Page 39 of Who’s That Earl

She’d left both blanket and pillow for him, but they did little to disguise the miserable night that awaited him on that sofa. He could lie with either his head or his feet upon it, but not both at once. After depositing the book beside the candle on a small table, he shed his greatcoat, took up the blanket, and attempted to make himself comfortable in the leather chair instead.

But not too comfortable. Although he considered it unlikely that anything would happen, it would not do to be caught sleeping while on watch. He reached for the book and drew the candle closer. Based on his experience this afternoon, the conclusion to the story would keep him wakeful for some hours.

Recalling Jane’s insistence that he could not guess what happened next, he was not surprised to discover that the first chapter of volume three opened not where volume two had left off, but in the cottage with Ophelia’s foster family, wracked by guilt—as perhaps Jane had sometimes longed to imagine her own family after she’d gone. Though Lord Ruthveyn’s money was desperately needed, they realized they’d wronged the girl by sending her into a monster’s lair. Gathering together a small band of their fellows, armed with pitchforks, scythes, and torches, they prepared for a daring rescue.

Meanwhile, in the library, Ophelia knelt at Ruthveyn’s feet, eyes downcast, waiting. Thomas sank a little lower in the chair, the relaxed posture entirely at odds with the anticipation thrumming through him.

The library carpet, though plush enough underfoot, prickled her knees through the thin muslin of her gown. In the heavy silence, she wondered whether he could hear her heart pounding. Still, she did not lift her head, keeping her gaze focused on his pale, long-fingered hand where it gripped the rolled arm of the chair with surprising ferocity. She had angered him. Disappointed him.

After what seemed an eternity, the hand moved, the lace trim of his sleeve slipping languidly over his wrist, his gold signet ring winking in the light. Slowly, he reached forward until his fingertips settled over her throat, his touch cool, light, and maddening.

He paused there for a moment as if taking the measure of her pulse, then ascended to trace her jaw, at last lifting her face to his. The pad of his thumb he dragged over her mouth, tracing the plump curves. With dark, heavy-lidded eyes, he eagerly watched the movement of his own hand. Willingly, she parted her lips for him.

“That’s very pretty, my dear.” His voice was hoarse, far rougher than his touch. “Very pretty indeed.”

At the muffled grate of a key in a lock, Thomas jerked upright from his slouch and once more dropped the book.

Jane took three hesitant steps into the room. “Oh, it’s you.” Three steps farther, more sure-footed than the first, until she stopped before him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Competing instincts warred within him. Stand up in the presence of a lady. Stay sitting so she might not see the telltale bulge in his breeches.

He wanted to blame the damned book for his condition. But equally responsible was the sight of Jane, her luscious curves painted by the candlelight, barely disguised beneath her nightgown. Wisps of hair had worked loose from the braid to caress her cheek, her jaw, her throat. For a moment, he wondered whether he had not, in fact, fallen asleep while reading and conjured this vision in his dreams.

Well, whether real or a product of his fevered imagination, if she took two more steps forward and dropped to her knees before him, he’d spill in his smallclothes, and that was that.

Jane, of course, did no such thing.

She crossed her arms over her chest, hiding her pert nipples from his view. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

He couldn’t fault her skepticism; whether by leaving Tenchley so abruptly all those years ago, or seeking to hide his identity and the real reason he’d come to Dunnock, he’d given her ample cause to doubt him.

To calm his ill-timed ardor, he drew a deep breath and shifted his position in the chair, casting about for something to think of other than Jane’s lightly clad figure. Something chilling. Sleet and snow and...that horrible letter.

For the merest moment, he’d forgotten the real reason she’d wanted him here. But, of course, she hadn’t. The candlelight cast into sharp relief a furrow of worry etched across her brow.

In one fluid motion, he rose, snatched up the blanket, and draped it around her shoulders, then ushered her to the seat he’d vacated, closest to the fire.

“I told you I’d be back.” He reached for the poker to stir the embers before adding more fuel.

“I meant earlier. When I sent the note.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her watching him. Then she dropped her gaze to the floor, and her voice fell with it. “I wasn’t certain you’d answer.”

“You needn’t have made it out to be Robin Ratliff’s bidding.” Dusting off his hands, he turned toward her again. “Surely ye ken I’d come at yours?”

She shook off the suggestion. “I don’t know anything of the sort.”

Boldly, he stepped into the path of her almost-vacant stare, forcing her to lift her eyes up, up to his face. “Well, now you do.”

A flush—of pleasure, or so he thought—lit her cheeks. She fidgeted with the trim of the blanket where it lay against her breast, then seemed to recall he’d placed it there and tucked her fingers beneath her thighs to keep them more firmly under her control.

He held out one hand, palm up. “Up you get, lass. It’s verra late, and you should be in bed.”

“I’m not a child,” she insisted, though the twist of her lips might fairly be described as a pout.

Eventually, however, she extracted one hand and laid it in his. With a playful tug, he brought her to her feet—and flush against his body.

He hadn’t meant to do it, not really. A momentary shift in balance, a slight miscalculation of momentum. Nevertheless, there she was, delightfully warm and deliciously soft and in his arms again.

She gave a soft gasp, not quite an oh!, as if the collision might not have been entirely a surprise to her, but the resulting sensations were. Still, she did not pull away.