Chapter 12
Restraint. Sort of…
Angel stood outside the door to their room, watching Mr Cleaver walk away from her.
Perfect, she told herself. It was just what she wanted. He would see them safely to Penenden Heath, keep his distance, then to wherever they chose, then he would go away. No fuss. No bother.
But the devilish light that always gleamed in his eyes, the fire that drew her to him when she knew she ought not to go anywhere near him, had diminished.
He’d looked… hurt. Like she’d rejected him, which was silly.
He was a big, powerful, handsome man, one who was used to getting his own way.
Used to having females lose their wits over him too, she did not doubt.
But not her. Not today. She had behaved just as she ought. For once.
Oh, drat the man.
Angel hurried after him.
She caught up with him just as he pushed open the door to his room.
“Mr Cleaver.”
He turned, his eyebrows climbing as he saw her hurrying along the corridor towards him.
“Miss Baxter.”
“I insist that you stop this,” she said impatiently.
Mr Cleaver blinked and looked around him, nonplussed. “Stop what?”
“You know jolly well what,” she said crossly, folding her arms and glaring at him.
Eyes narrowed, he gave her a dubious frown. “I do?”
“Certainly. It’s obvious that you are—”
Voices farther along the corridor reached them and Mr Cleaver took hold of her arm and tugged her into his room, closing the door. “You are determined to ruin your reputation, you reckless female,” he muttered, letting go of her.
“That’s rich! You’re the one who just shut me in your room.”
His jaw tightened with annoyance. Good. She was cross, she didn’t see why he oughtn’t be too.
“You know very well I did that to stop those people from seeing you standing outside my bedroom door.” He walked away, heading for a tray set on a table by the fire, ready with a decanter of brandy and glasses. “Now, what is it I am doing that so enrages you?”
Angel put up her chin. “You are sulking.”
He choked on the mouthful of brandy he’d just swallowed. “I’m what?” he demanded, bristling with indignation.
“You heard me.”
A masculine scent tickled Angel’s nose. Perhaps cedar, certainly something musky and woody, drifted on the air.
He’d taken a bath too, she remembered, aware of the faintly damp quality of the air about her.
The room was warm, rather hot actually, a situation not helped in the least by the sudden image that drifted through her mind of his powerful body, wet and soapy, his hand moving over his slick skin. ...
“Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe I congratulated you on your skill and did not argue that you had won fair and square,” he said tersely.
“You did,” she agreed, swallowing and trying to rid herself of improper thoughts.
Her cheeks seemed to have caught fire, and her crossed arms had folded themselves tighter across her chest, as much to stop her hands from trembling as from annoyance.
She did not quite understand why she was so het up and out of sorts with him, but she was, and so it must be his fault—and yes, the words, pot, kettle and black were ringing in her ears.
He took another swallow of brandy and set down his glass.
“And yet, I am accused of sulking?”
“You are sulking. You’re being all—” Angel cast about for the correct word, spitting out the first thing that seemed to fit. “Noble!”
He stared at her, utterly baffled.
“Miss Baxter, you are, without a doubt, the most aggravating female I have ever encountered.”
“Likewise, I’m sure,” she snapped back.
He moved towards her, his deep voice rumbling through her, making her nerves leap. “It may have escaped your notice, my dear, but I’m no female.”
“N-No, but you’re aggravating.”
Suddenly he was standing right in front of her, gazing at her, his eyes lit with a wicked fire that made her want to burn with him, consequences be damned. The small, sensible voice in her head, the one she generally disregarded, shrieked flee!
She ignored it.
Despite knowing better, her gaze drifted from his eyes to his mouth. She knew his lips were warm and soft, and he had kissed her like it meant something, like she was precious.
He’d had a deal of practice, she assured herself.
Yet he was so close now her skirts brushed his legs, and the tantalising scent of him grew stronger, intoxicating her and making her senses reel.
“Are you sorry you lost, Miss Baxter? Is that why you are here, annoying me?” he asked, though it sounded more like a growl than words.
“Annoying you?” she repeated, because it was the only part of the sentence she was brave enough to deal with. “Well, if that’s the way you feel, I shall just go and—”
Before she could turn and stalk away, head held high and dignity intact, he reached for her.
Angel gasped as his hands slid around her waist, pulling her close. Instinctively, her hands came up, braced upon his chest, and the heat of him blazed through his waistcoat, everything beneath the fabric unyielding, like warm marble.
“Answer the question.”
Angel’s jaw tightened. She didn’t want to answer the question. He’d know if she lied, and… and why must he be so provoking?
“Miss Baxter—”
“Oh, yes! Drat you,” she said crossly. “Yes, I was sorry, you dreadful man, but I can’t think why.”
Before he could give her a reason, she reached up, grabbed hold of his head, and dragged it towards her, pressing her mouth against his.
Hart’s mind reeled as Miss Baxter sank her slender fingers into his hair, her mouth moving over his. In some dim, very dim, recess of his brain lived an awareness of all the things gentlemen did and did not do with innocent young ladies.
The trouble was, where Miss Baxter was concerned, things seemed to get in a tangle. In the first place, he’d given her exactly what she wanted, and she’d come storming after him and thrown a temper fit in his bedroom. His bedroom. And then she’d kissed him!
And yes, all right, he’d grabbed hold of her first, but if she’d told him to get his hands off her—as any sensible girl would have done—he’d have let go.
But she didn’t—she held on. This wasn’t the kind of behaviour he associated with debutantes, and as for the kiss…
. Heat simmered beneath his skin as her wicked mouth did terrible things to his equilibrium.
