Page 52 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
He only shrugged.
“I don’t like the idea,” she declared. “In fact, I severely dislike it. It’s disloyal. I don’t want him watching us and sending gossip to a man I don’t know, and you despise.”
“Nonetheless, you will heed me. Hurley is well connected back in Devon. We cannot dismiss him without an ironclad reason. It will kick up a fuss that you won’t understand. Exactly the sort of large and complicated mess I don’t wish to deal with.”
“Very well.”
Now she was brooding and staring into the fire. He sat back, drowsy, full and content, and watched her.
Don’t you want to sleep with her? Chester’s incredulous question drifted into his head. Of course, he wanted to. He was a man, and she was a beauty. More than that, she was talented and funny and thoughtful and interesting in a way that other women never had been. But she was a woman and likely to attribute more along with a physical relationship. To tangle it up with feelings and expectations he was in no position to return or fill.
He would stick to the plan, despite the fine sight of her profile against the flames. In spite of the warmth and humor that showed so often behind her blue eyes. Despite the shining river of gold her hair became when it hung down over her shoulders and curled into beckoning tendrils and despite the stirring of his cock, eager to answer.
She looked over at him, suddenly, and seemed surprised to find him staring at her.
“Well, then,” she said, standing and moving away from the fire. “I think Margie has forgotten to come back and empty the tub.”
More likely the maid knew he was in here and thought they were . . . otherwise engaged. His groin tightened further at the thought.
“It’s late,” she said on a yawn. “You must be tired. I know I am and tomorrow promises to be an even busier day.”
Oh. She was waiting for him to leave.
“Yes, well.” Reluctantly, he stood. “I’ll bid you goodnight.”
“Thank you, Gabriel. For everything.” She smiled sleepily. “Goodnight.”
He went back to his rooms, closing the door behind him. He stood there for a long moment, lost in thought.
He started when Chapman entered. “There you are, my lord.” He paused and stared at his hand. “Why is the door latch sticky?” Shaking his head, he asked, “Shall I ring for a bath?”
Suddenly Whiddon felt cold and . . . bereft. “No. I’m tired. I just need to sleep.” That was all that was awry, surely.
“Of course, sir.” The valet puttered about, turning down the bed and the lamps. He reached to help Whiddon from his coat, and began to fold it to put away, but suddenly, he couldn’t stand the fussing.
“Just leave it for now, Chapman. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”
His valet nodded and left him. Whiddon slowly peeled off his clothes and blew out the remaining candles. The dark enfolded him. He was exhausted. Not surprising, after a restless night and a long day. Still, he stared at the ceiling for a good while before, at last, he rolled over and drifted to sleep.
