by Tessa Dare
She shook her head.
He gritted his teeth as he sheathed himself in her depths. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
It was a harmless lie. She was tender—and raw, and vulnerable. Not only between her thighs, but in her heart.
If he hurt her, so be it.
She’d chosen this, too.
They moved together slowly, trying not to splash all the bathwater on the floor.
His brow pressed to hers. She could feel him swell even larger within her. His arms trapped her like a vise as he thrust.
With a groan, he lifted her off his cock and drew her hand between them, wrapping her fist around his thickness and closing his hand tight around her fist. He guided her hand in a swift flurry of strokes, pumping his release into her grip.
He slumped against her, and she caressed his shuddering back.
“Charlotte, darling?”
Darling. One more scrap of an endearment to add to her collection.
Her heart fluttered, stupidly. “Yes?”
“I think you’ve gravely miscounted your natural talents.”
She pressed a smile to the crown of his head. Perhaps there was something unique to her after all. “Well, that’s a comfort. I’d given up on being an accomplished woman, much less an exceptional one.”
“You are anything but unexceptional.”
“You needn’t flatter me.”
“I’m serious. How many hours have you spent humoring your mother? Or listening to your rock-mad sister, or staying indoors with the one who was ill? Think of all the years you lived in Spindle Cove when you would have rather been in London. Most would find that boring indeed. That’s where you’re exceptional. The art of people.”
“You truly think so?”
“I know so. Because dealing with this particular person”—he pointed to himself—“requires a virtuoso.”
She laughed.
“I’m not joking. I haven’t met the woman who could do it yet.”
“You’re lucky I came and found you then.”
His praise settled around her like bathwater, soothing and warm. Quite different from the stiff, shiny fabric of compliments.
It wasn’t as though she suddenly believed in herself because Piers pronounced her worthy. But he’d reasoned his case well, and she’d come to trust his powers of observation—especially when they agreed with her own.
He hadn’t made her feel exceptional. They’d arrived at the conclusion together. And that was something altogether different.
It was, she decided, exactly what she’d been hoping for in a partner—what she couldn’t have known how to put into words, but had been willing to wait years and years to find.
Which meant she was lucky to have found him, too.
Perhaps she was even fortunate to have a meddling, scheming mother.
No.
No, that was going too far.
Then an idea—a spectacular, perfect idea—blazed through her mind like a comet and struck a fire in her chest.
She sat back and looked at him. “Let me be your partner.”
“I thought that much was already agreed.”
“No, not only your wife. Your partner in”—she gestured vaguely—“your work. We’d have so much fun together.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then slicked back his wet hair. “No. Out of the question.”
“I could make a brilliant spy. Think about it. I love a good puzzle. I can gain people’s trust. I know my way around weaponry. I’m clever and daring. I . . . I can sneak through windows.”
He chuckled a bit. “It’s not like you’re imagining. You’d find it dull. Espionage is mostly reading paperwork and writing reports and listening to mind-numbing conversations at parties. It’s nine-tenths pure boredom.”
“Everything worth doing is nine-tenths pure boredom. Think of your brother the prizefighter. I’d wager he spends weeks and months of preparation for just one hour in the ring. Or my sister the geologist. She’ll sift through mountains of dirt to find one ugly little fossil. Even Delia makes dozens of sketches before she even begins to paint.” She paused. “No pursuit ever called to me that way before. But this could be it. My true talent. My passion.”
He only shook his head.
“Can’t you see what ideal partners we’d make? We fill one another’s shortcomings so perfectly.” She reached for his hands and squeezed them. “Send me to the Continent with Delia. While she’s sketching, I can work on my languages. Practice my etiquette. I . . . I’ll even learn to hang things on pegs.”
“Charlotte . . . it would be much too dangerous.”
“Hanging things on pegs?”
“Working with me.”
“But you just told me it’s all boring paperwork and parties.”
“It is. Except for the times when it isn’t.” He stood up, stepped out of the tub and reached for a towel.
She took a moment to admire his hard, masculine body, glowing like bronze in the flickering candlelight. The lean muscles of his shoulders and back. The dark hair on his forearms and calves. His male organs, resting sated in their nest of shadow. He shook his hair, spraying droplets about the room, then scrubbed the towel over his face and dried the spots behind his ears.
The whole ritual was intimate and normal. Rather endearing, as well.
He was only a man, after all. A strong, powerful, complicated man—but human, just the same. Made of skin and bone and sinew and heart.
There was love in him somewhere, tightly bottled and waiting, like a rare vintage of wine. It might take her months or even years, but Charlotte was determined to search the man to the deepest, darkest cellars of his soul—and pull the cork.
He slung the towel over his shoulder and offered her his hand. “Take care. The floor is slick.”
Once she was out, he snapped open another towel and wrapped it about her like a cabbage leaf, tucking in the ends securely. He was treating her like a swaddled babe.
“You don’t believe I could do it,” she said.
“I didn’t say that.”
You don’t have to.
She was wounded by his lack of confidence, but she couldn’t blame him for doubting. What did she have to recommend herself? A habit of laughing at inappropriate moments and a few not-quite-solved mysteries in her pocket?
