Twice Tempted (13 page)

Fiona bent to gather up the drapes. “Nevertheless, it was what mother sang, and her mother before her. Another Scottish trollop, my grandfather would say.”

Alex was startled by the dispassionate tone of her voice. “Did that insufferable old reprobate call you that?”

She briefly met his gaze and went back to work.

Alex could think of nothing to say that didn’t involve threats of violence. Suddenly he wanted to march back to his phaeton and drive straight up to that white mausoleum on the moors and rearrange that haughty face.

“No wonder you don’t trust society,” he finally managed, crouching to help gather the weight of the drapes.

Her smile was quick and dry. “Oh, I don’t concern myself enough to care for their opinions. I am certain being Scottish is bad enough. But being Scottish and a woman
and
interested in astronomy?” She rolled her eyes. “‘Oh, my dear, it simply isn’t done.’”

Alex straightened, arms full of material. “You’re right. I can’t imagine how any self-respecting mother would let you near her chick. You might taint them with…
knowledge
.”

Fiona smiled. “A most frightening prospect.”

“Well, what about those of us who actually enjoy a bit of knowledge? Will you deprive us?”

She began to sort out the curtains. “Of course not. Why do you think I teach school? I plan to help create a social class of shopkeepers’ children who will intimidate their betters into realizing that they are not so much better after all.”

Alex helped her, an odd effervescence ballooning in his chest. “Ah, I see. A radical. You, madam, are a threat to social stability.”

That incited the brightest grin yet. “Oh, I do hope so.”

Alex gave her an exaggerated frown. “Definitely puts paid to a visit with Prinny, then. We don’t need the man to have a stroke.”

“I wouldn’t mind meeting Mr. Wilberforce,” she said, climbing up her ladder.

Alex came within a hair of grabbing her arm and pulling her off before realizing that if there was any action that would put paid to his chances to help Fiona, that would be it. Instead, he gathered much of the weight of the curtains to ease her job and stood just behind her.

Exactly where he had the best chance to inhale that curiously erotic scent of cinnamon and enjoy the unmarred slope of her derrière. Just close enough for his body to go instantly on alert, as it always seemed to do around her.

“Let. Go,” he finally heard and looked up.

She was glaring down at him and tugging on the material. He grinned. Her eyes went unnaturally dark, the pupils dilated, her breathing shallow. Ah, so he wasn’t the only one who felt the surprising attraction. With tortuously slow movements, he eased out the material, running his hand up so that it accidentally brushed against hers.

He heard a sharp intake of breath and almost broadened his smile. He knew it was cruel, but he couldn’t help it. Suddenly he wanted to know that the attraction he felt was truly shared. That she was as unsettled as he. As aroused.

He wanted to savor these moments because he knew damn well that after this she would be a fool to let him this close again.

“Isn’t maroon a bit dark for in here?” he asked, brushing her hand again and coming away with a shower of chills that tightened his balls. “With all the dark wallpaper, it’s not exactly sun-soaked.”

She yanked hard on the material, as if that would really make him give it up. “True. But maroon is an excellent camouflage for stains from everything from candle smoke to water damage. The curtains maintain the image of a prosperous school. It is not necessary, however, that they are closed so tightly we cannot see the sun.”

He eased out a bit more, this time accidentally brushing against her hip. It truly was an accident. It didn’t stop his body from clenching even tighter or her from jumping back. He caught her again just as she was about to fall off the ladder.

“You might want me to hang these,” he offered, an arm around her hips. “Might be less dangerous.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” she managed in a breathy voice, not moving from his grip. “After all, if I get you in a position to be precariously balanced with your hands full, I might just be tempted to shove you all the way through the window.”

He grinned. “You never would. Windows are expensive.”

She tilted her head a bit, and her hair gleamed copper. “Hmmm.”

“Trying to think of a way to give in gracefully?”

“Trying to figure how long it would take to afford a new window.”

He laughed out loud. “Minx. Come, it would be easier for me to reach. I am taller than you.” Putting his foot on the first rung, he lifted himself closer. “And to be fair, not that many people are.”

“I only stand five foot ten,” she protested.

