Seven Nights to Forever (24 page)

“You needn’t worry about the Webbs. What would you prefer?”

She glanced about, uncertain what she should choose. She’d much rather not have the option. What if what she wanted wasn’t what he wanted? And she couldn’t help but wonder at the way his staff had accepted her appearance at James’s side. As if it was commonplace for him to bring a woman to his country house. Last night he hadn’t batted an eye at securing a room for them. He had spoken to the innkeeper in his usual deep baritone voice. Not one fidget, while she’d had to fight against the feel of those eyes upon her.

Had she misjudged him? She had thought for certain he did not make a habit of spending time with women like herself. But maybe he was simply discreet, limiting his dalliances to the country, far from London.

“Is something the matter, Rose?”

“No. It is a lovely room, as I’m sure your past guests have assured you.”

“My past guests? Rose, the only guest I’ve ever entertained at Honey House is my sister.”

“Rebecca?”

“Yes.” A frown creased his brow, chasing away her brief surge of relief at learning she was not one of many. “Rose, what’s wrong?”

Her spine stiffened. “Nothing.”

He let out a breath, that frown deepening, but displeasure thankfully didn’t harden his eyes to cold chips of ice. “Please, don’t do this again. What’s wrong? And do not think to fool me with a claim to the contrary. Your unease is obvious.”

How could she explain it to him? She couldn’t. It was a combination of so many things it was impossible to isolate one from the many. Her thoughts focused on the opportunity to spend more time with him; she hadn’t anticipated how very different it would be to be with him outside of the brothel. Rubicon’s provided a level of shelter she had not fully appreciated. Here the full weight of expectation and of the rigid standards of proper decorum rubbed in a harsh coarse mixture against her skin.

Perhaps, though, she could placate him with part of the truth. “I’ve never traveled with a . . . gentleman,” she said, shying away from the word
client
. “It’s a new experience.”

“You do trust me, don’t you, Rose?” he asked, his thumb caressing the back of her hand still held in his.

“Yes.” The answer fell from her lips without thought, without a need to even consider it for an instant.

“It is my fondest wish for you to feel comfortable here. To treat my home as your own. But if you find you wish to leave before our week is up, simply say so and I will see you safely back to Town. That offer is always open.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, taken aback by his generosity. There was no doubt he would hold true to his word. If ever a man embodied trust, it was James.

“And I owe you an apology. It was inconsiderate of me not to inform you of the need to stop at the inn last night. In the future, I will keep you abreast of any plans, travel or otherwise.”

Rendered speechless by the sincerity in his voice, she merely nodded.

He considered her for a moment. “Do you feel more at ease about your stay now?”

She made to nod, but could tell he needed more of a definitive answer. “Yes.”

“Good.” All traces of the frown finally left his mouth. “Now, the room. Here or with me?”

She glanced about the bedchamber again. It would be nice to be able to call it her own, if only for the space of a week. “Here. Thank you, James.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear. In any case, my room’s not far. It’s just across the corridor. I’ll leave you to unpack and rest up a bit. Would you like me to call Mrs. Webb?”

“No, I prefer to see to unpacking myself.”

“All right, then. I’ll be in the study if you need me. Decker’s first delivery has already arrived. I can escape London but never the office. But you have my assurance that I will not spend the next week tucked behind my desk. A couple of hours in the morning after the post arrives, but that is all. I’m here to spend time with you.”

He brushed his lips to hers in a light, fleeting kiss.

A true smile curving her mouth for the first time since she stepped into the house, her lips still tingling, she watched his broad back disappear out the door.

TWILIGHT
veiled the grounds beyond the windows. Comfortable and informal with its ivory cambric drapes bracketing the windows, the dining room fit the home. The table was only large enough to seat six, so with only her and James, it didn’t feel as though they were perched on the edge of a forest’s worth of mahogany.

“Sugar or lemon?”

“No, thank you,” she murmured to Mrs. Webb, as the woman poured her a cup of tea.

Rose hadn’t lingered long in her bedchamber after unpacking and changing into one of her new day dresses before venturing out to find James. With a smile and another offer to lend her assistance if ever the need arose, Mrs. Webb had directed Rose to the study, which was situated toward the back of the house. James had indeed been tucked behind his desk, neat piles of papers covering the oak surface.

Knowing he was a busy man, she kept the interruption to a minimum, only checking in to gauge his mood and determine if he wanted her company for more than a pleasant conversation. He had seemed happy to see her, his eyes alight with welcome, but she could tell his mind hadn’t been fully on her. The pen had remained in his grasp, poised over the paper before him. After another request from him that she should treat his home as her own, she had ventured outside. The thought of taking up residence in a drawing room felt . . . not quite right, as if by doing so she would be presuming to be someone she wasn’t, yet returning to her bedchamber didn’t hold much appeal, either. So she had settled on a wrought iron bench on the back terrace to enjoy the late afternoon sun and the unseasonable warmth, the sun so strong she hadn’t needed to make use of her cloak or a shawl.

Not that she had remained on the bench long. James clearly kept country hours, complete with supper before five, which explained why darkness had not fully fallen yet even though Mrs. Webb had cleared the table of their dishes a few minutes ago.

Supper had been simple, yet exceptionally prepared. The bread still warm from the oven, the chicken moist and tender. The atmosphere informal enough so her simple sage green evening gown was the perfect match for the occasion. Clad in a navy evening coat, his freshly shaven jaw grazing his white cravat, James seemed perfectly at his ease at the head of the table. He hadn’t prattled on—not that he had ever shown himself to have that tendency—nor had silence reigned. The conversation had effortlessly drifted from the village, to the weather, to Honey House, which she learned he had purchased three years ago.

