Page 41

Thea felt like a prisoner. If Lady Broadbent meant to sequester her in her bedchamber simply because she’d appeared feverish,

she was going to need more sustenance than weak tea and broth. Besides, it was surely cruel and unfair treatment to leave

the door cracked so she could smell the sweet aroma of freshly baked scones.

However, it wasn’t a cold that plagued her. Last night, she’d drifted off while reading, then awoke with her heart pounding

and her lungs panting for breath. But not from a nightmare. She’d had a lurid, scandalous dream about forbidden kisses inside

a dark carriage with Jasper’s hands holding her close on his lap, the carriage rocking beneath them.

She would have called it more of a memory than a dream... if not for the giant sock puppet.

Yet, there it was, Lord Turgid, larger than life and barely able to fit through the carriage door to join them. When he’d

suddenly pushed into the interior, she’d awoken on a gasp.

And, apparently, left her looking feverish. Which had made her a prisoner. A ravenous prisoner.

She needed to sink her teeth into something.

Knowing that everyone had gone to church, Thea padded belowstairs.

Entering the kitchen, she spotted the scones laid out on a plate. Her stomach growled. Surely, nobody would miss one...

or two.

The stone floor was cold beneath her bare feet, the soft cambric of her nightdress swishing against her calves. Tiptoeing over to the timeworn trestle table, she leaned across and plucked a scone from the top.

Her eyes closed on the first mouthful, all honey-sweet and buttery goodness. “Mmm-mmm...”

Swaying back and forth, she stuffed another bite into her mouth, glad that no one was around to see her make a pig of herself.

There were just times when a woman needed a heaping plate of scones and an empty house. Perhaps she’d even eat three of them.

After all, there wasn’t anyone to stop—

A throat cleared behind her.

Her eyes flew open on a gasp—a gasp which, regrettably, contained half a scone. Or, at least, that’s what her lungs thought

as she started to cough.

St. James came to her side as she turned to the sink, coughing, doubled over, her eyes watering. Of all the ways that Althea

had imagined a character’s demise—or even her own when her eldest sister murdered her lines in a family play—death by scone

wasn’t one of them.

His big hand patted her on the back. Well, perhaps patted was too tame a word. If she were an infant and that pat had landed on her backside, she’d be bawling.

Nevertheless, it effectively dislodged a wet lump of dough.

After another minute, her coughs subsided and he held a glass of water in front of her. She drank gratefully as he rubbed

her back in soothing passes.

Setting down the glass, she looked up at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving your life?” He shrugged, all innocence. “I didn’t know I’d catch you having a dance with your scone. And do you always

take such enormous bites of your food?”

At his amusement, the heat of embarrassment rose to her cheeks. “You’d be surprised by how much I can cram into my mouth when no one is looking.”

She didn’t know why that made his eyes instantly go dark, but he removed his hand and stepped away at once.

From the other side of the flour-dusted worktable, he cleared his throat. “I’m here because I didn’t see you leave with the

others and I wanted to ensure that you were... well.”

Safe was what he’d meant, she thought. He’d told her that he’d watch over her. And he’d been worried enough that he’d chanced

encountering a servant who might have stayed behind.

She felt a warm flutter beneath her breast. And seeing him glance to the door, his feet shifting in the way that reminded

her of that first day he came to call with those paper flowers, made her melt a little inside.

“Come to think of it,” she began, padding barefooted around the table and trailing her fingertip through the flour dust. “I’m

not certain if I am well. Lady Broadbent thought I might have a cold. Do I look like I have a cold?”

Even though he practically had one boot out the door, he became instantly alert at this question. Then he looked at her as

if it were a matter of life and death, his intense concern making her melt even more.

His brow furrowed. “You do look flushed.”

“Do you think I might be feverish?” she asked, stopping on his side of the worktable.

He closed the distance between them and tilted up her chin to scrutinize her face. “Your eyes are bright, but not glassy.

However”—he swept away the errant tendrils from her forehead then gently laid the back of his hand there—“you are warm.”

Curling her fingers over his wrist, she held him there and closed her eyes. “I do feel a bit weak. Perhaps you should carry

me upstairs to my bedchamber and tuck me in.”

He stripped his hand away and lifted her at once. Then, without ceremony, he plopped her bottom onto the table. Hard.