He grinned. “And the average English male stands about five foot nine. In his boots. With a hat on.”

She scowled, but he saw the humor glint again in her magnificent blue eyes. “Believe me, Lord Whitmore. I am well aware of the fact.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Lord Whitmore again? Please, Fiona. Don’t do that to me. When I hear ‘Lord Whitmore,’ I think of my uncle, who had six fingers and thought bathing was a trick of the devil.”

She giggled. “I can understand your wanting to maintain the distinction.”

“Every time you call me Lord Whitmore, I will call you Eloise.”

She glared at him, the curtains clutched to her chest like bedclothes, as if she were a maiden in threat of seduction. “You wouldn’t.”

He shrugged. “It is your name. Lady Eloise Fiona Ferguson Hawes.”

“No one knows,” she hissed.

He leaned in very close. “I do.”

She reared back and almost tipped the ladder again. “That is patently unfair.”

He shrugged and reached up for the curtains. “All is fair in love and safety.”

She refused to budge. “I do not believe that is precisely the quote.”

Grinning, he put his foot on the second rung, just beneath her. “Close enough.”

And then he made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Her blue, blue eyes, which were suddenly black with arousal. He heard the sharp intake of her breath and saw the erratic pulse beating at the base of her long white throat.

His own body reacted just as it had every time he’d gotten close to her. He focused in on her, his grip on her tightening. Still she didn’t move, caught in the circle of his free arm, her hip pressed against his chest, her mouth just above his. All he had to do was climb another rung, and he could satisfy a four-year-old craving.

His heart was galloping suddenly, and he could feel a bead of sweat roll down his back. He could see a glow on her forehead, her upper lip. Her eyes widened, as if she could read his thoughts, and he could scent something new. Arousal. Need. Hunger. His own body was shaking with it. He swore his cock had taken on a life of its own, and his brain simply shut down.

He leaned a bit closer, his foot still on the step beneath her and paused, giving her a chance to escape, to clout him in the head if necessary. She didn’t. She watched him the way prey might a raptor, unsure and wary. He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t certain how much control he had over himself. It had been so long since he’d had a woman. So much longer since he’d really liked the one he had.

Slowly, so he didn’t startle her into tipping the ladder, he rose up and set his other foot on the rung. She was frozen in place, one hand fisted around the blood-deep velvet, the other clenched against the ladder, as if she were still uncertain whether to use it.

She didn’t. She inhaled, her mouth opening just a bit, as if there wasn’t enough air. As if she were struggling to stay afloat.

Sink
, Alex wanted to say as he lifted himself face-to-face with her, mouth-to-mouth.
Sink into me.

“I knew it!” a voice screeched behind him, shattering the moment. “What did I tell you about lettin’ them jackanapes in here?”

Fiona reared back as if he’d attacked her, again throwing the ladder off balance. Alex instinctively pulled back to stabilize them. He pulled back too far and the ladder tipped.

There was a lot of yelling and a couple of muffled thuds as Alex landed on his back, cushioning Fiona’s fall. He wasn’t so lucky.

“Are you all right?” Fiona asked immediately, leaning over him.

“Serves him right,” the housekeeper snapped from the doorway.

He had hit his head so hard he was seeing stars. But he was smelling cinnamon and Fiona, so he really couldn’t complain.

“That is enough, Mrs. Quick,” he heard. “Alex? Your eyes are open. Can you hear me?”

Rather than admit that he was too distracted by the plump pressure of her breast against his chest to answer, he simply closed his eyes and groaned. The act would have been unworthy of him if his head weren’t pounding and his arse aching from hard contact with the floor.

“Mrs. Quick,” she was saying, her hand on his cheek. “See if Mr. Clemson is outside. Send him for the doctor.”

He knew his injuries didn’t merit such concern. “No doctor.” He blinked a couple of times until the multiple Fionas resolved into one. “I’ll live. My head is a bit bruised is all.”

In retaliation, she took away both her hand and breast, which almost set Alex to groaning again. She actually smacked him on the arm. “Then don’t frighten me like that…
again
.”

“Don’t know why you let him in here at all,” came the grumble from the doorway.

