“Robert.”

  Everyone turned as the Duchess of Bedwin called her husband. She looked pale and rather unwell.

  “Prue, darling, what is it?”

  “I’m a little fatigued is all,” she assured them all with a smile, which appeared rather forced. “I believe I shall retire for the evening, but please carry on in my absence.”

  Amid various well wishes the duchess left the room, and Inigo and Henry stood as the duke insisted on escorting his wife upstairs. Lady Helena at once took over the role of hostess and enlisted Henry’s help in selecting some music to play on the pianoforte, leaving Inigo alone with Miss Butler.

  “Shall we say midday?” She gave him an enquiring glance, carrying on that same maddening conversation as if there had been no interval. “I’ll bring lunch. At least that way I’ll know you’ve eaten something.”

  Inigo stared at her, perplexed. Why did she care? Why him? With her astonishing beauty and her connection to the duke, not to mention the handsome dowry the man had given her, she could have anyone she wanted. Why was she not angling for a title, or a wealthy husband? The gown she wore this evening likely cost as much as he earned in a month, more for all he could tell, having no idea about ladies’ fashion. He knew only that she looked glorious in it, that the colour only highlighted her lovely eyes, and that his gaze kept returning to the blue pendant sapphire that nestled between her breasts. Desire surged in his blood as he imagined pressing his mouth to that satin skin, trailing his tongue along that tantalising valley.

  Christ.

  “What game are you playing, Miss Butler?” he demanded, unnerved to hear the hoarse quality of his voice.

  “It’s no game, it’s—”

  “An experiment,” he said with a snort. “Yes, I know. Why, though? Why me?”

  She gave him an odd look, her head tilted to one side, puzzled. “Why not you?”

  “I was born in the slums of St Giles.”

  He said it in the same way he might say he took sugar in his tea, with no inflection, no emotion, and he waited for her to rear back in horror, for her lip to curl in disgust as she realised what that meant. He’d been born into abject poverty. She paled, her eyes growing wide, but he had not counted on the odd creature she was. Unlike most ladies of her ilk, she did not swoon or move away from him. Miss Butler moved closer.

  She got up and sat beside him, laying a hand on his sleeve, such an instinctive gesture of comfort that he froze, not knowing what to make of it.

  “You surely cannot think this can do anything but increase my admiration for all you have achieved?” she asked, her voice soft.

  He muttered an oath and looked away from her. Thinking perhaps she’d not taken his meaning, he thought he’d best press the point home.

  “My parents died when I was two, and I was raised in the Foundling Hospital. I am no gentleman, Miss Butler. You’d do well to remember that. So I’ll ask again, why me?”

  She gave a little huff of laughter and shook her head. “Oh, I’ve met plenty of gentlemen who are far less deserving of the title, I assure you, Mr de Beauvoir.”

  He frowned, unsettled by the wave of anger that her words provoked, that any man might have treated her with disrespect.

  She continued, perhaps misinterpreting his frown. “When you are at the fringes of society, clinging on by your fingertips, men seem to believe that desperation overrides pride or good sense. Happily, I was never quite desperate enough to prove them correct.”

  “Who?” he demanded, his heart thudding with the desire to seek retribution from anyone who had dishonoured her with such lewd suggestions.

  She smiled at him, and the effect was so overwhelming to his senses that it was like being hit in the head. There was an odd lurching sensation in his chest, and he felt dazed and stupid. He saw such warmth and admiration in her eyes, gratitude too and it made him unaccountably happy.

  “There, I was right. You are more of a gentleman than you realised, Mr de Beauvoir. But, to answer your question, I don’t entirely understand why it is you. I only know that, from the moment we met in the bookshop, I had to see you again, and that every time we meet my certainty about you only grows.”

  “You could marry anyone,” he said, still under the spell of that smile, unable to tear his eyes away from that impossible blue.

  She laughed, sending a joyous thrill of delight through him that made him want to hear it again, to say something else that would make her laugh.

