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He did not give a damn. As long as she continued to want him with the same intensity he did her. And sate him with the same desperation as he did her.
Kitchen utensils rattled downstairs, reminding him that anyone might stumble upon them.
He inhaled to the full capacity of his lungs in search of a scarce cool-headed attitude.
“It will soon be dinner. I will go up and refresh.” Preferably with icy water and not on his face.
Leaning slack against the column, she nodded. He walked away before he changed his mind about feeding them dinner.
A
Dinner had been a silent affair full of impatience and restlessness. On his part. Otilia ate in perfect composure. No one could say she had reciprocated his kiss without a febrile urge. The usual cool surface she presented may mislead others, but it did not him anymore. Now, he understood what ran beneath that composed façade. Like a turmoil on the bottom of the sea when it held a placid exterior. A passion which matched his, degree by heated degree. But also, a woman who would never be frivolous or flighty. She displayed depth, she saw through the smoke screen into what lay below, not relying on mere appearances. This depth drew him to her, to see more, discover more, all her secrets, her thoughts, her feelings. A dangerous thing for he might drown, in ways other than the physical one. Had she not been working in the manor to cover for the lack of staff? A proactive person it proved her to be. And she had taunted him with questions about his past, seeing through his mask straight to where it hurt. Dangerous and tempting, the vixen. Like wanting to fly, launching oneself into the vast blue sky free and unconcerned, an Icarus to survey what lay on the ground below.
The wait in his study would kill him at once. But Edmund imposed it on himself to keep a shred of decorum in the house.
He had been thinking too much of her. Since he came to Leicester and encountered her impassive person, she had not left his head for longer than a few minutes. It became worse as he tapped into her warmth, uncovered her many layers, and glimpsed below the surface.
The clock struck the hour, plucking him from his musings. Thornton House had grown quiet, the servants retired. Edmund sprang from the chair and left the strangling isolation of the study to head upstairs.
French envelopes in hand, silently, he pulled down the knob on her bedroom door and penetrated her world. Soft, feminine colours, frilly bedsheets and a canopy bathed in intimate firelight greeted him. He became wrapped in a cloud of orange blossoms that started to arouse him since he inhaled it on her.
Otilia sat on the bed with a book, calm and serene. He clicked the door shut, the sound making her lift her warm gaze to him. In a modest nightgown with her hair loose around her face, her demureness did not portray her passionate nature.
“Say no, and I will leave,” he rasped. Though leaving would destroy him, he would do it if she said the word.
A flush of arousal spread on her satiny skin. Her delicate hands closed the book with slow torment, and she placed it on the nightstand. “Leave, and I may retaliate,” she rebutted, removing the covers of her large, inviting single-bed.
Victory dripped from him as he prowled to her, sat on the mattress and placed the envelopes by her book. There were enough French letters there for an army. Still, he was not sure they would last.
His feet kicked off his shoes as he came over her, to take her hand and lay it where he throbbed. Instead of shying away, she explored him bold, without artifice.
His stubbled mouth nibbled her ear. “You are beautiful.” Her sigh was all the response he needed.
“And you are gorgeous,” she replied, moving her body to his. Her words melted him as much as her actions.
The envelopes returned with him to his chamber at dawn, almost empty.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Otilia sat in the morning room trying her best not to stare at Edmund across from her with a newspaper. Every time she remembered their night together, intense vermillion invaded her cheeks. The things he taught her, the delicious, sinful things they did. Her eyes were fixed on her tea, but her attention focused entirely on him. Nothing short of insatiable, that was what they were. She feared the man would get her addicted to him, to what he did to her. To how he made her feel.
“Thank you,” he said to the only footman serving them. “You can leave now.” The servant left and closed them in the room.
He deigned to clasp his jet eyes on her at last. And how she felt multiplied, spread, flared to the point of overflowing. It must be sleep deprivation that gave her this impression. It should not be possible t
o hoard so much emotion inside her. Passion, voluptuousness and a deep awareness that whatever she did, wherever she went, the proximity of him would forever be stirring, disquieting, brief. Too brief as though she would never get enough. In the bedchamber, or out of it. The thought daunted her, produced an apprehension that she might become needy, clingy. Clearly, she had not the luxury to think like that. It seemed imperative that she kept her head cool and her emotions in check.
Strong hands folded the paper and rested it on the table. “I believe you miss the country,” he uttered in that voice that was a caress on its own.
The sound charged at her heart, and it jumped. Moments passed before she could muster enough clarity to answer him. His mention of the country confused her. He gave signs of not caring much for it, and would always be a city man. “Well, yes. I grew up there.”
Their attention collided again, provoking a hot wave to assail her. Leisurely, his inspection fairly licked her hair tied in a simple bun, her coral day dress that hugged her full breasts modestly, but with the clear swell of them, the woollen wrap falling over her elbows. Every place where it rested pinpricked her. The secrets she attempted to leave in the dark of the night bared for him to do whatever he wished with them. More colour washed over her skin, her breath caught in a throat that screamed several times for his ministrations.
“What say you we spend a few days at the manor?” His torso inclined towards her to take in her every reaction.
There was no hiding her wistfulness at the thought of seeing Thornton Manor again. She did long for it. The city never attracted her with its noisy, polluted agglomeration. Nature, with its peacefulness and open spaces, agreed much more with Otilia. Her eyes lit up at the possibility.
He must have understood her response. “It is decided. My man of business is back from the continent. I can spare a little time.”
