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Chapter Six
Smothering a yawn, Chastity stumbled down the hallway. The open courtyard to one side of the building offered teasing glimpses of the pending sunlight, casting the wood paneled walls in a tawny radiance.
She narrowed her gaze at the clear skies. No human should be awake at this hour, most especially not her. She was not designed for early mornings. Her eyes were gritty, and her head pounded with a dull throb. Even an additional hour of sleep would have been welcome, but she needed to speak with Lord Kendall before the rest of the house rose for the day which meant dragging herself out of the far too narrow bed at this ungodly hour.
At least fatigue weighed so heavily upon her, she had passed out straight away last night, not even missing her luxurious feather pillow and sumptuously large mattress at home. Mrs. Cooke’s declaration that there would be no work for her had been entirely wrong. She had never spent so much time on her feet.
A quick glance around told her she had risen early enough. The only sounds were the creak of the floorboard beneath her boringly simple black shoes and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere. She twisted the door handle slowly and winced when it squeaked.
Thick damask curtains kept the room in darkness and once she shut the door gently behind her, the gloom swallowed her, forcing her to take a moment to let her eyes adjust. Heavy breaths indicated the earl remained asleep until she was able to make out the shape of him in the grand four-poster bed and confirmed he was indeed still slumbering.
Not for long, though. She had promised to keep him abreast of matters and he might be able to give her some indication that she was on the right path, though from the sounds of it, Lord Kendall spent so little time in London that he knew few of the servants here—only the ones who followed him to his estate in Devon.
Why would an earl wish to spend all his time in the country? As much as she enjoyed the break during the heat of summer, winter in the country would be tiresome, especially when visitors could not make it through the snow to any of her father’s houses. The thought of sitting around with nothing to do made her palms itch.
She tiptoed over to the bedside, now able to make out most of his features. She scowled at how peaceful he appeared. Gone were the creases between his brows and the slight furrows of persistent annoyance. He looked almost...childlike. Entirely unlike the overbearing lord she had dealt with these past few days.
Chastity gave his shoulder a gentle nudge. He remained asleep, entirely unbothered by her. She supposed her light touch would feel like no more than a biting fly to him. There was no denying the man had an admirably strong figure—something she wished she had never noticed. What he did to maintain it she had yet to discover but if he rode in any of the London parks, she would have known. There was no chance an earl could mount a horse in any of the popular spots without being noticed. The man really did take this whole reclusive act to the extreme.
She tried again, pushed a little harder and made him rock onto his back. He muttered something and snatched the blankets, pulling them higher over him. She blew out a breath.
“My lord,” she whispered, touching his shoulder again. “My lord, I would speak with you.”
He reached out for her and took her wrist in a firm grip. She didn’t realize what he intended until he tugged her close and she stumbled atop him, landing flat upon his hard chest. His other arm looped around her and pinned her to him. The breath shot from her lungs.
She struggled for several moments, fighting to wriggle from the strong arm but then the other released her wrist and looped about her, sealing her fate.
Oh boy. Fighting his hold proved impossible. She sagged into his hold, resigned to her fate, her cheek flat against his chest.
At least he no longer smelled of Lime cologne anymore. She might well have thrown up upon him if he did. No, instead he smelled of soap and musk—a rather stupidly appealing combination.
Warm against her cheek, his chest rose and fell with deep easy breaths. The cotton of his nightshirt was soft and she felt the texture of the crisp hair upon his chest through it. The temptation to close her eyes and follow said breaths and fall into a deep sleep of her own ate so deeply it made her stomach hurt. She had not enjoyed the touch of a man since the death of John and that had never bothered her before.
But then again, she hadn’t enjoyed John’s touch either—not since that very first year of their marriage when she thought them to be the perfect love match. So one could not totally blame her for enjoying the warmth and comfort. Really, she could be in the arms of any man and she might enjoy it. It had absolutely nothing to do with whose arms she was in.
Or did it?
No. This was silly. She put her palms to his chest and pushed away. Or tried to. Whatever he did for exercise, he did it well—giving him the sort of lean strength that meant he did not have one ounce of fat upon him. It made her more aware of how soft she was against his hardness, of the contrast between them.
It made her like it.
She grimaced and wriggled and pressed away with all her strength. “My lord,” she hissed. “You must let me go.”
He murmured something nonsensical, then rolled, dragging her with him. She peered at the dark shadows of his chest as she lay beside him. Were it not for the crushing hold he had upon her, it would be like they were lovers, waking up together.
At least the man wore a nightshirt, she supposed. If they were truly lovers, they would be naked together.
She rolled her eyes at herself. Now why did her mind have to go there?
“My lord,” she said through gritted teeth. “Let me go. Now.” She gave him a light slap on his cheek.
He roused abruptly, grumbling. Even in the darkness of the room, she made out the sudden snap from a soft, relaxed expression to a scowl.
“What the devil are you doing here?” His voice remained gruff from sleep. “And why are you hitting me?”
∞∞∞
Soft. Everything was soft. Apart from the palm to his face. Valentine shifted back marginally to peer down at the woman in his arms while he fought to make sense of the situation. The room remained dark, so the hour had to be early. He could not recall what day it was.