  “You sound like my mother,” she said, her tone rueful. “But I’m afraid you are both wrong, and besides which you both refuse to acknowledge the truth. I don’t want a duke or an earl, or even a lowly baron. I want you.”

  She whispered those last words, but they seemed to ring in his ears so loudly that he felt dizzy. The desire he’d tried to quash moments earlier returned with force, and he found himself holding onto sanity by the most tenuous thread. It would be so easy to pull her into his arms and kiss her, to put his hands on her, his mouth on her skin. His gaze travelled to the other side of the room, to where Lady Helena was bantering with Mr Stanhope over the choice of music. Inigo took a deep, if somewhat uneven, breath.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, knowing he was being a fool, that he was inviting trouble into his life and probably condemning this foolish female to a fate she did not understand.

  “Tomorrow,” she agreed, sounding as breathless as he was.

  God help them both.

  Chapter 4

  Dear Bonnie,

  I hope you enjoyed a lovely Christmas and send you all good wishes for the new year. Gordy also sends his best and hopes you are not causing your poor husband too much distress—his words, not mine.

  Christmas at Wildsyde was lovely. Though I feel rather guilty admitting it as it is the first I have spent away from my parents, it was without a doubt the happiest I have ever known. We had a superb meal thanks to Mrs MacLeod, who did a marvellous job, and we had music and dancing and a great deal of laughter. I hope you and Mr Cadogan will come and visit us one day soon. Gordy has promised to be on his best behaviour.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Ruth Anderson to Mrs Bonnie Cadogan.

  30th December 1814. Church Street, Isleworth, London.

  Inigo took a deep breath and stared at the sheet of paper with his latest calculations on to no avail. Despite promising himself he would not look, his fingers searched for and found his pocket watch, only for him to discover it was precisely six minutes since he had last looked at it. This was hopeless. He might as well write off the entire day as a disaster. Hardly professional, in light of the work he’d been contracted to do. Paid work. The kind that supported his own by allowing him to pay his bills and eat… when he remembered.

  The government had commissioned him to inspect selected pharmacies in the West End of London. Several wealthy clients had been taken ill and the common denominator had proven to be a brand of skin cream. Allegations of the cream being contaminated by arsenic had caused an uproar and, as the victims were important members of society, the government had acted quickly and asked Inigo to investigate. It was a fascinating subject and Inigo had been immersed in his work, until Miss Butler had suggested her experiment and deprived him of sleep, sense, and any possibility of rational thought.

  Worse was the ridiculous desire to tidy his home, which was admittedly not at its best since his housekeeper had run away. It was a fine building, in his opinion, and had been a source of great pride to a man who had grown up unable to lay claim to even the clothes on his back. Spread over three storeys, it was a handsome red brick townhouse sporting a dark green painted front door with a fanlight window over the top. It was neither large nor grand but had excellent light, especially in the biggest room at the back, which Inigo had made into his laboratory. He’d done little else except put a bed in the bedroom and oddities of furniture here and there. It was spartan and currently dusty and shabby, too. He had lit the fires, which he didn’t always manage, so that was something.

  He stared at his papers for a while longer, until the writing blurred before his eyes, and sighed with frustration. Once he’d put them back in a neat pile, he looked about for something else to occupy his mind, and almost jumped out of his skin when there was a knock at the door. All at once his heart was thudding in his chest as anticipation made his breath come fast.

  “Pack it in, you bloody half-wit,” he muttered to himself, wiping sweaty palms on his clothes as he hurried to open the door.

  There she was, bold as brass on his doorstep. He could only stare as the pale afternoon sunlight glinted on her golden hair. The cold weather had made roses bloom in her cheeks and he was suddenly tongue-tied in the face of such astonishing beauty.

  “Let me in!” she said in a harsh whisper, as he remembered too late that she ought not be seen here, and he was just staring at her like some lovesick mooncalf.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed, and stood back, allowing her to enter and closing the door behind her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly, looking up at him from under her lashes. “I’m afraid I’m a little early, but… but I was so excited to see you.”

