Chapter 21
Wherein There Are Unmentionable Shivers and Flutters; Confidences Are Shared over Tea and Cake; And an Epiphany About Romantic Novels Is Had …
It was almost half past two in the morning when Mina, Lord Kinsale, and Tom arrived back at Kinsale House.
The fog had rolled in heavy and thick, and there was a decided nip in the air as Lord Kinsale helped Mina to alight from the hansom cab.
Tom, obviously keen to be back at the place he could now call “home,” raced ahead of them into the townhouse, dashing up the stairs to the second floor where his bedroom lay.
Try as she might, Mina couldn’t ignore the fact that the touch of the marquess’s gloved hand on hers, or upon her elbow, or at the small of her back sent delicious shivers racing over her skin and set up flutters in the vicinity of her “unmentionables”; sensations that had nothing at all to do with the cool night air and everything to do with her hopeless attraction to her far-too-attractive employer.
But then she gave herself a stern talking-to, reminding herself that she must ignore any and all unprofessional shivers and flutterings. It was her duty to see Tom settled for the night and to check on Christopher. Nothing else signified.
Mina was of course relieved to find that her “son” was safe and sound and fast asleep in his bed, just as she’d left him.
The Guardia Nimbus ward had stayed in place and so had Brutus.
The pug greeted Mina with a terse hullo before demanding his sausage, which Mina quite happily gave him.
(Her governess’s pocket had quite conveniently supplied one, much to Lord Kinsale’s bemusement.) And then the dog had trotted off to the marquess’s sitting room where he usually spent the night.
Actually, Mina was quite surprised to find that Lord Kinsale hadn’t retired to his own suite when she emerged from Tom’s room some ten minutes later; the marquess had evidently waited for her while she’d tucked Tom into bed.
He got to his feet—he’d been reclining in the armchair Brutus had occupied earlier—as soon as he saw her.
Sans coat, with his neckcloth loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled up revealing his thickly corded forearms, he was a sight to behold.
The sort of sight that set off all Mina’s barely quelled shivers and flutters again.
“My lord,” she said softly as she closed Tom’s door behind her. “I was not expecting to see you here. Did … did you wish to speak to me about something?”
Lord Kinsale scrubbed a hand through his thick dark hair, ruffling it into haphazard spikes. “I … I … Yes, I did,” he said. “But … but not here.”
Mina frowned. “Oh … it sounds rather serious.”
The marquess’s mouth curved into a faint smile.
“Not-not really. It’s just … I know it’s late but I-I don’t think I can fall asleep quite yet.
I wondered if you …” He inhaled a breath.
“If you’d join me in a drink of … of somethin’.
I have brandy and sherry and whisky in me sittin’ room.
But o’ course”—he shook his head as though frustrated—“that’s not the done thing at all.
So ignore that suggestion, Miss Dav-Davenport.
” He studied her face for a moment as though trying to read her thoughts.
“Or we could go to the library? Or draw-drawing room? But then, what am I thinkin’? I know you’re not one to tip-tipple …”
Mina’s heart squeezed. His indecision and attempts not to offend her—to reassure her in fact—were quite endearing. “I feel the same way. I don’t think I can sleep yet either. Why don’t we venture down to the kitchen and I’ll make us some tea.”
Lord Kinsale’s smile returned. “That would be per-perfect.”
Ten minutes later, Mina had managed to stoke the fire in the kitchen range, boil the kettle, and assemble nearly everything else needed for tea making: a silver teapot, a pair of matching fine bone china cups and saucers, a bowl of sugar lumps, lemon slices, and teaspoons.
“What sort of tea would you like, my lord?” she asked as she studied the array of tea caddies on the top shelf of the kitchen’s oak dresser. “There’s Earl Grey, Lapsang souchong, Darjeeling, oolong, dandelion, chamomile, peppermint …”
“Whatever you prefer is fine with me, Miss Dav-Davenport,” he said.
“Chamomile,” said Mina decidedly. “It’s best for promoting sleep. Although”—she turned and cast the marquess a beseeching look over her shoulder—“it seems I cannot reach the caddy, even if I stand on tiptoes.”
“Allow me.” Lord Kinsale pushed away from the kitchen counter where he’d been leaning, arms crossed over his wide chest as he watched her go about preparing the tea.
And then Mina found he was right behind her.
Indeed, she was flush up against the lean hard body she’d been fantasizing about for weeks on end.
