Page 87 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

“Can’t wait,” he said, not daring to take his coat off in case she noticed his… er… affliction. Christ, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so out of control. It had been so long since he’d felt desire at all that it was hard to credit how overwhelming it was. He was as hard as the frozen ground outside, and he needed to get away from her and deal with it before he frightened her half to death.

Try as he might, however, he couldn’t stop staring at her and remembering the moment this morning when she’d all but admitted to wanting him. Her quiet intake of breath as he’d kissed her palm would have sent him to his knees if he’d not already been there. Moving away from her and finishing breakfast had been the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life and he still couldn’t fathom how he’d managed it.

He could only marvel at the capriciousness of fate, such a fate that could allow him to get caught by the oldest trick in the book to a woman who didn’t care a fig for him, only to take her from him long before her time. That the same fate would then drop a damned goddess in his lap made his head spin.

“Are you all right?” she said, turning to study him now. “You look a little flushed. Oh,” she said, hurrying towards him. “You’ve not caught a chill, have you?”

Ned might have laughed if he’d not been so desperate.

“No. No chill,” he managed, moving away before she could offer to help him out of his coat. Good Christ, he was burning up. “Better go and wash up,” he rasped, heading for the stairs. “Don’t want to spoil dinner.”

He ran up the stairs and shut the bedroom door, only to discover she was still all around him. She’d lit a candle for him and left hot water in the jug for him to wash. The fire was lit too, and the room was warm and cosy in the glow of candle and firelight. Her scent lingered, the sweet trace of roses, and the nightdress she’d worn last night was folded neatly on the pillow.

Feeling like a fool but quite unable to stop himself, he moved to the bed and reached for it, lifting it to his nose and breathing deeply. He ought to feel guilty perhaps, for seeking the scent of another woman on his dead wife’s nightgown, but he couldn’t summon it. He’d done his best by Sarah and, after the initial shock of her betrayal, he’d never used it against her. They might have been happier if she’d let him in, if she’d tried to love him, but she’d only ever loved the farm, the land, and the security that came with Ned’s name. He’d given her all she’d allow, and he’d not grieve for a woman who’d not wanted him to love her.

The delicate scent of another woman’s skin rose up and enveloped his senses as he held the nightgown to his face. Ned groaned, imagining that scent upon her body, imagining his mouth upon her skin. In his mind’s eye he took the clothes from her slender frame, the too–big, ill-fitting garments that Sarah had worn. He hated to see those clothes on her. She ought to be dressed in silks and velvet and lace, everything that was fine and beautiful and befitting of a lady.

He didn’t imagine those clothes, though. He imagined skin, warm and silky and lush, imagined his hands on her and the sound of her pleasure at his touch. Might she sound like that? Might she welcome him into her body and take pleasure in him as he knew he could with her? She’d welcomed his touch so far, shyly perhaps, but that was to be expected. If he was patient and gentle, might she come to want him, perhaps even to love him? The idea stole his breath and his heart, and he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers until he could take himself in hand and relieve his body’s torment, for the moment at least.

He was so overwrought that it took little more than seconds, and he smothered the desperate sounds as he came hard into his own hand, the release barely dulling his hunger, which rose from years of aching loneliness and a life filled with less love and affection than he would bestow upon a dog.

Unsettled and on edge still, shameful of having such lewd thoughts of a woman who was not yet his wife, Ned washed and changed into clean clothes, forcing himself to appear calm before he headed back down the stairs.

The moment she looked around and smiled at him, any measure of calm he’d attained fled. He ached to touch her, even just to hold her hand, to kiss her palm as he had that morning, the warmth of her skin still burning against his lips like a brand.

“Please, sit down,” she said.

Ned moved towards her and pulled out a chair for her to sit down, his awareness of her absolute as he moved to take his place at the head of the table.

“I made soup,” she said, anxiety flickering in her blue eyes. “I thought that might not be too hard. It’s from a recipe in that book.”

She ladled a generous serving into a bowl and Ned sat, riveted to the sight of her slender fingers curved about the ladle. Everything male about him twitched. He swallowed.

Grace set the bowl before him. She looked rather as if she was awaiting a death sentence. Ned smiled.

“It smells good,” he said, taking up his own spoon and determined to eat with gusto even if it ought to be fed to the pigs. He tucked in and found—a little to his surprise—that it was delicious. “That is a very fine soup,” he said, feeling the strangest ache in his chest as he saw happiness bloom in her eyes.

“Is it? Truly? You’re not just being kind?”

“God’s honest truth, love,” he said, intrigued by the flush of colour that stained her beautiful face. He wondered if he would ever learn to breathe in her presence. Heart thudding, he dipped the spoon into the soup and held it out to her. “Here, try yourself if ye don’t believe me.”

Grace stared at him, and for a moment he thought she’d refuse, but then she leaned towards him as he moved the spoon to her mouth. Ned could not take his eyes from her lips, waiting for the moment her tongue swept out and licked them. They were full and pink and the longing to taste them was a sharp ache in his heart. The rest of his body was just as badly afflicted, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to leave the table.

“It is quite good,” she said, glancing up at him. “Isn’t it?”

“More than good,” he replied, forcing himself to carry on eating.

She served herself a bowlful, and they ate in silence until Grace got up to clear the table. Ned stayed her, demanding another bowl of soup and basking in the delight in her eyes as she served him.

“I can’t take much credit for the pie,” she said, bustling about the kitchen as Ned watched her with a dreamlike sense of unreality. “Your Mrs Tucknott left it in the pantry. I did the vegetables, though.”

The vegetables were less successful, the potatoes rather raw, and the cabbage boiled to a mush, but Ned ate everything and asked for more, praising her efforts. He’d have eaten pigswill happily if it would have kept her with him, kept that smile in her eyes when she looked at him.

Grace laughed, and the sound lifted his heart in a way he’d forgotten was possible. Was this what happiness felt like? He’d lived so long without it, he wasn’t sure he’d recognise it. Whatever it was felt foreign and yet so natural in her presence, and even more precious and wonderful for its rarity.

“I think you are flattering me, Mr Hardy,” she said with a sigh. “Mrs Tucknott’s pie was excellent, and I did creditably with the soup, but the vegetables….”

She pulled a face and Ned laughed too, a sound he hardly knew, it had been so long. He felt emotion rise inside him, pushing at his ribs, such joy in this moment he didn’t know how his chest could contain it.