  Inigo blinked at her, too dumbstruck to say anything to that. His tongue seemed to have been nailed down and his brain had tied itself into some manner of Gordian knot. Belatedly, he noticed she was carrying a basket.

  “Here, let me take that,” he said, sounding gruff and not very pleased to see her, too overwrought to manage much else.

  He was rather afraid he might begin spouting poetry or fall at her feet and plead for her to kiss him. To his profound relief, she didn’t seem notice his turmoil as she stared about his home with interest.

  “It’s a lovely house,” she said as he led her through the gloomy corridor.

  Inigo grunted, fighting not to feel embarrassed for how mean and tattered everything appeared in her presence. As usual, she looked as if she’d stepped out of some society fashion plate. Irritated he told himself he was being idiotic. He’d always been proud of his home. It was a lovely house and the finest thing he’d ever owned. A place of his own had been everything he’d dreamed of as he’d worked all hours, scrimping and saving. His own space, his own laboratory. No one to bother him and interfere. So much for that. The problem was he’d never had time to furnish the place properly, at least nothing past absolute essentials. Ah, well, it wasn’t like she was going to come back again. He went through to the kitchen, relieved to discover it was at least warm, and then scowled as he set the basket on the table and noticed his cuffs were frayed. Inigo thrust his hands behind his back, feeling ridiculous, ill at ease and a long way out of his depth. Why had she come? This was absurd.

  “I brought lunch,” she said, as bright as ever and paying his unwelcoming demeanour no mind at all as she moved to the basket. “There’s a lovely chicken and ham pie, and potato salad, bread and cheese and fruit, oh, and cake too, and….” She rummaged about, taking out the items as she spoke, and then withdrew a bottle with a little triumphant grin. “And wine!” She beamed at him. Inigo’s stomach growled. Minerva tutted. “Just as I thought. Come and sit down.”

  She drew out a chair and patted the seat invitingly. Inigo sighed and rolled his eyes but decided he may as well humour her; he was hungry. At least if he ate, he didn’t have to talk to her and risk humiliating himself.

  “There now, you open the wine and I’ll find….” She stared about the kitchen, and her nose wrinkled as she saw a stack of dirty dishes. “Plates,” she finished, rallying and moving about. She bustled into the scullery and onto the pantry and back again. “Mr de Beauvoir,” she said, shaking her head with impatience. “There’s barely enough food in this house to feed a mouse. In fact,” she added, crouching down to inspect something on the floor. “I think you are feeding the mice. You need a housekeeper, and a cat. At once.”

  “What I need is to be left in peace by interfering women,” he muttered, folding his arms and looking mutinous.

  Miss Butler laughed, peering into a glass and turning it this way and that before deeming it clean enough and placing it on the table. Plates, knives and forks were duly arranged for two.

  “Yes, I don’t doubt,” she said. “But your life and your work would go a deal smoother if your house was properly organised. Just think how nice it would be to find a hot meal waiting for you when you finish work, rather than having to go to the bother of hunting about and finding nothing but stale bread and mouldy cheese.”

  She gave a delicate shudder of revulsion.

  “I manage perfectly well.”

  At this moment, his stomach made a loud and voluble protest, and Miss Butler snorted. Inigo huffed but couldn’t deny that the pie she’d brought looked delicious. She cut a large slice and put it on his plate with a variety of other delectable looking items and set it before him.

  “Tuck in,” she said cheerfully, before helping herself.

  They ate in silence for a while and Inigo felt his clamouring stomach relax. The food was marvellous. As his hunger abated, however, his attention once again became riveted on the young woman beside him, on the delicate slope of her nose and her elegant neck, on the soft, pink lips he’d only had the barest taste of and yet were never far from his thoughts.

  She turned to look at him and he hurriedly redirected his gaze to his food.

  “I don’t know how you can work when you’re so famished,” she said, cutting him another slice of pie and putting it on his plate. “I’m intolerable when I’m hungry. Bad-tempered and snappy.” She shook her head. “I can’t abide it.”

  Inigo made an amused sound and she glanced back at him.

  “What?”

