Page 22 of How to Seduce a Viscount
She’d never voiced that secret out loud to anyone. There’d been no one to tell, no one to entrust that secret to. Not even the earl. If the earl knew, he would probably have pulled her out of the game and tried to find her a husband. He was a problem solver like Luce. He couldn’t stand to let a problem remain unresolved. She couldn’t let him do that. It wasn’t as simple as merely finding a man. She wanted to love that man the way the countess had loved the earl; the way the Parkhurst husbands and wives loved each other.
Luce reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. ‘Perhaps you will have a family in retirement. Maybe that’s the best reason of all to leave the game. You’ll have a chance to make your life over completely.’
‘Your brothers didn’t have to leave the game to have that. You don’t have to leave the game. I hear you’re an uncle now and about to be an uncle again in the summer.’ She held their hands up to the firelight, watching the flames play through them. He did not have to tell lies to have a family. That would not be the case for her. Lies would be the foundation and protection of any family she sought to create. They could never know the real her and that web of deceit still might not be enough.
She caught the grin on his face. ‘I am. My sister, Guenevere’s, baby was born at the end of December. I stopped to see him on my way home from Kieran’s wedding. They named him James Henry. James is one of the former Duke of Creighton’s names and Henry is of course for my grandfather. So, young Jamie is named after two great men. And you’ve heard right. Mary and Caine are expecting. They announced it over Christmas. Grandfather must have told you. That information is still fairlynew.’ He gave a laugh. ‘I think we’ve officially entered that season of life where everyone will be having babies. I expect to be overrun with nieces and nephews over the next ten years.’
From the sound of it, he wouldn’t mind that season of life a bit.
‘You like children. You haven’t stopped smiling since you started talking about them.’ She could easily imagine him with a child on his shoulders, trotting them through the library, stopping to have them take a book down from a high shelf, or playing in the snow outdoors with them, showing them how to make a snowball. It was too easy to see him here at the abbey—the abbey finished, a family of his own surrounding him. She swallowed against the emotion it raised.
He would go on to his dreams while it seemed unlikely she would ever find the right man for hers. Because she’d already found him and she could not have him. Luce Parkhurst was not for her. She had to leave the game and he had to stay. He was an earl’s grandson, a viscount in his own right, and she was a street rat. He was honourable and noble. He wrestled with his conscience and measured the greater good against his own happiness while she withheld information from him about his beloved brother. She was not truthful and yet she had her reasons. Surely, her heart argued, Luce would understand that. Neither of them were as white as snow. Moral ambiguity was a part of a Horseman’s life as much as it was a part of any Sandmore agent’s life. She hoped there would be clemency for her. In that they were alike.
She snuggled against him. ‘Sometimes I can’t decide if we’re alike or different. You love winter and I love summer. You love the cold and I love the warmth. You want to leave the game and I want to stay because I have nothing and no one outside of it and you have everything—a home, a title, financial security. But then I think beneath the surface of all that, we both love England.We’ve dedicated our lives to its safety. We have lived similar lives edged in danger that have shaped who we are. We’ve had experiences, travels, and educations that few can understand or appreciate outside of ourselves. What do you think, Luce? Are we more alike or are we different?’
Her answer was a quiet snore. She gave a soft laugh and smoothed back his tangled hair. Well, would wonders never cease? Luce Parkhurst was human after all, and it only made her love him more. That would be yet another secret she’d have to keep to herself. No good could come of telling anyone, especially not Luce.
Chapter Eleven
No good could come of playing out domestic fantasies with a woman who could rouse him with a glance, send him over the edge with a touch or scorch him with a word. A woman whowouldleave him. They’d promised themselves only a short time. Despite those promises, Wren Audley had become a fixture in his life and in his home, to the extent that brandy would never taste the same and he would never look at the chair or the carpet in the library without thinking of her as she’d been last night—neck arched, snowflake-colored tresses cascading, her head thrown back in abject pleasure. He may have to replace the furniture if he was meant to survive this. He’d certainly never step foot into the guest chamber and not think of her bleeding and pale on the bed. But that seemed non-unique. He couldn’t stop thinking of her whether she was in a room or not. His attraction to her had transcended proximity. She’d taken up residence in his mind.