“Please,” she said, looking up at him through her wet eyelashes. “Give me a chance to prove myself. Just don’t make any decisions tonight.”
He exhaled heavily. “Too late. I’ve already made a decision.”
“Oh?” She cringed. “What is it?”
“This.”
He plucked her off her feet, slung her over his shoulder like a bundled sheaf of mowed wheat, and carried her to the bed.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlotte woke alone in her bed, sunlight streaming through the windows. It had to be mid-morning, at least.
She had no recollection of dressing herself in a night rail, much less being tucked securely beneath her coverlet. But then, she did always sleep like a stone. Piers must have been unwilling to disturb her.
Piers.
Piers, Piers, Piers.
Her bearings sorted, she fell back against her pillow and pressed both hands to her heart.
Last night hadn’t been a mere moment of weakness in a meadow. It had been a revelation. She’d glimpsed new facets of Piers, and of herself, as well. A whole world of possibilities had opened.
This was real.
She was in love. She had a lover.
A good one.
Her body ached all over. She was tenderest between her legs, but there were other hurts, as well. Her nipples throbbed from being suckled. Her inner thighs were chafed just the slightest bit raw from his whiskers.
Little echoes of pleasure pulsed between her legs.
She squeezed her thighs together.
“Charlotte,” she said aloud. “Whatever would your mother say?”
As she lay motionless, a wide grin spread
from one cheek to the other. Unable to contain it, she rolled over onto her belly and buried her shriek of delight in the pillow, kicking her toes against the mattress.
Then she stopped abruptly as the door opened, going limp and playing asleep. Just in time, or so Charlotte hoped. She’d probably looked as though she were having a fit.
“Beggin’ pardon, Miss Highwood. Your breakfast tray.”
Charlotte muttered a sleepy-sounding thanks and peeked just long enough to see the maid leaving the room.
Then she threw back the bedclothes and reached for her dressing gown.
The smell of buttered toast and hot chocolate was as irresistible as a certain man’s kisses. She was famished.
Piers must have sent this up. Charlotte normally took breakfast downstairs with the Parkhurst ladies. But he would have known she’d be exhausted this morning, and hungry, as well.
Such caring. Such attention to detail.
As she slid one arm through her dressing gown, she noticed a sprig of green and violet laid across the corner of the tray.
A flower?
Perhaps the man had true romance in him after all.
Smiling to herself, she plucked the purple blossom from the tray and twirled it between her fingers. She peered at it. At first glance, she’d thought it to be one of the Michaelmas daisies cropping up everywhere this time of year. But it wasn’t a common aster. Some sort of iris, or orchid perhaps? A gardener, Charlotte was not.
She set it aside with a shrug.
Whatever it was, it was pretty and most thoughtful. But the surest way to her heart was through her stomach, and the heap of perfectly browned toast on a plate might as well have been gold.
She tied her dressing gown sash in a knot, preparing to sit down and feast. But her fingers fumbled with the knot. How strange. Her right hand didn’t want to work properly. A pins and needles feeling spread from her fingers to her wrist.
She shook it out, assuming she must have slept on her trapped arm.
But the shaking didn’t help. Instead of fading, the tingling sensation increased. By now it had spread up her wrist to her elbow.
Stranger still, she couldn’t feel her fingers at all.
Her heart began to pound in the queerest way. A flurry of rapid beats, then none at all. Then off it went galloping again.
How vexing. She had inherited Mama’s flutterings, after all.
She ought to lie down, she supposed.
But as she turned toward the bed, her vision grayed and blurred at the edges. As if life were suddenly an engraved newspaper vignette.
This was more than a “fluttering.” Something was wrong.
Piers would know what was wrong.
“Piers.”
The word stuck on her drying lips. She tried again. “Piers?”
Not loud enough. Drat.
Her knees wavered. She grabbed the chair with her left hand, clinging to it. Her right arm was nothing but three feet of dead weight dangling from her shoulder.
She had to get out of this room.
Charlotte knew she was going to collapse, and she couldn’t be alone when it happened.
Her heart thundered in her ears as she stumbled toward the door of her bedchamber. She watched her own left hand grappling with the broken door latch, as though it belonged to someone else.
Charlotte, concentrate.
At last, her fingers obeyed. They closed on the door latch and pulled the door inward a foot—two at most.
Just wide enough for Charlotte to collapse through it and faint into the corridor.
Thud.
At Sir Vernon’s invitation, Piers settled down to tea and light refreshments in the library.
“I appreciate your time, Sir Vernon. This morning was most instructive.”
They’d just completed a tour of the farmland under the guise of discussing irrigation methods. So far as Piers could see, nothing looked amiss. No signs that the man was economizing or selling off possessions, or making any outlandish purchases. Overall, Parkhurst Manor seemed to be an estate in remarkably good financial health—almost as thriving as his own.
In over a week, Sir Vernon hadn’t suggested cards or dice, or anything more high-stakes than “poorest catch buys pints of cider at the pub.” A gaming habit seemed unlikely.
