twenty-five
“YOU SEEM DISTRACTED,” the countess said as she and Violante took a walk through the garden the next morning with the countess’s lady’s maid.
Yes, Violante was very distracted. Her body tingled with the memory of what Keith had done to her and with the sensation of him inside her. Her plan had backfired. Sort of. When she’d asked him to do whatever he wanted to her, she’d meant it with her whole heart, and no, she didn’t regret anything. Quite the opposite. She hadn’t expectedthat. She hadn’t expected him kissing and tonguing her between her thighs—that had been delightfully shocking—she hadn’t expected to feel even more pleasure than the first time, and certainly, she hadn’t expected the tender, all-consuming feelings burning in her chest after their tumble.
The need to touch him, be with him, and feel his warmth bordered on pain. She’d never experienced anything close to this maddening urge, and she hadn’t planned to feel that way; it was scary. If she was going to be honest, last night she’d only wanted to enjoy herself. But something had changed between them. He’d kissed her with too much devotion, and she’d shared her very soul with him. His touch had been too deep and caring. Hisgaze had been too adoring. No, whatever had happened between them last night wasn’t simply fun. Yes, she’d told him she loved him, and she meant every word. But now, her feelings were deeper than that.
She tilted her parasol to shield her eyes from a fierce ray of sunlight. “I apologise. I had a not-so-restful night.” Not entirely true.
She’d slept more than well in Keith’s protective arms, but the need to have more tumbles troubled her. Was she too wanton? Was her desire normal?
“Looks as if our husbands are talking about the deal?” The countess glanced at the gazebo where Keith and the count were talking about their business.
“This deal is very important for my husband. Personal, I’d dare to say. I still believe that a youth centre is more important than yet another hotel.” She hadn’t talked with the countess since their last conversation, but she hadn’t changed her mind.
The countess lifted a shoulder, causing the white lace of her neckline to flutter. “It’s always personal with men.”
They strolled towards the hedge maze. What the point was of a labyrinth made of bushes, she couldn’t understand.
She caught a glimpse of a man with a fluttering dark coat. “A man is over there behind that bush. It looks like he’s hiding.”
Sir Nigel perhaps, waiting for his lover.
The countess twirled her parasol. “The gardener. Heaven knows if this place needs constant trimming and pruning. Endless care and attention.”
“Yes, I’m sure it must be an exhausting job.”
The countess arched her dark eyebrows. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to talk with the gardener.”
“By all means.”
Oh, the countess and Sir Nigel were going to use their mouths but not to talk. It was a miracle the count hadn’t discovered them yet.
After the countess left in a hurry, Violante huffed. The situation was an injustice. She couldn’t care less about what the countess did or didn’t do in her private life. But the countess could enjoy her tryst, being unfaithful to her husband, while Keith’s noble project was snubbed. Keith was more honourable than she was. Violante might have used what they’d discovered to influence the count’s decision. Although they didn’t have any evidence of the countess’s tryst. If the count didn’t believe them, they would make the bad situation worse.
She resumed walking alone when Paul came out of a path in the garden. It was her chance to talk to him again. He tensed when she walked over to him.
“Paul.”
He seemed about to bolt away but exhaled and waited for her.
“Lady Ashford.” His tone didn’t lack kindness.
“Thank you for stopping to talk to me,” she said to start the conversation well, just in case her temper ruined it.
“You’re welcome.” He darted his gaze around, like a thief.
“As I told you, I want back what is mine.” She went straight to the point.
“I understand your wish. Truly, I do.” He produced a chequebook and a pen from the inner pocket of his jacket. He scribbled on a page and handed it to her. “Here. With interest.”
She didn’t take it. “What about the pendant?”
“The pendant isn’t in my possession.” He remained deadpan.
She expected that, but surely something could be done. A precious pendant like that must have been bought by someone with money or left at a pawnshop. There were chances to track it. “I want to trace it. Did you sell it?”
“No.” He stared at the ground. “My mother forbade me from selling it. In fact, she didn’t know I took your money until we were out of London. Anyway, we didn’t sell the pendant.”
