Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
She was reflecting on ways to catch him alone when he found her first.
She was walking up the stair to the women’s wing, Dot at her side nattering about the pudding that had been served for dessert. Dot was overly fond of pudding.
Mame and Dorsey had settled into a game of cards that was like to last long into the night, and Dutton had expressed interested in joining them.
The Baeccons had departed, with a link boy to run ahead and light their way back to their lodgings at the Great House.
Cerys couldn’t imagine the extravagance of taking a carriage to cover a mile.
Gwen might do it now, but then Gwen was a viscountess, wasn’t she, and toting lordlings and small ladies about.
Andover had escorted Cousin Diana to bed, then wandered off to other entertainments, and Mr. Manelli had taken his leave when the Baeccons departed.
Cerys was considering whether she would be able to locate the door to his bedchamber, then tap on it without being observed, when she found the man himself, lounging in an alcove at the turn of the stair.
The half-moon gleamed through the window above and poured a shaft of quicksilver light over his head, spotlighting him as if he were on a stage.
A quiet intensity practically shimmered off him, or perhaps that was the thrill she felt at his nearness.
He stood leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a gesture that outlined the ridiculous breadth of his chest and immense arms. The man was built like a blacksmith, not an architect.
Dot faked a huge yawn. “Goodness, I’m run off my feet. G’night, Cerys. I’m off to bed.” She nodded at the gentleman. “Mr. Manelli.”
“I bid you good evening,” he said, not looking at Dot as she sauntered up the stairs.
His eyes fixed on Cerys, or at least, she supposed they were.
The moon cast his face into silvery shadow, highlighting the curve of one ear, the lock of unruly hair falling over his temple.
The light fell like a caress over the austere cut of his cheekbone, the arrogant slope of his cheek to the stubborn jaw.
The corner of his lips looked very soft.
Cerys stepped forward, the carpet plush against her slippers. Her shawl whispered down her arm as she lifted a hand. With a yank she relieved his cravat of its tidy knot. The linen was warm and soft beneath her fingers, infused with the heat of his body.
“There. That’s better.”
“Did you enjoy yourself this evening?” His voice was a low scrape in the darkness, like a pumice stone dragged across her skin, waking her nerves to full awareness. His arms remained folded, but he quivered ever so slightly, as if her touch sent a shudder through him.
“Supremely. You?” She found herself on the balls of her feet, ready to run at the first sign of a threat.
Or lean towards him.
“What the devil are you about with Lady Baeccon?”
She moved so the light from the window fell on her as well, and he had to turn to confront her.
That was better, only one side of his face in shadow.
The other— She was right. That dark brown eye glared fiercely at her, a gleam beneath his sharp brow.
He was one of those men who could shave in the morning and grow a shadow along his jaw by dinner time.
She wondered if the stubble would be prickly against her palm.
“What a strong-minded creature her ladyship is.” Cerys kept her voice low. They were in plain sight of anyone coming up or down the stairs, hardly a tryst, and yet this moment would be illicit for a well-bred girl.
How fortunate Cerys was nothing of the sort.
“Very confident, isn’t she? One has to admire such assertiveness in a woman.
” She rubbed her arm where gooseflesh was rising, the consequence of his unceasing stare.
“But perhaps a little too confident that she could crook her claw and have you jumping into her bed again. I decided to throw a bit of a rub in her way.”
He turned, and all of a sudden those immense arms were bolted to the wall on either side of her, encasing her. She could duck beneath his elbow and escape if she wanted, but she didn’t want to. Shivers of excitement raced along her spine.
“Hold a moment, you awful girl—why do you suppose I’ve been in her bed?”
His breath carried a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg. He’d enjoyed the pudding too, along with the port. Cerys breathed him in.
“Why would she make such an effort to lure you, unless she knew the delights in store? She wouldn’t risk her hold on Lord Baeccon for mere supposition.
Milady is too wise for that.” She blew out a breath, trying to steady her nerves.
This one man rattled her the way a packed theater of strangers never had, and never could.
“So. I led her ladyship to believe you have a tendre for me.”
“You little—” The words ended in a growl. “Minx. You enjoy toying with people, don’t you?”
