Page 50 of Yielding to Love

Mrs. Clay and Adam laid down covered bowls and a pitcher. He should ask Mrs. Clay to stay. But he did not. After all, he and Miss Harrington were often alone together—why should this be different? Why did it feel different? When the servants departed, Miss Harrington removed the covers. Turnips. Boiled eggs. Lettuces. Rice flecked with mushrooms. The pitcher held cider. It was a laughably ghastly menu, but it was supper for him. He was touched.

He took some of everything. While they ate, they talked easily of the garden, the colonel, Tunbridge Wells. Then poetry. What was good and what was bad. He ate until he was sated. That was a rare gift.

He settled back in his chair. She set down her cup. “Shall I ring for dessert?”

“There is more?”

She nodded. “I’ve seen the way you sugar your tea. You have a sweet tooth.” She rose and pulled the bell cord. Then sat again. “Did you have letters from home? I hope nothing is wrong.”

“Nothing at home. They were political. Problems in France.” Since she looked quizzical, he gave her a censured version of the censured version he’d meant to give the colonel. Her brow furrowed with consternation.

“But I don’t understand! They were freed from the tyrant. Why aren’t they more grateful?”

Crispin snorted. “I think rather they feel robbed of their empire. With Napoleon, the French believed they ruled the world. Now they are squashed back into their boundaries and under our very British thumb.”

She hmphed. But then looked thoughtful. “At least Napoleon is gone.”

Mrs. Clay came back into the room with a tray holding two servings of what at first glance appeared to be syllabub, a dish made with cream, so neither he nor Miss Harrington would eat it.

“Apples baked in sugar,” Miss Harrington said.

“Ah.” He smiled.

He ate his, and when she pushed hers away because it was too sweet, he ate hers too.

“Miss Harrington, I thank you,” he said, licking his spoon and dropping it into the bowl. “I’ve gained a stone.”

She glowed, victorious. “Now I suppose we should go downstairs. Neville might be feeling more himself. I don’t want to leave him out.”

So they went down. Crispin sat at the pianoforte and played for a few minutes until Adam came out of his chamber to tell them the colonel was sleeping.

Miss Harrington yawned, then quickly covered her mouth. “Excuse me. I think I will retire as well.”

Crispin stood as she did. And realized he was disappointed to have to say goodnight.

*

He fell asleep when his head hit the pillow. He slept deeply until a sense of movement, not his own, penetrated his dreams. A presence in his room. Although his pulse raced, he didn’t move a muscle and kept his breathing steady. Peering through slitted eyelids, he could not make out anything in the dark. Then he heard his door click shut and latch. Assassins. Where was the duke? He slipped his hand under his pillow for his pistol, but it wasn’t there. And he’d been stripped naked. Had he been drugged?

Damn.

He startled awake. Fully awake. Of course, his pistol was not under his pillow. It was tucked away in his valise. And he was unclothed because he was safe in a farmhouse near Tonbridge.

But he saw a flicker of movement again. And his eyes began to adjust to the dark. A sinuous shifting of black against black. The scent of lilacs. The shape turned and he saw the pallor of a face.

“Camellia?” he whispered. Then kicked himself. One was not supposed to wake a sleepwalker. And she had to be walking in her sleep.

She floated closer. Like a black-garbed ghost. Or a succubus.

He pulled the coverlet up over his chest. Then, for good measure, up to his chin.

She stood beside his bed. Her eyes were wide open and frightened. Yet she fearlessly peeled off her black cloak and dropped it to the floor. She was in her chemise. Silent as a tomb. Pale arms. Pale neck. Pale legs.

And he was wildly aroused.

“Miss Harrington,” he whispered more loudly. There was no option but to wake her. They would both be mortified, but it was better than the alternative, which was—

She sat on the edge of his bed. He swallowed so hard he thought the gulp must be audible in London.