Luce looked up from where he stood at the long dining room table polishing silver to watch her with Mrs Hartley, selecting china and glassware for their supper with the vicar and his guests. Today, she wore one of her new ready-made dresses, a garnet wool that she managed to wear without needing any corsetry, the curves beneath the gown undeniably her own. Hishands had traced those slight curves, cupped the perfect apples that were her breasts. She caught him staring. She met his gaze and gave a knowing smile that indicated her thoughts were aligned with his.
‘Do you prefer the Wedgwood with the Etruscan pattern or the blue?’
The question shot a bolt of domestic premonition through him. One night of loving and here he was imagining her,seeing herin his home as his hostess, as his viscountess,as someone permanentwhen he knew he had to give her up for the game, for her own good. He’d fallen for the one woman he couldn’t keep.
His conscience mocked him.My dear boy, it wasn’t just one night of loving that brought you here. That was just the sharp relief that brought the depth of your desire into focus. You’ve been thinking of her nonstop for weeks now—long before she was in your bed.
Perhaps the old adage was true that when one saved a life one felt responsible for it. He flashed her a smile that betrayed none of his inner turmoil. ‘You decide.’
‘We’ll use the blue, Mrs Hartley. It sets a more traditional tone, I think.’ She smiled back, hidden meaning dancing in her eyes. ‘Which is the mood we want to set for the evening. It is Lord Waring’s first entertainment in residence. We must lead as we mean to go on.’
We. Such a short word but a powerful one. She’d dropped that word into the conversation with ease, as if the two of them hosted dinner parties all the time and all else that was implied in it. That they were together, a single unit acting in harmony. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hartley.’ Luce dismissed the housekeeper with a polite nod, wanting the dining room to himself.
‘You are very welcome.’ The housekeeper gave his rolled-up sleeves a disapproving stare. ‘We have footmen to polish the silver. Rowley and the others can do it.’
‘They certainly can, Mrs Hartley. However, time is short and their efforts are needed elsewhere if we mean to receive the vicar with a modicum of decency.’ The abbey was staffed to take care of a single bachelor living quietly, not hosting dinner parties. Luce had not planned to hire more staff until…until he brought his bride home at midsummer, whoever she might be. His gut twisted at the prospect. He could not imagine—did notwantto imagine—another woman sitting in Wren’s chair, touching Wren’s velvety throw.
Mrs Hartley pursed her lips in concession. ‘It would be best if word of such efforts on your part didn’t get out. It wouldn’t do.’
‘I understand, Mrs Hartley,’ Luce replied with the gravity the response deserved. Rank and file was everything to servants who took pride in knowing their place and doing their jobs.
Mrs Hartley exited and Wren came to stand beside him, giving his arm a playful punch. ‘You will give that dear woman an apoplexy. The viscount polishing silver!’
‘It must be done.’ Luce grinned. ‘Do you know what else must be done?’ he growled wickedly at her ear, his hands at her waist. ‘This.’ He kissed the tender pulse beneath her ear. ‘And this.’ His mouth dropped to trail kisses along the line of her jaw, breathing her in. She smelled of summertime—strawberries and roses, the soft sweetness of the berry, the feminine sophistication of the rose. ‘You smell good.’ Luce nuzzled her neck. ‘Is this the soap you got in town?’ He’d buy all the shop had.
‘Does it meet with your approval Mr Lover-of-all-things-winter?’ she teased. ‘I would have thought it too summery for you.’
‘But not too summery for you. It suits you perfectly.’ He gave her a wicked look and hoisted her up to the table. ‘Do you smell this good everywhere?’
To his ever-lasting pleasure, Wren spread her legs and drew her skirts back, her mischief matching his wickedness. ‘Come find out,ifyou think you can before Mrs Hartley returns.’
He knelt, his hands at her parted thighs. He breathed her in. ‘My dear, have you ever climaxed on a fifteenth-century trestle table used by monks?’
‘Am I about to?’ She leaned back, bracing herself with her hands, her eyes dark with excitement. The scent of feminine arousal mixing with the soft strawberries in the space between them.
‘You most certainly are,’ Luce whispered wickedly and put his mouth to good use at her strawberry scented core.