Untangling them both from the curtains, Fiona sat up. “Thank you, Mrs. Quick. I think we’re all right now.”

“Ya think that, do ya?”

Fiona gave her the kind of glare that betrayed her aristocratic heritage. The housekeeper, still grumbling, clasped her hands in a parody of good servile behavior and stalked off down the hall.

Fiona looked back down to where Alex lay, and he could see the cost of the last tumble on her face. He should have been outraged. He was lying in a nest of curtains with a fresh headache and the humiliation of his fall, and she was…laughing.

She tried so hard not to. She held her hand to her mouth. She shook her head. He could see her shoulders heave. He would have chastised her, except the minute he opened his mouth, he burst out laughing, too.

“You are not very beneficial to my
amour propre
,” he wheezed up at her.

She couldn’t stop laughing, full-throated, full-bellied, as if too much suppressed laughter had simply spilled over. “I…I…didn’t…”

“Mean it,” he managed, making it up as far as sitting beside her. “Yes, I know.”

She frantically shook her head. “Think anything could be so…funny!” She was gasping, bent over her hands at her waist. “The look on your face!”

He had meant to get up, to reassert his mastery of the situation. He refused to sacrifice this perfect moment with her on the floor. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he wiped at the tears that coursed down her cheeks.

“It’s not that funny,” he groused.

She started laughing again. “Oh, yes, it is. You can have no idea of how long it’s been since I had the chance to laugh. Since I last saw your sister, I think.”

He had to grin. “Well, yes. Pip would set anybody to laughing. She’s a ridiculous little thing.”

For that he got a resounding smack on his chest. “Do not dare speak ill of my best friend.” She hiccupped, her eyes widening a bit. “My only friend, actually. Except for Sarah and Lizzie. And now that Sarah is married to my brother, I have no idea at all how we will meet again.”

There was the faintest plaintive note in her voice that made Alex want to curl her completely into his arms and shield her from hurt. Dear God, how lonely she must have been. “I promise,” he said instead, “I fully respect my sister’s loyalty. It’s her good sense I frequently question.”

Her breathing was evening out. She nodded. “Pip does have a knack for acting before thinking.”

“She’s like a whirlwind.”

“She needs to finally capture her Beau,” Fiona said with a definite nod. “That would settle her.”

Alex snorted. “Poor Beau. He’d never have another moment’s peace.”

And for a long moment, they just sat there in a pool of sunlight and velvet, his arm around her and her head on his shoulder. It felt so good. So whole.

It couldn’t last. If he didn’t move, he’d damn well take her here on the floor. He opened his mouth to tell her, and then made the mistake of meeting her gaze again.

Her lips were still parted, but she wasn’t laughing anymore. He could see the pulse jumping at her throat, and her hands were clenched again, as if she was trying hard to keep them to herself.

He didn’t know why. Lifting his own hand, he cupped her cheek. Again he gave her the chance to pull away. Again she didn’t. His own heart started to skip around. He was rock hard. There was no longer a question. He had to kiss her.

She didn’t just smell of cinnamon, she tasted of it. Cinnamon and coffee and hunger, except he thought the hunger might have been his. Her mouth was so warm, so small, so delicious. He had wrapped her to him, now, both hands holding her still, his thumbs stroking her jaw. He heard a groan and thought it might be she.

And then he had his arms around her, and he was running his hand over her back, his mouth still fused with hers, his body thrumming like a harp. He pulled on her, bringing her back down to that nest of curtains. And she came, her arms wound around his neck, her mouth open and welcoming, her breasts cushioning and lush.

Four years ago he’d known. He’d known that it would feel like this to hold her, to bear her to the ground, where he could touch her, taste her, devour her. He’d known and he’d put that knowledge away, burying it too deep to hurt him.

But how could it hurt him now? He was no longer married. He could disappoint no one. And Jesus, he thought nothing had ever tasted so erotic in his life. He could have her. He could show her just how magnificent her body was, how much she deserved. He could make her sing, by God. He could…

He wasn’t certain what alerted him. Suddenly it was clear to him that he was seducing a young woman on the floor of her dining room, and if he was caught there would be no way out of ruin. Or marriage.