Page 18 of If a Lady Lingers

Layer upon layer of clothing kept his fingers from touching her bare breast, yet her nipple drew up into a hard point that ached to be fondled. As if reading her mind, he flicked his thumb over the little bump to pleasure her as best he could through her clothes at the same time that he squeezed her bottom.

The ache that had blossomed in her belly plummeted downward to land between her legs in a sharp throb. A soft whimper of need fell from her lips, and she shifted her hips to brush against his front.

“We have to stop now,” he murmured regretfully even as he kept her encircled in his arms.

“Why?”

He grinned against her hair, but she knew his smile was forced. “Because I don’t want to stop.”

Me either. Yet she didn’t dare speak that aloud. She hugged him tightly, placed one last kiss to his lips, and then stepped out of his arms.

They stared at each other, the silence awkward. His lips were red from her kisses, his blue eyes bright. Not looking away, she lifted her hand to touch her own lips, to feel the tingling and heat he’d put into them.

Confusion sparked through her, chasing on the heels of an inexplicable urge to let him do that to her again. And this time, not stop.

“Miz Darin’!” someone shouted to her from two floors below. She took a moment to recognize the voice—her building supervisor. “Got a few questions fer ya to relay t’ ya father fer in th’ mornin’.”

“Coming,” she called back and inwardly cursed the sudden thickness in her voice. She cleared her throat and tried again, “We’ll be right down.”

She snatched up the plans and hurried down what would eventually become the hallway and rear stairs, not looking behind to see if Whitby was following.

Thank goodness for the interruption! Had she lost her mind? She needed time to think, to sort through the temporary madness that had made her kiss him—Whitby, of all men!—and a client, no less. The son of a baron. And the most improbable man for her.

But when her feet hit the ground-floor landing, she couldn’t prevent a happy smile from spreading across her face.

“Papa should be in the parlor,” Daisy told Whitby when they arrived home from the site visit.

He’d insisted on accompanying her all the way back, although she’d protested that she was more than capable of riding the two miles in a carriage on her own. But the gentleman he was wouldn’t let her travel alone, even though the tension between them had been as thick as rain.

“He’ll want to hear your thoughts about the house’s progress.” She bit her bottom lip and lowered her voice. “Please tell him that we’re ahead of schedule and under budget.”

“All right.”

With a parting smile as if nothing were wrong, she headed quickly up the stairs to return the plans to the studio. It was cowardly to flee like this, she knew, but she couldn’t tolerate for a moment longer the awkwardness that had lingered between them since their embrace. She desperately needed to clear her head, go over every detail in her mind, and think about what to do—or say—next.

“Daisy.” He took her elbow from behind and stopped her on the second step. She didn’t turn around. “We should talk about what happened.” A pause so short no one else would have noticed, but she heard the uncertain hope in his voice. “And about whether it should happen again.”

Oh, she simply couldn’t! Even now, her face heated with embarrassment. How could she talk about what happened when she had no idea what to think about it or what to say? As for doing it again… He was Whitby, for heaven’s sake! How could she consider a serious courtship with him? She needed to keep attention away from herself if she had any chance of continuing Papa’s work—the only chance she would ever have at doing her own. But Whitby was a walking, talking, brightly painted sign of attention. Even now he was dressed flamboyantly in satin and kerseymere and in several shades of purples and yellows; his waistcoat was cut fashionably high enough to show a second layer of contrasting pattern beneath in yet another shade of purple, and the gold tassels on his boots swung with each step he took. His appearance would have made every dandy on St James’s street cry out in envy for all the heads he would turn the minute he stepped into White’s or Boodle’s.

What would people say about her whenever she was with him? She couldn’t fade into the background then. Not with his red hair, those bright blue eyes, and his every thought and emotion showing unfiltered upon his face. If he couldn’t hide a single emotion from the world, how would he ever be able to help her hide her work if she let him court her?

Because that’s what he meant when he spoke of kissing again, she knew. He wanted to pursue her.

“I—I can’t,” she stammered and slowly drew her arm from his grasp. “Not yet.” A sigh tore from her at the disheartened expression that flashed across his face and proved all her suspicions. “I need to think, to consider… Later.” Her shoulders slumped heavily, and she nodded toward the front room. “Go visit Papa. Tell him what you think of the house, all right?”

“All right.” He retreated to the bottom of the stairs. “But we’ll need to talk about it eventually.”

When pigs flew… She pled instead, “When you talk with Papa, please don’t tell him that you know he didn’t do the plans himself. Let him continue the ruse, all right? Elias Daring might be sick and old, but he still has his pride.”

He considered for a moment, as if ready to persist in pressing her for an answer, but then he acquiesced with a faint nod. “I’ll see you again soon.”

And that was what bothered her.

Without another word, she hurried up the stairs to the studio. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, squeezing her eyes shut against the confusion swirling in her head. She took deep breaths and tried to calm her racing pulse and the tingling that tickled at her toes as she thought about his kisses and caresses. They’d been nice.

Oh, what a goose she was! They’d been so much more thannice.Kittens and puppies were nice. Afternoon teas and museum visits were nice. What she’d done with Whitby was…simply delicious.

Who would have thought that someone who looked like Whitby would be so skilled at kissing? The touch of his hands and what he’d done with his tongue—oh my.