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“Yes, we shall still be friends in the morning.”
She parted her lips to ask if he ever dreamt of more and was beset by such shyness and nerves she trembled. “Then it is perfectly permissible to kiss me,” she said huskily, even knowing his touch would evoke chaotic desires and wants she would not understand.
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her: Softly…hesitantly and then with domineering tenderness. He coaxed her lips to part with nips and huskily murmured nonsense. She pleaded for more when he slowed his ravishment, and he rewarded her with even deeper kisses. Their tongues tangled, their moans merged, and greed flamed through Verity’s soul.
They broke apart, breathing raggedly. A sharp awareness filled her. “This felt like a farewell, James.”
“Only to our clandestine meetings. We shall see each other quite often about town.”
Disappointment swept through her like a chill. There was more twisting under the surface of her skin, but she could not examine it at this moment. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his cheek.
“Thank you, James. I am excessively obliged to you and shall never forget your kindness.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Perhaps one last lesson.”
Regret and something undefinable throbbed in his tone. Verity smiled, the ache in her heart soothed from the heavy sadness in his tone.
“Perhaps one more.”
Chapter 11
James had not thought there was anything under the sun which could have distracted him from thinking about Lady Verity. For the last three days and nights, she haunted his dreams. And he watched the setting and the rising of the sun as if that would make Monday’s session arrive any sooner. Their last lesson.
Twice they had now kissed. And the word ‘kiss’ seemed quite pedantic to describe the event which had unfolded last night, and that day in his library. She inspired him to compose poetry—admittedly all his writings would all be wicked reminiscence of the softness and the plumpness of her lips, the sweetness of her tongue, and those delectable whimpering noises of passion she made so breathlessly against his mouth. Not the muddled nonsense he had teased her with.
What did she think of their illicit embraces?
He wanted to lay her atop his sheets, naked, and lick and suck every inch of her body, bringing her to pleasure over and over. Did she hunger for more as he did? Of course, she would not be thinking of him in a similarly wicked manner. She was intelligent, amusing, and a lady of thoughtful manners. Not a delectable tart who would willingly be wanton with him between the sheets and perhaps in the library on the rug by a fire. Or even the desk before which he now sat. The broad surface filled his imagination with endless possibilities. James had never felt this way about a lady before in all his eight and twenty years, and instinct warned him; this was rare and precious.
With a groan, he sank back even further into the high winged back chair. Lady Verity was solely for marriage. A piercing yearning went through him for her. Though she appeared so delicate at times, she had never flinched from him or made him feel as if he were a damned brute.
She looked at him with trust…and passion, and he hoarded the memory of every smile she had ever bestowed upon him. What he hated the most was the shadow of pain which still lingered in her eyes. James wanted to be the one to lay her dreams at her feet and be the slayer of her nightmares. But what did she want? Merciful Christ. Never had he wished he understood the female mind more? Somehow, he did not believe if he were to call upon her home, as a suitor, she would be receptive of such advances. The lady had made it clear the kind of gentleman she wished to marry, and James was certain, though she liked and admired him, and even trusted in their budding relationship, the lady did not think of him for marriage.
These were the ruminations which had occupied his mind for the last hour. For days he had not been able to stop thinking about her. Must be some sorcery.
James’s man of affairs, Mr. Everton Powell, interrupted his musings and presented him with a box. It flummoxed James that the man had had to clear his throat three times to fully capture his attention. Even then, half of his thoughts had been on Verity, recalling her smile and how beautiful she had appeared at the ball last night. Should I send her flowers?
“My lord,” said Mr. Powell, clearing his throat. "I did not look inside the box, but I thought it wise to bring it to you s
ince it had…the late countess's name written on the side."
With those cryptic words, James’s attention was finally free of Verity’s beguiling sorcery. This box had his mother’s name. “You said this was found in the wine cellar?”
“Yes, my lord. Repairs have only recently started there.”
James nodded. The estate on which he had grown, or near where he had grown, Birchmount Manor—the seat of his earldom and the place where his father had sequestered himself until his death. James had always roamed those walls, feeling hurt and angry that there was no portrait of his mother, and that he could not live at the last place she had resided. Many of the villagers had believed in spirits, and they had regaled him with dozens of stories. And the foolish hope in his heart had made him fervently think that if he could just live at the manor and avoid his father in the large one hundred room home, he would sense something of her presence. And maybe he could have asked her a question which had lingered in his young mind for so long. Did she hate him and blame him for her death as his father had done?
“Was anything else found with her name?”
“No, my lord. After we found this, Mrs. Thompson gathered the servants and had the manor searched from top to bottom.”
Warmth filled James. Mrs. Thompson, the manor's cook, had been one of his fiercest champions growing up and had been a listening ear to many of his musings. She had also been the first person to attempt to teach him his letters.
“And, how is she?”
The man cleared his throat. “If I am permitted to say so, my lord, she misses you.”
James nodded. He hadn't returned to Dorset in almost six years. Every brutal fight and purse he had won had been pushed into restoring those neglected lands and tenants' houses. Thousands of pounds had been invested into new types of machinery for the farmers, larger houses, a village school, fixing and expanding the church, and to commission a hospital. He had never forgotten those he had cared for dying from various diseases, waiting for a doctor to visit from a nearby village. He had sweated blood and tears for the people who had grown him, yet he had not returned since he left.
