Ye shouldnae take advantage of me lack of a chaperone.”
She did nothing to show her disapproval except lean away, when she knew that if she had been stern, he would not have been almost on top of her.
Maybe he was the kind of experienced rake that made her believe his feelings were perfectly her own.
Maybe she was perfectly seduced, believing she still had the reins.
He cocked an eyebrow, playing into the charade. “How am I doing that?”
If she had chosen the divan, they would have fallen over.
Her back was pressed tightly against the armrest, her lower body arched towards him invitingly.
If they had sat on the divan, she would not be leaning away.
There would be no upholstered back or arms abetting her.
She would face him without pretensions to decency and invite him to ruin her.
Even if he was a rake, she had to believe he was a genteel one, as his hands were nowhere near her.
While he loomed over her, hanging onto the threads of propriety, she admired his beautiful face. Very few men looked like him.
Ewen was a man of ideal proportions, tall but not too tall. She would have to rise on her tiptoes to press her lips to his. His shoulders were broad—she could envision herself disappearing behind his frame—but not so broad that his waist appeared overly slender.
When he wasn’t flirting, he was inadvertently seducing her with a deck of cards, dexterous fingers, and alchemy.
He carried a pack with him wherever he went, but if one were to ask him, he would go on a tangent on how he dedicated every second of his life to entertaining her so much so that he carried out tricks like a court jester for her amusement.
“Oh, quit it.” She pushed him off her and rose.
He fell against the upholstery with a grin that was so magnificent she imagined Apollo had happened upon her while foraging and decided to come to her as a suitor. If that were the case, she had better enjoy his company while it lasted.
“I wish to be near ye.” Without missing a beat, he followed.
The thing about Ewen was that if he experienced any emotion other than mirth, he managed to mask it well beneath a perfect porcelain face.
He had crafted such a persona that it was nearly impossible to envision him overcome by emotion.
Those slender eyebrows could not knit in anger.
She absolutely could not imagine it. Bright, luminous eyes could not dull because of depression.
The throes of desire, however, were not unimaginable.
They had once shared an ill laugh when he had crossed the distance separating two sofas. Orlagh had stepped out for a moment because a ruckus sounded in the corridor, but Talia had not been alarmed. In fact, she had been excited. His personality was best enjoyed in his nearness.
He had whispered a naughty joke, and she had fallen into him as she laughed.
His lips were fixed felicitously, but his eyes told a different story.
They glazed over, smoother than obsidian orbs.
Hunger seeped from his pores and through his clothes.
The look on his face was not one Talia could forget.
Orlagh had come into the room just as he drifted away.
It was suspect, and she had been suspicious.
That was when she had called him ‘bold.’
Talia had not seen the emotion since then. Except now, they stood by the window where anyone could see them from the garden below, and he watched her with such an intensity that she could almost feel it on her skin.
Instead of a thrill, she felt guilty.
“Why?” She uttered the single, pitiful syllable and then returned to the sofa.
He watched her, one shoulder pressed against the floral wallpaper, his arms crossed.
She knew he would not approach because he wore a satisfied expression, the object of his satisfaction being her décolletage.
She was proven right when his eyes slid up and fixed on her lips.
Indignantly, she took her own lewd inventory of him.
“I ken ye’re seeing other suitors, and I wish to be yer favorite,” he said with a hint of melancholy.
If he weren’t such a good actor, she would have believed him, but she was a normal person, so a part of her was affected nonetheless.
“So ye intend to stand out from the rest by seducing me?”
“Ye have to forgive me natural charm.” He seemed to take her assessment as an invitation, and he came to her.
“Practiced charm, ye mean?” She tried not to sound like a jealous shrew, adding a velvety edge to her voice to allude to being a seasoned coquette, which was not what a respectable lady aspired to be, but he smiled as though he believed her.
“As for me early visit, I wished to join ye for breakfast. I refuse to break me fast without ye.”
“Liar.” His breath was cold against her cheek. “I can smell the sweetness of toast on yer breath.”
He did not have the rectitude to look aghast. “How can ye tell that?”
“Because ye’re too damn close,” she said in one breath
“If ye wish, I shall withdraw…” He moved back an inch. She thought the movement gave him more leverage.
“And if I daenae, to what extent will ye take this?”
“Are ye merely askin’ or consentin’?”
She was awfully excited for someone about to be snared in a trap by an expert hunter. She glanced at his lips, the sheen on the tender flesh, the nearness of them. He inched closer, and she could tell just how many sugars he had had in his tea.
“Are ye nae supposed to wait for me consent?”
His breath brushed against her lashes, as though he wanted to capture her from the bottom up. “Ah, I believed I had it.”
“What makes ye say so?”
“Well, ye watch me as if ye’re about to devour me.”
“I could say the same thing about ye.”
“Therefore, we have each other’s consent.”
He didn’t seem like the type of man who could be content with a peck, a soft, infinitesimal brush of lips. He was intense, confidently depraved, betraying a past of dissolution.
He would kiss her wholeheartedly with tongue and body, with hands gliding up and down her waist. Was that what she wanted, to have him explore her?
As if she manifested it, his hand dropped to her knee. She looked away from the tender grip, and he searched her face, seeking her permission.
Darragh had said she needed to learn how to kiss to find a husband, then kissed her for one fleeting moment, which did not lend any new revelation to the act.
As of now, she was more clueless than she had ever been. Ewen’s lips should not have looked so soft, but they were. He should not have been capable of such gentleness, but he was.
Would Ewen’s gentle hands feel rough against her face? Will his tender lips feel harsh against hers? A man who seemed to hold nothing but disregard had been so gentle. What about a man who showered her with flowery words?
She was curious.
Darragh had asked not to be disturbed that morning, and when he made demands, they were usually met. So when his mother’s maid stumbled into his study looking panicked, he rose to his feet.
“What is the matter with me maither?”
“Yer maither is fine, except the fact I cannae find her, me Laird.”
“What do ye mean, ye cannae find her?”
Her mouth dropped open in surprise, as though she had not anticipated the question. “I am sure she is fine where she is. Nay, she’s perfectly fine where she is.”
“How do ye ken that?”
“She sometimes goes on strolls without informing anyone and returns sometime later.”
He would have suspected she was telling tall tales to quell his ire at her negligence, but she had spoken too guiltily, belying a constant bone of contention with the woman.
“This is the first I am hearin’ of this.” He ran a hand over his face, and tried to imagine what the pesky woman could possibly gain from such disappearances. . “If she’s fine, why are ye here?”
“It’s about Miss Collins—”
Her name chafed his skin. He now knew what she felt and tasted like. In that one brief encounter, he had accumulated more intelligence than a man who had dedicated years to a study. Then, like a foolish man faced with the culmination of years of hard work, he balked and abandoned her.
“Matters about Miss Collins should be attended to by me maither or Amber,” he said gruffly.
“That’s the problem, yer maither cannae be found, and Mrs. Thomson has fallen ill and retired.”
He wanted to send the maid away. Cohen was less busy at the moment; Jenson was always idle. They could handle Talia, but he knew the consequences of relinquishing her to men she was not so familiar with. If he were in her shoes, he would take offense.
He had to resolve the matter himself. If whatever she needed required them to stand face to face, he must not kiss her. Again.
“What’s the matter with her?”
“One of her suitors has come to call on her, and she doesnae have a chaperone with her.”
He rose abruptly.
That difficult woman!
Was she alone with her suitor, without the protection of a chaperone?
“Where is Miss Collins right now?”
“With her suitor in the morning room.”