“You look…” Her voice was breathless, her pulse fluttery. “…hungry.”
“Perhaps I am.”
He still hadn’t taken his hand from her cheek. His fingers curled gently behind her neck, supportive, possessive. He lowered his head until his breath tickled the corner of her lip, right where she could imagine his.
She tilted closer. “Hungry for what?”
He smiled as though they both knew the answer. “Hungry for—”
“Well, that’s the last time I eat beans for breakfast,” came Tommy’s nasal shrill as she clomped back into the room.
Chloe and Faircliffe jerked apart and guiltily inspected opposite sides of the room.
“Or was it nuncheon?” Tommy blathered on. “Was it beans or was it broccoli? Niece, did you make me eat vegetables today, or was that yesterday?”
“We serve vegetables every day, Aunt,” Chloe answered automatically. She could not bear to look at either of them.
Tommy leaned on Chloe’s shoulder as though to catch her breath and dropped a folded square of foolscap into Chloe’s lap.
“I don’t know what kind of gentleman you’re playing at,” Tommy quavered at Faircliffe, “but is it the kind that helps an old woman into her chair?”
He leapt up at once and set about seeing to Tommy’s comfort at the head of the table.
Chloe lowered her eyes to her lap and unfolded the message.
“Keys” was written at the top. Underlined three times. “Housekeeper on holiday. Can’t get inside. Maid saw me. Has to be you.”
Underneath was a rough map and a sketch of where the keys hung in the room.
She slid the missive into a hidden pocket and turned to Faircliffe, who was just finishing with Tommy.
Chloe resumed a look of naïveté. “Are there likely to be beans and broccoli at supper tonight?”
He nearly choked. “No, no. The Ainsworths have a prized French chef. What they’ll likely serve…”
As he exhaustively explained the composition of the same dishes she and Tommy ate at home on any given Tuesday, Chloe went over the map again in her mind. Even if there was a servant strolling the corridor, palming the keys would be child’s play.
All she needed now was an excuse to slip away.
14
Once Great-Aunt Wynchester had settled into Lawrence’s rightful place at the table, he turned his attention back to her great-niece.
She was again wearing layers of pale brown—if one was feeling generous, one might go so far as to discern a wheat hue, with accents of…burnt biscuit? This mix of tannish chaff did not lend itself to waxing poetic, yet its very nondescriptness served to make her dark brown eyes stand out all the more.
When he looked in her eyes, the rest of the world fell away. He forgot he was a duke; he forgot she was a Wynchester. They were just a man and a woman, trapped in each other’s gaze, the kiss he had almost taken inevitable rather than narrowly escaped.
Why did he allow himself so close to temptation?
He told himself that if Miss Wynchester ran amok, making a cake of herself at society events, her presence at his gala could cause quite the stir.
Lawrencehatedcausing stirs. That was true and best kept in the forefront of his mind. The way to deflect future gossip was to avoid complicating the situation he found himself in now.
Starting with not kissing Chloe Wynchester under any circumstances. No matter how soft her skin or how plump and juicy her berry-pink lips. Her mouth was not his to taste, her kisses not his to steal. There was a plan, and she was not part of it.
No matter what his aching loins might think.
“I need to rest my eyes,” Great-Aunt Wynchester announced as she placed her spectacles on her dinner plate and closed her eyes. “But I can still hear you, children.”
