Page 26 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
But all it had taken was looking over his shoulder to see her standing in the doorway for all the yearning to come roaring back. When she’d mentioned a bed, he’d had to bite his tongue to keep himself from pleading, “Come to mine.”
Then he’d had to begin reciting a damned nursery rhyme about sheep and bags of wool to distract himself in order not to reveal how desperately he wanted her. Christ, what the devil was wrong with him? She was the very last woman he should desire. She was here under false pretenses. He was sure of it. How could he trust a woman such as that? How could he long for her?
Even if he was being equally dishonest in what he was allowing her to witness. And if he had misjudged her, was wrong about her, if she truly was working as a servant to avoid marriage... well, then she was under his protection and care. He wouldn’t dishonor himself by taking undue advantage of her position in his household. It was one thing to have a scandalous reputation as a libertine. But it was unforgiveable to gain a reputation as a man who took that to which he had no right.
Bending down, he folded his hands around the leather straps attached to the bells and began lifting them, alternating left then right. If he wore himself out, perhaps he could convince himself that it was merely the decadent atmosphere of the Fair and Spare that had inhabited him tonight and made her so appealing. The forbidden aspect of it lingering so that when he’d seen her hovering in the threshold, her eyes darkening at the sight of his bared chest, he’d been forced to battle the demons of temptationand desire in order to remain standing where he was. Tonight’s excursion was the cause of it all, had been responsible for sending confusing emotions rampaging through him.
Her, there, in a place that encouraged sin.
As his breaths grew more labored with his efforts to lift the bells and sweat drenched his body, he convinced himself that the damnable club was the culprit.
Up until the moment he collapsed into his bed exhausted, and all the walls erected to accept the lies fell away leaving him to face the unvarnished truth: tonight wasn’t the first time he’d wanted her. Unfortunately, he doubted it would be the last.
Chapter 9
A few minutes after the clock struck nine that Monday evening, clutching the tray until her fingers ached, Daisy repeated her mantra as she made her way up the stairs.
Focus on the woman. Ignore Bishop. Don’t think about the way he’d looked at you last night at the Fair and Spare as though he’d like nothing more than to gobble you up, or the way all your feminine bits had ached for him to do so. You need to properly identify the woman. You need to get the information for your client. You need to get out of this bloody household and away from a man who is making it far too easy to understand how your mother may have been beguiled into falling for the wrong sort.
When she reached his bedchamber door, she redoubled her resolve to concentrate on the woman and then kicked the thick wood twice with her toe.
“Come.”
She took a deep breath, shifted the tray, released the latch, strolled in, and came to a staggering halt. Once more he was in shirtsleeves, rakishly unbuttoned to reveal that enticing sliver of skin. The woman was nestled against the crook of his side as thoughshe’d once been carved from it and had returned to her place of origin. Her lips curling up slightly, she was looking steadfastly at Daisy as though daring her to object. His arm circled the tart’s shoulders, holding her near. With his free hand, he waved toward the low table, off to the side. “See to it.”
What Daisy would very much like toseewas the contents of the tray dumped in his lap. Last night he’d shown interest in her, made her feel special. And now he was absorbed with another woman, and while she had known it would be thus, still it hurt. Irrationally. Stupidly. She was going to look forward to telling Mr. Parker his wife was indeed a trollop, and she dearly hoped he would sue Blackguard Blackwood for every coin in his possession.
She fairly marched to the table and dropped the tray from such a height that it was a wonder the wooden platter didn’t splinter. “Shall I prepare a strawberry for you?” she ground out, realizing she’d lost all objectivity and desperately needed to relocate it.
“Not necessary.”
Slowly she inhaled, exhaled, and forced her face to go as neutral as possible, refusing to let him see how his actions upset her. She meant nothing to him, and he should mean nothing to her. But last night, she’d thought—foolishly as it turned out—that he cared.
Spinning about, she came to an abrupt halt halfway into her pivot as though she’d rammed into a brick wall. Her lungs refused to draw in air. Her heart pounded. Her chest felt as though it was locked in a vise.
The back of the settee was low enough that, standing behind it but slightly off to the side, she had a clearview of the couple pressing their mouths together, his hand grazing her cheek. They were kissing. Right there in front of her. The indecency of it. They couldn’t have waited one more minute until after she took her leave?
Serenely turning back, she picked up the delicate porcelain bowl with the chocolate glaze, sauntered to the settee, and poured the thick, sticky contents over his head.
“What the bloody hell!” He lunged up to his feet and glared at her, the chocolate dripping onto his face and shirt making it very difficult to take his glower seriously.
“I thought she might fancy tasting you with a bit of chocolate.” With that parting shot, she walked calmly out of the room and quietly closed the door in her wake.
Bishop was damned tempted to chase after the little chit and lethertaste him with a bit of chocolate. But the giggling woman on the settee held him in place, because it would do her no good if he mucked up what he hoped they’d accomplished with that rather chaste kiss. Still, he scowled at her.
Trying to catch her breath, she gasped, “Do you think if Martin did hire her that she’s going to tell him about the chocolate glaze incident?”
He bloody well hoped not. “I doubt it. She’d come across as incredibly unprofessional. If you’ll excuse me, I need to tidy up.”
He strode into the bathing chamber, pulled his shirt over his head, and looked into the mirror hanging above the sink. What a disastrous mess. Then he chuckled because damned, if he didn’t admire her spunk. And the casualness with which she’d responded as though pouring concoctions over gentlemen’s heads was an everyday occurrence for her, to be taken in stride.
He couldn’t help but admit that, after giving attention to Marguerite last night, she had a right to feel ill-used and he deserved to be doused. He should have left the Fair and Spare the moment he’d spied her. Instead, he had taken actions to complicate matters.
By the time he returned to his visitor, his face was clean and his hair wet. From his wardrobe, he retrieved a shirt and donned it. He went to his decanter credenza and filled a tumbler with scotch. “Would you care for anything to drink?”
“No, I poured myself more wine while waiting for you.”
He wandered over, dropped into the chair, and frowned at the chocolate decorating the settee. He’d leave orders with Perkins that Daisy—and only Daisy—was to clean it in the morning. “Did any get on you?”