Ever since she’d stumbled into Lord Kinsale’s arms on the Kinsale Cloud, if truth be told.
She closed her eyes and allowed herself to wallow in the sensations engulfing her as his front pressed against her back.
Then as one of his thickly muscled arms reached past her and he retrieved the tea caddy.
The delicious woodsy scent of his cologne drifted around her, teasing her.
Even the heat of his body seemed to penetrate the wool of her gown, and beneath her corset and chemise, her nipples tightened quite shockingly.
Her breath caught and her face grew hot and her heart clenched with acute longing.
Mina had never experienced desire like this before.
What’s more, she had no idea what to do with these sensations hurtling through her, threatening to overwhelm her and trample all over her good sense.
Lord Kinsale hadn’t moved away—he’d simply put the tea caddy down on the dresser beside her clenched hand—so perhaps he felt the pull of desire too.
Indeed, he released a shaky sigh and Mina wondered if he’d been holding his breath, just like she had.
If she dared to turn her head to the side, would her lips brush against his strong stubbled jaw? What would Lord Kinsale do next? Would he lower his head and press his lips to her cheek or her ear or even her neck where her pulse raced wildly? Turn her around? Would he kiss her on the mouth?
Oh … If only he would …
And then Mina’s sensible, practical, schoolmarmish side came to the fore.
No, Hermina Davenport. No. You must not even think about such things. That way lies utter ruin. You’ll lose your post. You’ll be putting Christopher in danger.
Your reputation—both personal and professional—will be destroyed if anyone ever finds out that you shared a romantic entanglement with your employer. You must not break the Parasol Academy rules … even though you want to smash them all to pieces.
Inhaling a fortifying breath, she made herself pick up the tea caddy with both hands. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured in a voice that was none too steady.
“It was … it was my pleasure, Miss Dav-Davenport,” returned Lord Kinsale gruffly. Then he moved away and Mina heard the scrape of a chair on the kitchen floor’s flagstones as he took a seat at the oak table.
Mina barely looked at him as she busied herself with adding several scoops of fragrant chamomile leaves and flowers to the teapot and then pouring the boiled water over the top. Although, she could feel the weight of the marquess’s stare like a physical touch.
This had been a huge mistake, agreeing to take tea with him like this.
She thought the kitchen would be a mundane environment.
It was full of practical, ordinary things and plainly furnished.
It was the sort of place where romantic thoughts and feelings shouldn’t spark to life. But oh, how wrong she’d been.
The kitchen, at this time of night, was cozy and quiet and warm.
The fire in the cast-iron stove and the candles and lamps they’d lit bathed the room’s white-washed stone walls and sturdy furniture in a soft golden glow.
Copper pots and pans gleamed, and the fragrance of dried herbs—neat bunches hung from the dark ceiling beams above the table—cast a spell of intimacy about the space.
“Would you like something to eat as well, my lord?” Mina asked as she passed the marquess a steaming cup of fragrant tea. “Mrs. Dunkley made a Victoria sponge. It’s in the larder.”
Lord Kinsale’s eyes met hers as he took the cup and saucer. “I can al-always be tempted by cake,” he said. “Especially one that’s smothered with straw-strawberries and jam and cream.”
Oh my. The way the marquess had looked at her when he’d mentioned he could be tempted … Mina feared her cheeks were redder than the strawberries. The man was definitely flirting with her.
But as she sat down at the table with her own tea and cake—a very slender slice considering she’d already eaten a gooseberry fool for dessert earlier in the evening when she’d dined with the marquess—she couldn’t deny that she was tempted by the man too, despite her stern self-admonishments.
She suddenly wondered if Emmeline had felt this way when she’d been working for the Duke of St Lawrence—caught helplessly between duty and desire.
But Emmeline and her duke had fallen in love.
And Emmeline had already been married, so she at least had some way to tell the difference between infatuation and fleeting lust and true love.
Whereas she, twenty-six-years-old-and-never-been-kissed Mina Davenport, was so terribly confused and out of her depth.
There was no denying that she respected Lord Kinsale and liked him very much.
Perhaps too much. She was certainly attracted to him in a physical sense.
But was she falling in love? Was this giddy, dizzying, wondrous feeling—a sensation that was akin to being caught up in a teleportation whirlwind whenever she was around the man—a sign that her heart was becoming hopelessly engaged?
She hardly knew.