Page 45 of Brave New Earl (The Way to a Lord's Heart 1)

“There’s talk of a haircut in the kitchen. Or rather, of a haircut that never happens.”

“I’m well aware.” He sounded rueful. “So perhaps you understand why I keep scissors at the ready, in case I should ever be allowed to use them.”

“His lordship would benefit from your skill, I’m sure.”

“Did you see him? He looks positively shaggy!”

Sarah didn’t reply to this intemperate comment, which Mr. Clayton appeared to regret as soon as it was made. Instead she offered a sort of admission of her own. “Hair can be a challenge.”

They indulged in another wordless exchange.

“Your young lady must be very glad to have you here,” said Mr. Clayton.

He was her counterpart, a personal servant who was not part of the household, making a place within it. They were rather like two foreign agents coming face-to-face on the same mission, Sarah thought, amusing herself. Mr. Clayton would add interest to this visit. She gave him a small smile. He returned it with a little bow and went on his way.

• • •

It was impossible to sleep with an important task undone, Jean thought some hours later, sitting up in bed and lighting her candle. On the other side of the bed, Tab raised his head and gave her an inquiring look.

The thing preyed on one’s mind, Jean thought, and loomed larger—larger than it should, perhaps. If she’d just been able to speak to Lord Furness for a few minutes. But his uncle had come out to watch Geoffrey ride and then walked back to the house with them. He’d been present at dinner, of course, and afterward had challenged Lord Furness to a game of billiards. With no interest in being a passive observer, Jean had left them to it and gone to bed early. Lord Macklin was an admirable gentleman, she thought. His presence lent an air of propriety to her visit, but it also put a damper on private conversation.

And so she was left with a distasteful idea growing in her mind—that Lord Furness now saw her as some pitiable poor relation. A sad spinster-auntish sort of female. A woman no one wanted, pushed along from house to house. What man would want to kiss such a person? Again.

Jean wrapped her arms around her ribs. Those kisses had gone through her like a flame through tinder, like an unexpected introduction to desire. Her body had sprung to attention as if to say, “Ah, sothisis the thing I’ve heard so much about. How do you do?” She wanted to further that acquaintance. She wanted to see her host’s blue-gray eyes burning just for her once again. To imagine pity there instead—the idea was unbearable. She had to set him right!

The house had grown quiet. It was nearly midnight, but Jean knew that Lord Furness stayed up late. She threw back the coverlet and rose, putting on her dressing gown and covering it with a lacy cashmere shawl. Ignoring Tab’s interrogativemew, she picked up her candlestick and slipped into the corridor.

Like last time, the house was dim and silent. Jean kept a sharp eye out for Geoffrey, said to wander the halls at night. But she saw no one as she made her way down to the library.

Lord Furness was there, sitting on the sofa beneath his dead wife’s likeness and sipping a brandy. He rose when Jean came in, startled. “Is something wrong?”

“I have plenty of places to go,” Jean blurted out. “In London and the country. I’m welcome in great houses all over England. Indeed, I’ve been told I grace any occasion. By some high sticklers, I might add.”

Benjamin had had more than one brandy, as he occasionally did when the night deepened and regrets rose, and he didn’t expect to see anyone until the following day. He wasn’t drunk. Not nearly. But his mind was somewhat…slowed. Its first response to these remarks concerned how delicious she looked in her dressing gown and shawl. “Who could doubt it?” he managed.

“I wanted to make that clear. It would be…distressing if you had the wrong impression. And thought me some half-tolerated hanger-on.”

“I would hate to distress you.”

“Thank you.”

She gathered the shawl closer. The frothy fabric clung to the lines of her body. She looked soft and lithe and delectably embraceable. Benjamin decided to sit down. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he added.

She sank onto the other end of the sofa. “You asked me. If I had nowhere to go. When Sarah arrived.”

Who was Sarah? Ah, must be her maid. “I didn’t mean anything distressing.”

“If you imagine that I’m to be pitied, you couldn’t be more wrong,” she declared.

She leaned toward him, a creature of earth and fire, with that coppery spark in her dark eyes. He’d been alone a long time, Benjamin acknowledged. Shut in his morose little world. Until she’d burst in, shaking him up, trailing desire in her wake. “I don’t pity you,” he said. “I’m grateful.” Her lips parted in surprise. “You mustn’t do that.”

“What?”

“Look irresistible. I’m less able than usual to resist tonight.”

She leaned closer and kissed him. Softly, with exploratory sweetness. Benjamin simply responded at first. Then he caught the kiss like a tossed cricket ball and took it deeper. His arms reached for her, drew her close. She embraced him. Her body, unlaced under the wool of her dressing gown, fitted against him as her shawl fell to the floor. One of his hands found the fastening of the braid down her back and pulled it off, freeing her matchless curls. The other hand drifted up her side, caressing.

Here was delight, Jean thought. Here was amazement. She’d swum in the sea once, long ago—pushing at the waves and being swept along by them. These kisses were like that. Give and take, offer and float away. She wanted more. He pressed her against the sofa back, becoming more urgent. One of his knees slipped between hers.

---