That hurt. She pushed at his arm, and he bent his elbow, but not enough to entirely free her. The man was solid muscle. How did an architect become a solid block of muscle?
“I was helping, you dolt. You might thank me instead of calling me names. Of course, if you want to be the mouse in her claws again, by all means, hie yourself to her bed. Go this moment and scratch at her window. I’m quite sure she’d let you in.”
“I do not,” he grated, “want her.”
Cerys raised her chin to stare him full in the face. It had rather the effect of staring fully into the sun. Or opening an oven and unleashing a blast of heated air. The man did overwhelm the senses, a bit.
“Then I have done you a favor. Her ladyship will froth that she can’t have you, and you can enjoy a bit of revenge. Torment her in return for the way she cut out your heart.”
His entire body tensed. The visible eyelid flickered. He was like a figure from a masque, half light and half shadow, half angel, half dark god.
“Cut out my heart,” he repeated.
“I saw your face,” she said softly. “When she appeared in the doorway. You looked like a warrior who had come face-to-face with Medusa, and you hadn’t the shield.”
The words cut her to say them. His face.
The look of a man who had taken a permanent wound.
He had put the dismembering behind him, gone about his life breathing and eating and attending to mortal business, but the sight of his former lover had ripped off the protective covering and set him to bleeding afresh.
“And you, manipulative baggage that you are, intend to rescue me.”
She closed her eyes briefly at the effect his gravelly voice had on her.
So what if no man had ever longed for her the way Dante Manelli had once craved the woman who had murdered his heart.
So what if Cerys did not have, never had, never would have, such seductive power.
She had a few small attributes to recommend her.
Wits, for one. She must keep them at all costs.
“Hardly a rescue.” She forced her tone to lightness. “A negotiation. I am making you indebted to me so you will build us a theater.”
He shifted slightly. The space between them lessened. A flush climbed her body, suffusing her limbs, clouding her head. He smelled wonderful, a blend of port and orange and spices. She wanted to bite him. He stood close enough that she could.
“You suppose,” he ground out, “that spreading tales about my affections is the way to put me in your debt?”
“It’s a marvelous opportunity,” she said, somewhat indignant that he didn’t see the obvious. “I offer you protection from Lady Baeccon, if you wish it. I offer you a project that could at last establish your reputation in this town, bring you the esteem you deserve.”
Her voice trembled slightly, nerves again, and she steeled herself. “Do you disdain to work with actors? Can we not elevate you enough that a commission from us would be worth your time? No, we are not lords or wealthy tradesmen, so perhaps you despise—”
She stopped when his hand covered her mouth.
Her knees nearly buckled at the contact of his skin, the weight, the maddening heat of him.
She would scream if he meant to hurt her, and she might scream anyway just from having the fury of a man stop her voice, when she fought so hard to be seen and heard—
“Stop,” he commanded. “Do not take that thought further.”
His fingers cupped her cheek, the lightest touch. She sucked in air. The part of his mouth she could see quirked in a smile. “Lady Disdain is going to lecture me about contempt? I am in no position to look down on anyone.”
She scraped her teeth against his palm, lightly, the preface to biting. She couldn’t help herself.
He snatched his hand away as if he’d been burned by a flame. His eyes held hers, eyelids flaring, and the smolder deep inside his gaze might be moonlight, or a demonic nature, or…
Was it possible he could desire her?
She couldn’t seem to haul enough air into her lungs.
She’d never kissed a man, not an actual man, not a proper kiss.
What if it was awful? What if his breath smelled up close, or he tasted bad?
What if it were rough, or clumsy, or sticky and wet, and she had heard some men used their tongues.
If he put his tongue in her mouth, she might die from embarrassment.
Or disgust. She couldn’t understand why she wanted so badly something that might be so terrible, and she stared at his lips, willing him, willing him—
“I go too far.” He loosened his arm from the wall and stepped back. “I—”
With a small, inarticulate groan, Cerys buried her fingers in his cravat and pulled his face to hers.
His mouth touched her mouth, and it was marvelous. His lips were supple, firm yet yielding, warm and dry. A spark caught and then flared as those lips moved on hers, tentative, searching. He nibbled at her upper lip, then her lower. She could scarcely breathe.
“Minx,” he growled in warning.