“Because,” he continued, “I can assure you, Mrs Swift, I am nothing but thorough in all that I do.” Lips caressed the skin beneath her ear, and that hand slipped to her side, ran down her hip, glided to her rump and yanked her close.
Their bodies collided. Muscle to pliancy. So heated in this cold night that she didn’t care if she burned to a cinder.
But he neither kissed her nor moved.
Simply held her so tight, she could feel every single unyielding bulge, until finally a husky breath tormented her ear once more. “Our day of reckoning shall be two days hence, Mrs Swift, at a time of your convenience. And within my schedule, I shall allot you…two hours.” Breath lingered and she shivered. “But for now, you’d best return to the ballroom unless you wish to witness first-hand exactly how exhaustive I can be in any task I choose to accomplish.”
And with a last caress of her waist, he stepped back.
The delectable MrsSwift declined to turn tail and run.
She ought to.
Because feral need and barely suppressed lust held Casper in its vehement grip. A raw and indulgent lust that had for too long been buried beneath ink and paperwork.
Instead, she slipped his jacket from her shoulders and reached up, draping it upon his own, breasts grazing his chest.
Fair turnabout, he supposed, as he’d teased to the point of madness and, as such, not been flippant when he’d spoken of her necessary return to the ballroom.
The assessment, which he’d initiated, had been flipped upon its head, and it was he who’d failed – her scent, colour and curves tempting him like no other.
But he held back, aware he was labelled the Duke of Diamonds – cold and most certainly hardened. This duke did not swive on another man’s terrace or fall blindly for a woman’s charm at only a second encounter.
At long last, Mrs Swift spun and drifted some steps away but as she glanced over one shoulder, a peculiar sensation hit his gut, of recognition and awareness.
“Until Friday then, Your Grace. I shall allot you…one hour.”
She smiled, a taunting curve which begged to be subdued with a quelling kiss, but in lieu, he dug fingernails to his palms.
“After all,” she continued, “one wouldn’t wish to exhaust you for your important afternoon appointments.”
The rusty, derisive sound of his laugh startled both the owls and statues alike.
Damn it, he desired this woman…and the Duke of Diamonds always got what he desired.
It mattered not if she lied.
As long as one knew the cat bore sharp claws, one could be prepared: stroke it till those talons sheathed or clip them while it slept.
Either way, he’d possess the cat.
Chapter 9
Diamonds in the rough.
Apeculiar smell pervaded the attic of No. 11 Hop Gardens.
It made one’s nostrils twitch, throat burn and eyes water. Sweaty stockings and rancid cheese. Boiling flesh and rotten cabbage.
Evelyn sneezed. “Is the stew burning?”
Peering up from her sewing, Artemisia sniffed. “No, it’s those candles you bought from duffer Douglas. I believe they’re made from mutton fat.”
Evelyn returned to sketching the new backdrop forTwelfth Night, her nose refusing to accustom itself to thebouquet demouton. She recalled the sweet fragrance of beeswax candles and jasmine perfume at the Plymtree ball and wished she’d never been reminded of the luxuries that existed for some in life.
All would be well if they could earn a modicum of a living, but the stage manager at the theatre had requested a meeting three days hence and she dreaded the reasoning. Was she too slow in her painting? Or a consequence of her day off? Was someone cheaper? Or more male?
Many times, she had searched for other avenues of work such as tutor, governess or companion, but genteel households regarded her upbringing with suspicion; her father may have been a baronet but to paint for a living? What an unreliable, immoral sort of family and certainly not the sort one would wish to house.
