Page 74 of A Figure of Love

But there would be no falling asleep in this position.

He hefted her a bit higher before straightening his legs with a groan and carrying her into the next room, where he gently laid her down on his bed.

She smiled up at him, made a soft sound of contentment, and then curled up and proceeded to fall asleep. Gareth shook his head in amazement and pulled the blankets over her body. By the time she was covered, her eyes were closed and she was already breathing in a deep, regular rhythm.

Gareth left her sleeping and padded naked to the bathing chamber that was off his dressing room. Like all the suites in the house there was a fireplace that heated a tank of water above it. The tank was concealed by a wooden panel, on which some enterprising soul had painted a pastoral scene. He turned the valve that sent hot water gushing to the tub.

Once he’d submerged himself, he lay back and relaxed. On the outside. On the inside, his usually organized mind was like a ship that had been seized by mutinous sailors.

He should have told her nothing was wrong and sent her away. He should have told her he’d never intended for their interactions to go beyond a business relationship. Instead, he’d acted out a sexual fantasy.

At the thought of said fantasy he began to stiffen again. Venetia had engaged in anything Gareth had dreamt up, and a lot more that he hadn’t. It hadn’t surprised him that he enjoyed restraining his lovers. He knew enough about himself to know he valued control above all else: control over events, his person, his surroundings—over anything that mattered. Controlling his lover’s pleasure had been the logical next step.

He’d always enjoyed his nights with Venetia, but these two explosive incidents with Mrs. Lombard? Gareth shook his head; he had no words for what he was feeling right now.

The women themselves were very different, of course, but it wasn’t just that. With Venetia, he’d bedded her and left her, forgetting about her until the next time he needed sexual release.

Right now he was further away from forgetting Serena Lombard than he’d been before he’d sated himself. As far as he could discern, each encounter with her seemed to leave a deeper imprint on his brain and diminish his ability to control his thoughts, which was something he usually did with merciless rigidity.

And speaking of rigidity, never had his body been so demanding and insatiable in the past. He’d spent himself less than an hour ago, and he wanted her again. And again.

He shook his head and applied himself to the business of washing his body, ignoring his insistent erection the way he ignored any other time-wasting diversion. By the time he’d finished with his bath he’d taken the reins and steered his brain in a different direction.

Declan.

It was getting on for four in the morning. It would be light soon, at least light enough to ride.

He was shaved and dressed for riding at half-past. When he went into his bedroom, he saw she was still asleep, but had turned. She’d exposed one delicious breast in the process, her hair streaming across the pillow, half up, half down.

He could crawl right into bed with her. Fasten his mouth on her rosy nipple and explore her in the comfort of his own chambers, horizontal. Not on a rocky river’s edge or showing off his strength for her against a wall, but in comfort.

He was fully hard and halfway to the bed, his hand on his cravat, when he recalled another man who’d swaggered because of this woman barely a day before. Something ferocious and cold twisted in his gut and Gareth put his hand to his midriff, feeling as if he’d been knifed. But there was no puncture, no gash, no blood. No wound at all, in fact—at least no injury the human eye could see.

∞∞∞

Serena was having the most delicious dream. She was with Gareth, and he was making love to her, holding her tight in his arms. So tight she could not move. Too tight, in fact. She cracked an eyelid and felt a moment of terror when she did not recognize her surroundings.

And then it all came back, like a deluge from a rainspout. She pushed herself up clumsily, hampered by bedding, which seemed to have coiled and twisted around her body from neck to toe.

The first thing she noticed is that she was alone. Candles burned in the wall sconces and the room next door—the room where they’d—

She looked away from the doorframe, blushing hotly even though there was nobody to see.

He had seen.

She covered her burning face with a cool hand. Lord. He had seen everything. Certainly more of her body than Serena herself had ever seen.

She pushed back the bedding and heard something crackle. A piece of paper, her name—Mrs. Lombard—written on the front in writing so perfect it looked like the printing in a book.

When she unfolded the missive a second sheet of paper fell out: it was a bank draft, but for the remainder of her work rather than the agreed upon quarter.

She opened the letter with shaking hands.

“Mrs. Lombard:

Enclosed is the agreed upon payment for the entirety of the work. I have paid you the remainder rather than a quarter as I do not anticipate returning to Rushton Park for some time.”

Serena’s hand shook so badly she could not read the small, neat writing. She swallowed, and then spread the letter out on the bed.