Chapter 4 #2
Verity padded across the rug to the washstand. She washed as best she could, teeth clacking at the shock of cold water. After donning her gown from the day before, she tiptoed down the corridor, heart racing as she navigated the unfamiliar maze.
The dowager’s door was ajar, and Verity peeked in.
Lady Blackfen was still in her bed, her mouth open and issuing a series of delicate snores.
She left quietly, picking her way back down the main stairs.
The corridors felt even colder than her bedroom, and the great wolfhounds were nowhere to be seen.
She made her way toward the kitchens, following her nose and the soft clatter of pans.
The kitchen was bright and full of the scents of bread and butter. Mrs. Harrow was not there, but she found the cook slicing off a freshly baked loaf of bread.
The cook eyed her. “Ye’ll be wanting breakfast, miss?”
“Yes, please,” Verity said. “And my trunk was with the supplies from the village?”
“Ye’ll have t’ find th’ gamekeeper. He’ll be in his cottage beyond the stables.” The cook grinned, showing an impressive array of teeth. “If ye don’t mind a bit of a chill, ye can fetch it yerself.”
“Thank you.” Verity drew a steadying breath, she walked over to the door, pushing it open into the blinding white morning.
The chill hit her, and she thought about running upstairs to grab her coat, but the gamekeeper could not be that far, could he?
She would quickly brave the cold, the morning sun already warming the air.
Frost glittered on every surface, and her breath hung in the air in fragile clouds.
She took the path to the stables, seeing the great bulk of it rise above her, its roof glittering with long, deadly icicles.
Then, skirting the stables, she searched for the path to the gamekeeper’s cottage.
At last, she spotted the path, just a few feet in front of her.
It was a narrow, rutted track that slipped away, easy to miss among the snow-laden hedges.
Suddenly, Verity heard the steady crunch of footsteps on snow and caught a glimpse of a familiar dark leather greatcoat coming through the woods in front of her.
She hurried forward with a breathless, “Good morning, Mr. Cutter, I?—”
Verity froze and stared as Lord Blackfen stepped fully into view, hair wildly tousled, cheeks raw from the wind. Taller than Mr. Cutter, the greatcoat stopped mid-calf and was hanging open to reveal more than she had expected. He was barefoot. And naked under the coat from what she could tell.
Lord Blackfen saw her and stopped in his tracks. His golden eyes, which seemed to be mildly glowing in the morning light, locked with hers.
Verity stared far longer than any modest woman ought. She stood rooted, and every sensible thought scattered at the sudden overwhelming nearness of him. Yesterday’s memory of his gentle voice and steadying hand amid the hounds collided with the raw sight of his tall bare body.
She became acutely aware that the cold air was carrying over his dark musky scent. Her lips parted, and her tongue darted nervously across them as words deserted her entirely. There was something … intoxicating … about the man that she struggled to define.
Being this close to a man undressed, she should have felt unnerved, especially after what happened with Robert Fynn.
Yet, despite being much larger and more intimidating than the spoilt squire’s son who had sent her running from St. Wulfric’s Parish, Lord Blackfen’s presence caused her heart to race for entirely different reasons than fear.
Something in the careful stillness of his gaze and the way he held himself, as though afraid to startle her, told her she was safe while she struggled not to drop her eyes in curiosity to explore those masculine calves, broad ankles and large feet.
Without thinking, she smiled, just a twitch of the lips, and said, “Does everyone in the north start the day with a bracing dash of snow and … well … so little else?”
The words hung in the air between them, brittle as icicles. Then, the moment cracked, and the earl began to laugh.
He had not expected himself to be laughing this morning.
But there, in the yard, standing bare and half-frozen, Lucien found himself doing so. Miss Hale’s voice rang clear as a bell in the bright morning, and the wry little quiver of her mouth, her sheer nerve in addressing his state of undress, shocked a laugh loose from his chest.
Miss Hale laughed too, and it was like the sun had clawed through the frost to reach him directly.
She seemed amused, not afraid. Her eyes danced up and down his frame, lingering on his exposed shins, the battered coat barely covering his embarrassment.
She tried to be discreet, but the pulse in her throat betrayed her.
It fluttered, quick and bright, and Lucien’s senses, flayed raw from the quickening, latched on to it with merciless hunger.
He gazed back at her, pink-cheeked and upright, breathing in her scent. Lavender, yes, but also sweetness, the bright wild tang of her own youth, and above it all, the crisp tang of winter air clinging to her like a halo. There was something underneath, too, something alarmingly alive.
He tried to think of something to say. Some clever, distant remark, an excuse to leave, an appropriate and bloodless quip, but every word in him had gone soft and boneless.
Instead, he stood there, unable to disguise the violence of his need.
Her green eyes were bright, and her skin looked softer than snow.
His body still thrummed from the night’s change and every nerve felt raw and open. He could not stop inhaling the bright unmistakable bloom of young womanhood. No one in all of Blackfen carried that fragrance. No one here dared to be sweet, amusing, and so achingly beautiful at once.
He saw the pink tip of her tongue touch her full lower lip and caught the way her gaze skimmed helplessly over his slightly exposed chest and concealed thighs before snapping back to his face.
A subtle honeyed note of feminine interest rose from her skin and curled straight into his blood.
In response, the beast inside him growled with pure ravenous want.
He realized, with a bolt of terror, that she was not only unafraid, but curious.
“Are you … well?” she asked, eyes wide and unblinking.
He nodded, though it was not true.
She did not move. He could not move. The moment hung, fragile and impossible.
Lucien took a step forward. The snow was deeper here, and the edge of the step crumbled under his heel, sending him forward another half pace, so that now he was near enough to feel the mist of her breath.
A gust of wind carried her hair across her cheek, and he reached out, compelled, to tuck the wayward strand behind her ear. She did not flinch. She held his gaze, steady as an oath.
“My lord?”
He meant to keep walking, to escape before his senses betrayed him further.
But he caught a whiff of her again, strong and sweet, and the beast in him rose up.
His vision pulsed, and he felt her presence consume him.
The world narrowed, all the air compressed between them, until nothing remained but the two of them.
He leaned in slowly and pressed his mouth to her lush pink lips in a deep kiss.
A soft moan escaped her lips when he claimed her.
The kiss was hungry and full of desire, tasting of frost and something darker, wilder.
She opened to him without hesitation, and he took the invitation, his tongue sliding against hers in a slow, deliberate stroke that drew another helpless moan from deep in her throat.
He angled his head, deepening the kiss, devouring her as if she were the only warmth left in the world.
She kissed him back with startling fervor. Every slide of her tongue against his sent fire racing through his blood. Her mouth was sweet, impossibly sweet, and he drank from it like a man dying of thirst, her taste making him growl low against her lips.