He eased his damaged limb into the butter churn. Water sloshed over the sides as he gave a playful, “I feel better already.”
Hair falling about her face, she swiped the jar and scissors off the floor, no small feat with her corset and heavy velvet gown. “Must I remind you that you have a ball to attend?”
“It will be a pleasure as long as you’re there.”
“Don’t waste your dances on me.” She looked crossly at the butter churn, the bloom of the kiss fading. He would dance other women. Not her. Never her.
“Why shouldn’t I dance with you?”
Her skin was terribly hot and the room felt over-bright. “This is only one soak and one application of the oil. There’s no telling how long this will last.”
“We can walk in the garden and steal a kiss.”
“Not with me, you won’t.”
“You’re pretty when your irritable. Your eyes darken and your move with such interesting precision.”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
“I’m not. I’m simply complimenting my healer. You’ve done a better job this hour than England’s best physicians. My leg feels good.”
He stood there, hale and hearty, leg in the churn, dressed in day finery, arms crossed over his chest, absurdly appealing. He’d trusted her, appreciated her, and that pushed past the protective, thorny parts of her heart. The kiss helped too, adding a new, dangerous dimension.
She set the jar and scissors on the mantle. “I’m glad to hear it.”
They were at impasse, surrounded by a sensual web of their own making. Air was thick with ardor and unsated wants and confusion. Gaiety from the house party’s outdoor entertainments broke into the silent room. Did she need another reminder why this interlude never should’ve happened?
New voices glided up from the stairs.
“Simms,” she said, suddenly stricken. “I must leave.”
“Stay.” The duke reach for her wrist which she yanked back. “You’re in my sitting room.”
“With your breeches cut in half,” she cried. “Look at me! He’ll know what we did.”
The kiss was a clarion call to how deep and wide passions ran between her and the Duke of Richland. No long smolder for them. They were fireworks, burning fast and bright.
It’d be best for all if the household assumed that she’d instructed His Grace on how to administer the oil and that he soaked his injured leg alone. It’d be best for all if she disappeared and lost herself in her gardening. What a lonely prospect.
Gripping handfuls of skirts, she headed for the door.
“Mrs. Chatham. Wait.”
She whirled around with a hushing finger to her lips. “Shhhh.”
By the volume of the valet’s voice, she’d guess he was at the foot of the stairs. Leaving unnoticed was still a possibility. Fortune favored her this day.
The duke smiled his pirate smile and shifted his stance, splashing more water onto the floor. “I haven’t properly thanked you. I will when we dance tonight.”
“We shall not,” she whisper-hissed.
“Then how shall I thank you?” he asked, a tad louder.
She glared at him with all the disapproval a thoroughly kissed woman could muster. “You are incorrigible. If you want to thank me, write a letter.”
Everyone else did. Cold, polite letters. With that lonely prospect on her heart, she sped off to the sanctity of her room, velvet skirts swaying furiously.
CHAPTER 5
EVERY FASHIONABLE PERSON IN KENT, and the next district over, was crammed in his ballroom. Chandeliers blazed with brilliant, piercing light. Sherry, wine, and champagne sparkled in glasses because the dowager had spared no expense. Men and women danced a minuet, their lines so long he couldn’t see who was at the far end.
Ebullient laughter spilled from open doorways and washed over him. It was a pleasant thing for a man to watch his home filled with splendor. It’d be more enjoyable to share the night with a companionable woman. One given to spicy kisses and saucy quips. Yet, Mrs. Chatham was nowhere to be found.
“A fine night,” George said, tipping his head at the ballroom.
“It is.”
Lady Jacintha, the daughter of the Earl of Kendal, stepped out of the ballroom onto the back terrace. She flicked open a bronze fan, the silk flaring wide. The fan could be preening bird feathers. Three tittering young ladies clustered in the half-light around the earl’s daughter. Lady Jacintha smiled coyly at him over the rim of her fan.
His name had somehow landed on her dance card.
Between that mistake and the invisible Mrs. Chatham, his joy was quickly evaporating.
His brother rested a hip on the stone balustrade. “Your leg. Is it better from your medicinal treatment?”
“I’m well.”
“And apparently only capable of monosyllabic answers.”
He gave George a cross look which bounced off him.
Fire flickered from decorative brass bowls all around them. Enough light for well-bred ladies to feel safe; dim enough to invite a stolen kiss. Moths danced around the flames, dipping close and diving back. Rather like what went on with his elusive neighbor. There’d been missed opportunities in the past, chances to test courtship’s waters. He’d been set on his work. She with her…oh, he didn’t know how she’d filled her days, but he wanted to.