  He hesitated before replying. “I cannot imagine you in a temper. It must be like watching a kitten having a tantrum,” he added, his lips curling upwards.

  She gave a disgusted sniff. “Just you wait,” she said darkly, putting bread and cheese on a side plate for him. “Thwart me and you’ll discover this kitten has claws.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” he murmured, staring at her.

  Miss Butler blushed, recognising the tone of his voice and Inigo knew he ought to behave but… damn it, she’d come here, knowing full well what she was doing. She’d offered to let him kiss her, hadn’t she?

  “Finish your lunch,” she said, setting the smaller plate at his elbow and putting her chin up. “There’s cake and fruit yet.”

  Inigo did as he was told, eating everything she put in front of him and enjoying the excellent wine, which she’d no doubt pilfered from the duke. She chattered away as he ate, not appearing to need any help from him with the conversation and it was oddly… relaxing.

  It was so unusual to have company at all, let alone company like Miss Butler, and it was refreshing and surprisingly easy. There was something domestic and homely about it, the two of them sharing a meal together in the warmth of the kitchen. Despite the bare store cupboards and the distinct possibility of furry invaders, it was cosy and intimate.

  Miss Butler beamed at him as he took a second slice of cake, in spite of feeling fit to burst, but she was so pleased every time he accepted her hospitality he found it difficult to deny her. The smiles she gave away with such ease seemed to brighten the room and make everything seem so much sunnier. Inigo groaned inwardly, nauseated by the thought. She was turning him into a regular sapskull. Well, it was time to do something about that.

  He watched her as she packed the food away and put it in the pantry, extracting a promise from him that he would eat it. Once everything was tidy, she turned back to him and her smile faltered, colour rising to her cheeks as she noticed the look in his eyes. Inigo moved his chair, so it was side on to the table, and allowed a smile to curve over his mouth at the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

  “Cold feet, Miss Butler?”

  “Not at all, Mr de Beauvoir,” she said, putting up her chin in what he suspected was to become a familiar gesture. “I am only a… a little nervous. I’m sure that’s to be expected.”

  He snorted at that. “Last chance, Miss Butler. Leave now, while you still have your reputation, and everything else, intact.”

  She stared at him for a long moment and Inigo was aware of his heart in a way he’d never been before she’d entered his life. It was beating so hard it reverberated through him and he wondered if perhaps she could hear it too.

  “No.”

  Thank God. Thank God. Oh God he was in deep trouble.

  Inigo watched, aware of his own heartbeat, of the quickening of his breath and the rustle of her skirts as she moved closer to him.

  “Here?” she demanded, her voice a little higher pitched than usual.

  She sounded breathless, and her cheeks blazed with colour. At least he wasn’t the only one in a fever over this ridiculous arrangement.

  “Here,” he agreed, hardly able to get the word out, staring up at her, daring her to make good on her promise.

  He still didn’t believe she’d stay. Watching her now, she seemed to be on the verge of bolting, which was likely for the best. She lifted a trembling hand to tuck a stray yellow curl behind her ear, and longing pierced him. It was such an intimate gesture and he imagined seeing her in his bed, with her hair all undone, tucking one heavy coil behind her ear like that.

  Oh, please… please….

  Yes. She’d run, he was sure of it. She wanted love, he wanted sex, sooner or later she would recognise the difference. He was neither that lucky nor an appealing enough prospect for her to throw herself away on, not when she could have anyone she wanted and marriage in the bargain. A woman like her could crook her little finger and have men come running. He felt indignation burn as he remembered he’d said he’d never do it, never fall at her pretty feet. How the mighty had fallen. He was so desperate to touch her that begging seemed not only likely but inevitable. Leave, he prayed, hoping to keep his dignity intact. Stay, he begged, aching to put his hands on her. It was only desire though, a normal male response to an attractive female. If she wanted to ruin herself, why should he care? Why should he worry for her reputation? He wanted to kiss her, put his hands on her and do a great deal more she likely hadn’t the faintest idea was even possible. He watched, intent as she licked her lips, still hesitating. She’d balk any moment now and run for the door and….

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26