She pulled away suddenly, breathing hard, staring up at him with a glassy-eyed expression that made him feel somewhat better.
“And let that be a lesson to you,” she said, as though she’d given him a sound telling off.
“It shall,” Hart replied gravely. The lesson being that Miss Baxter was prone to kissing a fellow when she lost her temper. If she thought he wasn’t taking notes, she was far wide of the mark.
“Good,” she said, patting his chest in a friendly manner that was a little at odds with the passionate kiss that was still vibrating in the air between them. “Well, then. Now that’s settled, I’d—I’d best be going.”
Hart nodded. “Probably.”
She let out a breath. “Right. Good evening, Mr Cleaver, I’ll—”
Hart dragged her back into his arms, pulling her flush against him, so close she could not possibly mistake the results of her impromptu assault on his person. To his relief, she did not squeal or slap him, but pressed closer, sliding her arms about his neck.
“Wicked, wicked girl,” he growled, kissing his way down her neck as his hands slid higher, cupping her breasts and squeezing.
She gasped, arching into his touch, angling her head to allow him better access.
Anything resembling a coherent thought fled as she let out a little sigh of pleasure and Hart’s attention became riveted upon the problem at hand—too many clothes—and how to solve it. With as much speed as possible.
His hand slid around her back to the fastenings on her gown, unhooking them as he deepened the kiss. Having made quick work of the gown and having heard no sounds of protest, his nimble fingers were no less speedy dispensing with her corset, which sagged a short time later.
Miss Baxter broke the kiss with a little yelp, glancing down at herself as dress and corset slid down, revealing a glorious expanse of bare bosom, though her nipples remained tantalisingly covered.
Hart swallowed a groan.
She looked up at him, eyes wide with wonder. “Good Lord,” she said, sounding more staggered than appalled. “You made quick work of that. You’re more dangerous than I realised, and I thought I had a pretty clear idea.”
“Sorry,” he offered, though he wasn’t, not even a little.
She snorted and reached for his hand. “Well, don’t waste all that effort,” she told him, pressing his hand over her breast.
He sucked in a breath as his fingers met skin of such silken perfection that he was certain his heart stopped.
With the back of his free hand, he trailed his fingers over the other plump mound, aware that his heart was racing.
The desire to tug on the bodice of her dress and reveal what lay beneath the stiff fabric made his mouth water with anticipation.
Though he’d seen plenty of breasts in his time, he was rivetingly aware that something about this felt different.
With that awareness came the unwelcome and badly timed awakening of his much-neglected conscience.
It stabbed at him, reminding himself of all the reasons Miss Baxter deserved better than this.
She was not the kind of young woman to take to bed and move on. If he did this, it… well, he didn’t know what, not precisely, but he wasn’t ready for it. But he didn’t want to stop either.
“Miss Baxter,” he said, his voice husky as he tried to force his brain to speak the words that would put an end to this delicious interval. But his brain was refusing to cooperate, and he couldn’t find what ought to follow.
“Angel.”
He blinked, gazing down at her with a crooked smile. “Sweetheart, I am many things, but angelic… no,” he said with a huff of laughter.
Her smile, one of fond exasperation, did odd things to his heart. “Not you, you great nitwit. Me. I’m Angel. Angelica, but my friends call me Angel.”
He felt a stupid grin curve over his lips. Oh, and wasn’t that ironic and utterly perfect. “My wicked Angel, sent to drive me distracted,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers again.
She kissed him back, reaching up to sink her hands into his hair and—glory be to God—the dress fell the remaining inch. Hart sighed as he filled his hands with her breasts, the delicate rosy buds of her nipples pressing against his palms.
“Oh, Angel, such blessings you gift me with,” he said, and with such reverence she giggled.
He gazed down at her, toying with one perfect little nub as he tried to remember what had been so important a moment ago. Surely not more important than her splendid breasts?
“I believe I could be moved to write poetry, perhaps even an opera, dedicated to the perfection of your breasts,” he said earnestly.
She shook her head, staring at him with amusement glinting in her beautiful eyes.
“I mean it,” he said, gazing at them with longing.
His mouth watered, and even though he knew he ought not, he lowered his head, capturing one taut little bud in his mouth.
The sound she made as he suckled made every muscle in his body lock down tight, his cock throbbing hard with impatience.
Yet, he wanted her to trust him, and this was not the way to make that happen.
Though it almost killed him to admit it, he knew he must not let this go any further.
He gave a tragic sigh as drew back, gazing with helpless longing at the bountiful gift he was about to reject, and tugged her corset back up. “And now you must put them away and… and not show me such temptations again or we’ll both be in the basket. Turn around, drat you, before I change my mind.”
She did as he told her and stood obediently—apparently shocked into silence, praise be—while he tugged and rehooked everything he had unhooked. It was a very depressing experience.
He turned her around again and took a step back before he could start undoing all his good work.
“You’d best go.”
Angel nodded, still looking somewhat dazed, and walked to the door.
He followed her but kept a safe distance.
She turned back to him and then closed the gap between them, running to him and lifting up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Mr Cleaver.”
“I think, in the circumstances, you might call me Leo.”
“Leo,” she repeated, and he heard her smile in the way she said his name. It slid beneath his skin and insinuated itself into his heart before he had the wit to do anything to stop it. Once there, it settled in, and he had the disturbing notion that it was there to stay. “Then, goodnight, Leo.”
And so saying, she closed the door and went out.
Hart stood for a long time after she’d gone, wondering why the devil he’d not taken advantage of the situation. She’d done nothing to suggest she wasn’t willing. Yet, as much as he regretted it, he discovered he was glad too. How very odd.