She hadn’t shared a meal with someone like this, complete with a dining table and a servant to tend to her, in so very long. At Paxton Manor, she dined with her housekeeper in the kitchen. At Rubicon’s, in her sitting room, though sometimes Timothy joined her. If she wasn’t careful, she could quickly grow accustomed to dining with James.

Rose brought her teacup to her lips and took a sip, as James refilled his cup from the ivory pot that Mrs. Webb had left on the table. He caught her gaze and gave her a smile before taking a sip of his coffee. It wasn’t as if he had never been relaxed around her. But it was different tonight. Not a hint of tension inhabited his powerful frame. Not a trace of lingering stress in his expression. He was a man fully at his ease. Relaxed and comfortable in his home.

With a little
clink
, James set his cup onto its saucer. “It’s been a long day, with the travel and what not. Would you mind if we retired early?”

“Not at all.” She didn’t believe his excuse for an instant. There wasn’t a bit of fatigue in his features. On the contrary. Where a moment ago his green eyes had been soft and warm, banked with the pleased contentment of a satisfying meal, now they held the distinct spark of anticipation.

She took her linen napkin from her lap and placed it beside her teacup as James stood, the legs of his chair scraping lightly against the floorboards. He pulled out her chair and held a hand out to help her to her feet. Hand in hand, they left the room, leaving Mrs. Webb to bustle about the table, clearing the cups and saucers.

As they made their way upstairs, a new concern threaded its way into her mind. She tried to fall back onto the years of experience, searching for something to guide her, but found nothing. Playing the part of a guest was an entirely new situation. Would he expect her to prepare for the night in her own room or in his? When she had been in the demimonde, her protectors had installed her in a house. As she had not entertained any other visitors, only one bedchamber had been used. No need for another, since the men only stayed the night if they wanted to share a bed with her. That was her primary purpose, after all.

She knew James wanted to share a bed with her. His intentions were clear. Did he want her to be discreet and keep up the guise of a guest, slipping into his bedchamber without his servants’ notice? But he had earlier told her not to worry about the Webbs. In that case, would he simply take her directly to his room? Was he so comfortable in his home that he had no qualms whatsoever about flaunting the true purpose of their holiday?

A tendril of discomfort leached into her gut. One of the many questions lingering in her mind was answered as he led her to her bedchamber door and stopped before it.

“My bedchamber is right across the corridor.” His voice was pitched low, intimate and for her ears only.

“Is it?” she asked, infusing a teasing tone.

“Yes,” he replied, his lips quirking.

She arched a brow. “Very good to know.”

His lashes lowered, his gaze dropping. A flush of heat spread across her chest. Bringing her hand up, he graced the back with a light kiss.

“And now we part . . .” He took a step closer, so close his warm breath brushed her ear. “But hopefully not for long.”

The low rumble of his voice melted into her bones, making her knees weak. An involuntary shiver of anticipation gripped her. Her limp hand slipped from his as he turned on his heel.

The sound of his bedchamber door shutting echoed in the corridor, snapping her to her senses.

With a little shake of her head, she entered her own room. By the glow of the fire in the hearth, she lit the candles on the dresser. As she crossed to the closet, her hands went up to her bodice and then stopped, hovering over the plain expanse of sage green silk. This was not one of
her
evening gowns, but one James had purchased for her. It buttoned down the back.

Her shoulders slumped. A quick try proved she would not be able to tend to them herself. Her gaze went to the bedchamber door. Perhaps she would be presenting herself at James’s door significantly sooner than anticipated.

She started, as a sharp knock echoed in her room.

James?
No, he had wanted her to go to his room. Hadn’t he?

Wary, she opened the door to reveal Mrs. Webb.

“My apologies, Miss Rose. I should have asked before you left the dining room. Do you need the assistance of a maid?”

“Thank you. Just the buttons on my gown, please. I can see to the rest.”

It only took a moment for the woman to manage the task. She left with instructions to Rose to leave out whatever she wanted cleaned and pressed, and she would see to it on the morrow.

Without giving herself time to think on it, she went through the ritual she had once known well—removing her slippers, stays, chemise, and stockings, pulling the pins from her hair, dabbing on a bit of perfume, and slipping on a wrapper. The silk was cool against her skin, the hem tickling her bare ankles. She tightened the fabric belt around her waist and adjusted the deep
V
neckline to expose the upper swells of her breasts.

A quick glance in the mirror confirmed she was ready. The waves of her dark hair loose about her shoulders, the silk wrapper so thin it simultaneously draped and molded to the contours of her body. James should certainly like what he saw.

But instead of walking out her door, hesitation kept her rooted to the spot. She knew what he wanted. He could not have been clearer in his wishes. Yet . . .

Letting out a sigh, she sat down on the edge of the bed and shook her head at herself. She was being foolish. She wanted him. Her body yearned for his touch, her lips needed his kiss. Yet it was that sense of . . . requirement that held her back.

She should just be able to do it. To ignore herself and just follow the subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, cues that would lead her to a man’s utmost desire. But the ability usually right at her fingertips was gone.

A determined frown tightening her lips, she tried to will herself off the bed but . . .

Her shoulders slumped, her head falling so her chin almost grazed her chest. If only she had not accepted his money. Those pound notes hung over their holiday.
Damn Dash.
If only she could have waved aside James’s offer and gone away with him. Simply left her life behind for the space of seven days. Savored the unprecedented opportunity to be with a man who only wanted her presence. No obligations of any kind, only a shared desire to enjoy their time together.