Page 29 of How to Tempt An Earl
‘Eventually. My leaving is inevitable and I thought it wasassumedbetween us. Now, in the matter of two sentences, you have Trafton and Mrs Hanson thinking a wedding is in the offing as soon as the estate can be repaired. Ican’tleave. You took that away from me without my permission.’
His wet fingers laced through hers, his dark eyes solemn. ‘I see. It’s not the ruse you mind, it’s the lack of permission.’ It wasn’t a question and it stole the intensity of her anger—a very effective strategy for defusing a situation. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that when she was the one being defused.
‘Yes,’ she admitted with a sigh. If she couldn’t be angry at him…
He ran his thumb over her knuckles. ‘We should have discussed it. I do apologise for that. Do you think you can live with it?’
She probably could, all too well. That frightened her. It would make it that much harder to leave him when the time came. He could not fully appreciate the fantasy he was asking her to step into or the kind of dreams it fed—old dreams, impossible dreams, from a girlhood before she’d realised the nightmare she lived in.
‘How long do you think we have before Roan comes?’ She reached for his washcloth. It was hard to stay angry at him. ‘Here, lean forward and let me do your back.’
He bent, giving her access to the smooth muscles of his back. ‘It’s hard to say. Being out here means we’re safe, but it also means we’re blind. Based on what you’ve told me, I think four or five weeks,ifRoan comes himself. Sooner if only his men come. They’ll be back in London now, waiting for Roan’s instruction and resupplying. I’ve sent Eric with a letter to Caine. He left this afternoon.’
She smiled. ‘Eric has had no rest. We just got here.’
‘He’s hardy and he’s used to it.’ Kieran flexed his shoulders.
‘You’re tight.’ She began to massage his neck. ‘Mrs Hanson asked about the menus for the week. I helped her with them. I hope you like braised mutton, fresh green beans and baby potatoes. I also counselled her to open a red wine so it could breathe.’
‘That sounds delicious. Oh, that feels good…’
He gave a moan of appreciation and she moved on to his shoulders, a little wave of domestic pride sweeping through her. This was what it would be like to be his wife, his lady in truth. She would sit beside him as he bathed, talking about their days. She had to remind herself this was purely fantasy, not just for her but for him. A Horseman’s days were not always like this. Kieran Parkhurst was no more a country gentleman who spent his days riding his acres than she was a countess planning menus.
Kieran rose in the tub, giving her an unadulterated full-frontal look at him as he sluiced himself off. Her mouth went dry and her eyes suddenly found themselves unable to look away from the muscles of his thighs and the phallus between them, ruddy, long and still in an interrupted state of semi-arousal. Her mind froze on one thought: magnificent; he was absolutely magnificent. There were certainly worse fates than pretending to be this Earl’s fiancée, far worse fates indeed. But there were also potent fantasies, and that was what worried her. Potent fantasies were the hardest of all to leave.
Chapter Fifteen
The list was her antidote against the fantasy, the anchor that kept her from slipping entirely away from reality. Celeste smoothed the slip of paper flat on her dressing table and made a fold down the middle, dividing it in two. Tonight, she had to make good on her promise to deliver the first half of the list. She made a neat crease and then a neat tear before folding one half and tucking it into the bodice of the altered gown. She returned the other half to its hiding place until it was needed.
When might that be? Kieran believed they’d have a month before they needed to worry about Roan. When Roan was resolved, she would be free to go her own way and Kieran would be free to hunt down the men responsible for his brother. The thought should have filled her with expectation. She ought to be looking forward to the time when this interruption was behind her. That was really how she should be looking at these weeks with Kieran—as an interruption. She should not be looking at these weeks as an interlude, an idyll, a welcome stretch of time.
These weeks would end. Once Roan was dealt with, and once Kieran had the list, they would have no reason to need each other. There’d be no foe to fight and nothing to unite against. There’d be nothing she needed him for. The only reasons left to them would be their own and that would mean admitting to certain things—feelings that transcended their circumstances. She would not be able to hide behind her need for a bodyguard any more than he could hide behind his desire for the list and exacting justice for his brother. They would have to decide how much they meant to each other. They might decide they didn’t mean anything at all; that it was their circumstances that had heightened their need to connect with another human being.
Until then, though, there was the fantasy. Already, this room looked like home. It bore her trappings, meagre as they were: her mother’s pearls in a lacquered trifle box sitting beside her prized miniature on the dressing table; dresses meant for her hanging in the wardrobe. It was the details that made a fantasy real, that sucked a person in and allowed them to play out their dreams. She lifted the lid of the trifle box and traded her sea-glass pendant for the pearls. She struggled for a moment with the clasp, a vivid image flashing through her mind of Kieran standing behind her, dressed in his evening clothes, smelling of spice, his hands at her neck as he solved the clasp for her like a considerate lover, like a doting husband.
She pushed the image away with a reminder that she didn’t even want a husband. Men possessed; it was their nature. Given enough time, men betrayed. The only real freedom was the freedom she could give herself and that could only be maintained by being alone. To take a husband would be to trade power for protection. She thought of the dagger residing in her dressing-table drawer, the one Kieran had bought for her last night at the fair. He understood she would need to protect herself.
Celeste took a final glance at herself in the mirror and gave a little smile. She touched the pearls at the base of her neck. They looked well above the square-cut neckline of the dark-blue silk gown, shown to advantage by the maid’s efforts with her hair, which had been swept to one side and fastened with a simple gold clip. Tonight, she looked like a countess. She pressed the paper inside her bodice with her fingertips, her touchstone with reality. She might look like a countess but she was only Celeste Sharpton, who had nothing but her wits to keep herself safe.
* * *
He nearly lost his wits when he saw her enter the drawing room. All that burnished chestnut hair was swept to one side, revealing the slim length of her neck, and that gown…oh, that gown. Dark blue was usually a matron’s colour, but on her it was sophisticated—subdued elegance at its finest. Kieran crossed the room and took her hand, raising it to his lips.
‘Civilisation agrees with you.’ Then he added in a husky whisper, ‘But I thought the road agreed with you as well.’ He tucked her arm through his and began a slow stroll around the room. ‘Would you like a sherry? Trafton tells me it will be twenty minutes before dinner is ready.’
She gave a throaty laugh and slid him a coy look. ‘You clean up well, too, although I rather liked your look earlier.’
He had, too. There was something quietly potent about the intimacy of a bath, of warm water and her hands on him, ministering to him and caring for him. It was an intimacy that transcended sex. He could have taken her on the bed afterwards and he had thought about it. He’d seen in her eyes when he’d risen from the tub that she was thinking about it too. But he’d not wanted to ruin the moment. Not everything had to lead to sex in order to be intimate. It was something he knew intuitively but seldom practised. That he was practising it now, experiencing it now, carried its own level of alarm and warning.
They stopped at the sideboard and he poured her a glass of sherry. ‘Cheers; here’s to a safe arrival and looking good in our second-hand clothes.’
She sipped her sherry, her sea-glass eyes intent on him over the rim of the tiny glass. ‘I see we’re playing by all the rules tonight: the clothes, the etiquette… You are a compelling lord of the manor.’ She paused. ‘But of course, you really are lord of the manor, Lord Wrexham.’
He could not tell if she meant that critically. ‘You are playing your part admirably too, future Lady Wrexham.’
‘All the world’s a stage.’ She offered the Shakespeare line with a little toast of her own.
Too true.While they were here at Wrexham, they would be on stage every minute of every day. The house and its staff, the vicar, and the townspeople would all require it of them.