Her eyes flew open, ready to scold him. “How dare—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, glowering down at her. “You’re playing with fire.”

She sniffed. Clearly, she would need to work on acting the part of a seductress.

“I cannot help it. I really like having the bashful St. James all to myself.” She looked up at him through her lashes and

reached out to curl her fingers around his lapels. “Won’t you at least kiss me before you go?”

“No.”

She noted that he didn’t remove her hands or step out of her reach. She also noted that his gaze dipped briefly down to where

her nightgown pooled in her lap. He swallowed thickly.

“It’s for research, you know. For a play,” she said, all innocence. “Surely, you wouldn’t want another man to kiss me. Would

you?”

His hard gaze flew up to hers. “Which man?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps Captain Summerhayes?”

But her ploy to make him jealous backfired with his next words.

“You should consider Summerhayes.”

Her face fell. “Why?”

“For all the reasons we’ve discussed before. As it stands, I can give you nothing that any proper gentleman could.”

Drat this man! She knew what he was doing. “You’re trying to distance yourself from me.”

“I’m trying to protect you. Even if my plan worked, it would take years before society accepted me.”

“One little gargantuan obstacle is no reason to give up!”

“Years before I could provide for you,” he continued. “Years before we could be together. I won’t do that to you. I won’t make you wait to live your life. You should marry another.”

“But what if I don’t want another man to kiss me?” she asked, coasting her hands up to his shoulders, feeling his hands flex

on her hips. “Or another man to hold me close? What if I only want—”

His mouth crashed down on hers.

The hard searing pressure spoke for him. She was his. He didn’t say the words aloud, but he was proving it all the same. Firm hands cradled her face, his tongue demanding entry.

She welcomed him as he took possession of her in a thorough, demanding kiss.

Weren’t kisses supposed to soothe? To placate? At least, that’s what she thought. When her parents kissed in the foyer, they

usually smiled afterward as if satisfied from that brief contact.

But this? It only intensified the need for more.

He crowded her, his warmth drifting around her like phantom fingers drawing her closer. She laid her hands on him, feeling

the beat of his heart bumping against the palm she slipped beneath his coat.

It wasn’t enough. She wanted more of his passion, his taste, his heat.

So she tugged him to her, slinking her arms around his neck. A mewl of longing purred in her throat as their bodies collided

and he growled in response. Rough hands traveled down her body as he pulled her hips to the edge of the table, cool air brushing

her bare legs as the cambric drifted higher.

She didn’t care. He’d done this to her. He’d given her back enough confidence to make sure she went after what she wanted.

“Do you know why Lady Broadbent thought I looked feverish? Because I’d been thinking of you. I’d been thinking of this,” she

said on a breath, her cheek pressed against his. Then she tilted her hips against him.

He groaned and captured her mouth again.

They were frenzied and reckless, kissing on the table in the broad light of day. But neither one of them cared.

He pulled at the drawstring around her neck and curled his fingers around the fabric of her robe and nightdress. Baring one

shoulder, his mouth coasted down her throat, opening over her pulse. When he drew on her flesh with a gentle suction, she

felt a thump deep inside her body, a tug that made her arch against him.

His hands were everywhere, anchoring her hips as he rocked— once , twice —against her, kneading the globes of her backside, skimming up her sides, charting a path along the underside of her breasts.

She was so alive with tingles that by the time the pads of his thumbs rasped against the ruched flesh of her nipples, she

thought she might fly apart into a thousand pieces.

He drew back, his gaze dark and intense as he wordlessly pushed her robe aside and shaped his hands around the swells of her

breasts through the thin cambric. The way he touched her sent spirals of heat pooling low in her body. And that look in his

eyes made her bolder than ever before.

She shrugged out of the robe, then slid one arm out of her nightdress, letting the fabric fall.

It hung, suspended, perched on the very edge of her nipple... until he traced a finger along her neckline in a slow downward

sweep. Then the milky flesh was exposed to the morning light.

A breath stuttered out of him and he distractedly reached down to adjust the hard length behind the front fall of his black

trousers. “Damn, Althea.”

That husky tone and those hooded eyes made her feel beautiful in a way that no compliment ever had. His wasn’t a flowery,

practiced speech but raw, primal attraction. He desired her for who she was, and that was everything.