Chapter Seven #2
They drove his actions.
And, perhaps, a little bit, the need to see beneath her skirts. He’d been able to keep that particular desire dormant for years only to have Caro teetering on a ladder, skirts swinging, bring it roaring back to life. Now, apparently, he could think of nothing else. But that wasn’t caring .
“I’m not your wife,” she grumbled. “Not really.”
Irritation felt sharp. Like a pin prink on his chest. It felt… strangling… like a hand wrapped tightly about his throat. “You are. And you will not stay here another moment unprotected. I’ll see to the windows. Something you should have already done. And then I’ll see to hiring staff.”
Frustration made her whisky eyes burn. “Will you leave then ?”
He could get drunk on whisky-colored eyes. It would only take one tiny, perfect sip. “Why so eager to see the back of me? Hoping to watch my arse once more?” He couldn’t help the smile sliding across his lips.
“I-I-you-well—” Red high on her cheeks looked lovely as she pressed those lips closed. Those red, too. She was undeniably a beautiful woman. And cunning. No other word for that particular glimmer forming in her eyes. Uh oh. “What if I am?”
He licked his lips, stepped back. He’d never needed so much space between himself and a woman as he did now. “You are not .”
Her gaze dropped, focused on his fall. And didn’t that just make his cock throb. Hell.
“I am,” she said. Slowly, her gaze meandered up his body. “You are an attractive man, Felix. I’ve always thought so.”
No longer just a throb. His cock was hard.
Too quick, too soon. He might pass out from the relocation of all that blood.
He leaned back, gripped a windowsill. If he let go, his knees would buckle and he’d crumple at her feet.
Humiliating. Even if he would be able to see up her skirts, then.
Good God. He’d be an amoral rake in less than a fortnight if he stayed here with her.
But what choice did he have? He gripped the windowsill tighter, cock still hard. Bollocks.
Those, aching too…
“If you stay, Felix…” She sauntered toward him, her generous hips swaying.
“Perhaps—”
He regained his footing. Side stepped.
Still she pursued him. “We might—”
Another step, to the side and a bit forward as well. He wasn’t bolting. Of course not. But he couldn’t let her corner him. Not bolting at all. More like taking his leave at a leisurely pace.
Changing direction with a turn on her toe, still she came for him, swaying. “Reconsider our arrangement.”
He scuttled along the wall until he reached the doorframe, then he stood in the middle of it, bracing his hands on either side. He managed to grit out, “What do you mean, Caro?”
She drew a single finger along the waist of his buckskins then trailed it up his abdomen, all the way up until she could trace the v of his waistcoat. Every inch of his body she touched, teased, flirted with, made him harder, and made it more difficult to grasp the door frame and not her .
“I mean,” she said, voice soft as a feather and silky as desire, “that if we are to live in the same house, and since there are so few acceptable places to sleep, we might as well”—she flattened her hot palm against his chest, right over his frantic heart—“share a bed, too.”
He dug his fingernails into the doorframe hard enough to hear the wood crackle. He searched for control, clenching every muscle to keep from grasping her, kissing her. She held his gaze like the brazen beauty she was, confident, sure in her victory.
But then her gaze faltered, her throat bobbed. She licked her lips, but it was no erotic gesture.
Nervous.
Was she… bluffing?
Bloody hell, she was. Demeaning, that. Good way to deflate the nether regions. Mostly. Because she still stood before him, hand on his chest, breathing erratically, her pinkened skin so very close. It must be warm. And soft. And—
He would not fall for the siren.
Could he call her bluff, kiss her hard, and make her regret baiting him?
If he did that, would he be able to stop?
If he kissed her now, he’d slide his fingers into the hair at her nape, and then squeeze, gently but with enough pressure to send a message.
Not sure what that message was. Something primitive, permanent.
He’d conquer the small of her back again, too, rub his thumb in circles there, a promise of what he might do between her legs if she threw her skirts up.
Hell. Hard again.
He stepped away from her and backward into the hallway. “What do you think to achieve from that little act?”
“W-what act?”
“The one where you pretend to want me.”
“I—”
“Do you want me?”
She didn’t answer.
And he hated that her silence hurt. “I’m off to the village, Caro.
Care to join me?” Miracle he’d been able to pry himself away.
But he needed to think, and he couldn’t do that so damn close to her.
He wasn’t here to seduce her or reconsider their arrangement.
He was here to keep her safe, to bring her back to London.
Anything else was inadvisably dangerous.
And for a man like him to admit that… it meant something.
Her cheeks paled, and her jaw set like stone. She shook out her skirts, trying to hide the frustration in the rise and fall of her chest, in her pink cheeks. “You go. I’ve much to do here.”
Oh, he’d upset her well and good.
“Very well.” He set off toward the stairs, throwing an arm in the air. “Prepare the servants quarters while I’m gone. As best you can.”
“Felix,” Caro barked from behind him. “You cannot simply stomp about doing as you please! This may be your house, but our marriage settlement—”
Two steps down he turned, anger burning in his belly. “Is void as long as you are unsafe. I made a deal with Mrs. Dove-Lyon for a wife, not a widow. If you wish to return to the relationship we agreed upon, you’d do best to let me have my way in this.”
“No!” Not a stomped foot. But close.
“I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied you are safe.”
With her shoulders thrown back and her chin high with dudgeon, she looked… magnificent.
Danger .
Oh yes. But he’d always enjoyed flirting with danger.
“My dear,” he said. “Your husband will remain in residence until further notice. And if you keep remonstrating so vociferously, I’ll think you have nefarious reasons for wanting me gone.” He fixed her with as stern a look as he could. A husband-like look he hoped.
“I… I simply wish to be alone.” Her little hands fisted into her skirts.
“Besides, you seem… uncomfortable here. No wonder, considering the state of the place. I think only of you.” She fluttered her lashes.
They were butterfly wings, pretty, innocent.
She meant to blow him over with that wide-eyed act!
Ha. She’d never looked so sweet and na?ve in her life.
It was his turn to investigate how wide a circular path his eyes could make.
“I thank you for your concern, wife , now you’ll allow me to express my own concern for your comfort.
And safety. In the way I see fit. By staying right bloody here .
” He spun and stomped the rest of the way down the stairs—careful not to step on any particularly cracked and creaky boards.
He was outside in seconds, striding for the stables.
He did not run from fluttering lashes and wide whisky eyes.
He retreated because of the damn house. He was uncomfortable at Hawthorne.
Not because of the lack of a bed or any convenience.
It was the ghosts that bothered him. The rooms he’d toured just now brimmed with them.
Echoes of his brothers’ boisterous laughter.
His sisters floating from one chamber to another, followed by their mother’s voice, raised in song.
His father’s strong footsteps marching down the hall until he caught his wife and whirled her around for a kiss.
The imprints of Felix’s own hand against the windowpanes on a cold day when his breath fogged the glass.
His palm was cold, as if he’d just experienced it.
Not ghosts.
Unexpected demons. Thought he’d flung them to hell long ago.
They’d risen from the grave.