So where was the money going?
To a long-ago mistress, or a bastard child. There were no plausible alternatives remaining.
But he needed access to the man’s private correspondence and accounts to confirm the truth. What with all the distractions, he hadn’t found another opportunity to search.
Be honest with yourself, Piers.
The truth was, he could have found opportunities to search. But he’d been making opportunities to spend time with Charlotte instead.
And then he’d made Charlotte his own.
“Don’t you think?”
Piers raised his eyebrow and his teacup in a diplomatic, noncommittal gesture that would hopefully be taken as . . . whatever response he ought to have made, had he been paying attention.
He thought of Charlotte looking as he’d left her, sleeping in her own bed just as the first rays of dawn touched the horizon. Snoring faintly, in an adorably unabashed way.
Was it any wonder he couldn’t concentrate this morning?
Every moment that crawled past was a moment he wanted to be with her. Holding her. Inside her, pushing her toward another sweetly voiced crisis of pleasure. Talking and laughing with her afterward.
“Ahem.” The butler appeared in the doorway. “Forgive the interruption, sir. Lady Parkhurst has a matter that requires your attention.”
“Does she?” Sir Vernon shrugged. “You don’t mind, do you, Granville? A matter of household management or menus, most likely, but we must keep the ladies happy.”
“Indeed.”
This was the opportunity Piers had been waiting for.
Once alone, he could search the man’s desk, finish the business he’d come here to complete. Then he could announce his engagement to Charlotte and leave.
He moved to the desk.
Thud.
The noise gave him pause.
Probably nothing. Definitely nothing. A servant dropped something upstairs, that was all.
And yet even as he closed one drawer and noiselessly rifled through the second, his mind couldn’t let it rest.
He didn’t like the silence that followed that thud.
If an object was dropped, it ought to be picked up. Unless Charlotte was the one who’d dropped the object, in which case said object might remain on the floor for a year or more.
And with that, his mind was with Charlotte again.
He smiled a bit to himself, and before he even knew what he was doing, his eye had wandered to the window seat.
This was useless. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He couldn’t be easy about that silence. And if he wasn’t concentrating on the task at hand, he should wait for another opportunity. In his distraction, he would make a mistake.
He closed the drawer and left the library, turning to climb the stairs.
What he found in the corridor scared him bloodless. Here was the source of the thud.
Charlotte.
He dashed to her side.
“Charlotte.” He gave her arm a gentle shake. “Charlotte. Are you well?”
No reply.
No response whatsoever. She was motionless.
As he turned and lifted her, her head lolled backward. Her lips had a bluish tinge.
A sick feeling rose in his gut.
“No.” He shook her roughly, to no avail. “No, no, no.”
This couldn’t happen. Not this time. She would not be taken from him.
He pried open her eyelid to check her gaze, then turned his cheek to her pale lips.
She was breathing, at least. And when he pressed a hand to her throat, he found her heart to be beating—rapidly.
Maybe it wasn’t too late.
Charlotte, C
harlotte. Who did this to you?
“Ridley!” he called, suddenly hoarse. “Miss Highwood is ill.”
Ridley joined him on the floor. “Shall I help you move her to the bed?”
“Don’t touch her. No one else touches her.”
He would be the only one to move her, to hold her. To gather her in his arms and carry her back to her bed. To smooth the hair from her mottled, feverish cheek.
“Find Sir Vernon,” Piers said, barely restraining the edge in his voice. “Tell him to send for a doctor.”
Ridley nodded. “At once, my lord.”
Piers whipped the cravat from his neck and doused it with water from the washstand. Then he returned to her bedside and swabbed the cool cloth over her head and neck.
She stirred, and his heart leapt with hope.
“Stay with me, Charlotte.”
He could almost hear her teasing him in return. I don’t like being told what to do.
Wake, then. Wake up and tell me so.
If he needed to irritate her back to life, he would do it.
“Charlotte, stay with me. Do you hear? You can’t leave me. I forbid it.”
He held her, counting each of her shallow, precious breaths. When he dared glance away, he took a look about the room. Her breakfast tray sat on the table. It looked untouched, with the chocolate pot still steaming and the plate decorated with . . .
With a sprig of sinister greenery.
He knew it at once. Monkshood. One of the deadliest of nightshades. It didn’t even need to be ingested. Mere contact on skin could prove fatal.
Charlotte hadn’t merely fallen ill.
She’d been poisoned.
“Which hand?” he demanded. “Charlotte, you must wake. Tell me which hand you touched it with.”
Her lashes fluttered, and she looked toward her right arm.
Piers turned her hand palm-side up. Christ. Her flesh still bore faint scrapes from where she’d clutched the reins on her wild ride the other day. An open door, and the poison had entered through it.
He reached for the ewer on her washstand and slowly poured the remaining contents over her right forearm, letting the water run down her palm, all the way to her fingertips before spilling onto the floor.
“Ridley!” he shouted.
Ridley appeared in the doorway, out of breath from his jog down and up the stairs. “The physician’s been sent for.”