Page 27

She gave a nervous laugh, not a titter, but close.

“All right. My main goal was to put everything Neville would need on the ground floor. And then shift everything else up here. The reason this room is oddly L-shaped is that they knocked down the wrong walls. I meant to combine two bedchambers, and then make the dressing room into a parlor. But they combined the bedchamber, antechamber, and dressing room, and made the parlor out of another bedchamber.”

He smirked. “Were these the same laborers who built the ramp over the front steps?”

She nodded, looking chagrined. “I suppose I didn’t make my wishes clear enough.”

“I think the moral is to keep an eye on one’s laborers. But it came out well, nevertheless.” Compared to Chaumbers, that was not a lie.

At that moment, Mrs. Clay and Adam entered, carrying trays.

The table, which would have seated twelve comfortably, had been formally set for two.

Both settings were at one end so they wouldn’t be shouting to one another.

But that also emphasized that they would be dining alone, tête-à-tête .

Which was not done . A chill coursed through his blood.

He knew better. And so must she. What were they playing at?

Mrs. Clay and Adam laid down covered bowls and a pitcher.

He should ask Mrs. Clay to stay. But he did not.

After all, he and Miss Harrington were often alone together—why should this be different?

Why did it feel different? When the servants departed, Miss Harrington removed the covers.

Turnips. Boiled eggs. Lettuces. Rice flecked with mushrooms. The pitcher held cider.

It was a laughably ghastly menu, but it was supper for him. He was touched.

He took some of everything. While they ate, they talked easily of the garden, the colonel, Tunbridge Wells. Then poetry. What was good and what was bad. He ate until he was sated. That was a rare gift.

He settled back in his chair. She set down her cup. “Shall I ring for dessert?”

“There is more?”

She nodded. “I’ve seen the way you sugar your tea. You have a sweet tooth.” She rose and pulled the bell cord. Then sat again. “Did you have letters from home? I hope nothing is wrong.”

“Nothing at home. They were political. Problems in France.” Since she looked quizzical, he gave her a censured version of the censured version he’d meant to give the colonel. Her brow furrowed with consternation.

“But I don’t understand! They were freed from the tyrant. Why aren’t they more grateful?”

Crispin snorted. “I think rather they feel robbed of their empire. With Napoleon, the French believed they ruled the world. Now they are squashed back into their boundaries and under our very British thumb.”

She hmphed . But then looked thoughtful. “At least Napoleon is gone.”

Mrs. Clay came back into the room with a tray holding two servings of what at first glance appeared to be syllabub, a dish made with cream, so neither he nor Miss Harrington would eat it.

“Apples baked in sugar,” Miss Harrington said.

“Ah.” He smiled.

He ate his, and when she pushed hers away because it was too sweet, he ate hers too.

“Miss Harrington, I thank you,” he said, licking his spoon and dropping it into the bowl. “I’ve gained a stone.”

She glowed, victorious. “Now I suppose we should go downstairs. Neville might be feeling more himself. I don’t want to leave him out.”

So they went down. Crispin sat at the pianoforte and played for a few minutes until Adam came out of his chamber to tell them the colonel was sleeping.

Miss Harrington yawned, then quickly covered her mouth. “Excuse me. I think I will retire as well.”

Crispin stood as she did. And realized he was disappointed to have to say goodnight.

*

He fell asleep when his head hit the pillow.

He slept deeply until a sense of movement, not his own, penetrated his dreams. A presence in his room.

Although his pulse raced, he didn’t move a muscle and kept his breathing steady.

Peering through slitted eyelids, he could not make out anything in the dark.

Then he heard his door click shut and latch.

Assassins. Where was the duke? He slipped his hand under his pillow for his pistol, but it wasn’t there.

And he’d been stripped naked. Had he been drugged?

Damn.

He startled awake. Fully awake. Of course, his pistol was not under his pillow. It was tucked away in his valise. And he was unclothed because he was safe in a farmhouse near Tonbridge.

But he saw a flicker of movement again. And his eyes began to adjust to the dark. A sinuous shifting of black against black. The scent of lilacs. The shape turned and he saw the pallor of a face.

“Camellia?” he whispered. Then kicked himself. One was not supposed to wake a sleepwalker. And she had to be walking in her sleep.

She floated closer. Like a black-garbed ghost. Or a succubus.

He pulled the coverlet up over his chest. Then, for good measure, up to his chin.

She stood beside his bed. Her eyes were wide open and frightened. Yet she fearlessly peeled off her black cloak and dropped it to the floor. She was in her chemise. Silent as a tomb. Pale arms. Pale neck. Pale legs .

And he was wildly aroused.

“Miss Harrington,” he whispered more loudly. There was no option but to wake her. They would both be mortified, but it was better than the alternative, which was—

She sat on the edge of his bed. He swallowed so hard he thought the gulp must be audible in London.

“Miss Harrington, wake up!” He spoke aloud, remembering that Old Harry had screamed in the night, and they hadn’t heard him upstairs. Miss Harrington blinked, and gave the merest shake of her head. She was awake.

He shuddered. Then said a quick prayer that he was dreaming.

She put her index finger on his cheek. Light as mist. And ran it down his jaw line.

Then down his neck to the coverlet. She sighed shakily before repeating the caress on his other side.

He clenched his coverlet so tightly his fingers hurt.

Yet he didn’t say anything. He didn’t catch hold of her hand to stop her when she did it again.

Rather, he loosened his grip on the coverlet and allowed her to tuck it down as she caressed him to his collarbone.

Then slowly across his chest from shoulder to shoulder.

His breathing grew ragged. This game of hers was unbearably pleasureful. If a dream, he never wanted to wake.

She leaned over, her face drawing closer to his, as though she meant to kiss him. He turned his head away and heard her sharp intake of breath. Hurt. It was not his intention to hurt her. But he was terrified.

“Camellia, I want this. I do. But we can’t.”

Rather than answer him in any rational way, she slid down onto the bed beside him.

He swore under his breath. But he didn’t protest when she pushed the coverlet down to his hips.

She stroked his chest. His ribs. She seemed more curious than impassioned.

But if she explored any farther, he would not hold himself accountable…

She lifted the edge of the coverlet and slipped in beside him. He felt her warmth through the thin fabric of her chemise. Her fingers trailed over his belly. To his hipbone.

“Don’t,” he said. Damn. It was too late for don’t. In another moment, he would grab her .

They both held still. Not breaking the spell.

Then she draped her arm across his chest. And her leg across his.

Skin on skin. How far would she dare take this?

How far would he? She shimmied against him, so he shifted and put his hands on her hips to slide her onto him.

He gathered her chemise, pulling it up until it bunched about her waist. Abruptly, she raised up to sit across his thighs, straddling him.

He held his breath. Then she touched his prick, tentatively, as if awaiting permission.

“Go on,” he whispered. She stroked him. Made him groan.

A stuttering groan. He had never wanted a woman so badly. Her . He wanted her.

She stopped, then ran her thumbnail lightly from his breastbone to his waist and below.

A tease. She was killing him. He caught her hand and returned it to his prick. “Keep doing that .”

“Major—”

“Crispin!” he growled. “If you’re going to…to do this…call me Crispin.”

She whispered, “Crispin.”

He groaned again, guttural. “Keep doing that. You needn’t be so gentle.” She shifted her weight and changed her grip. “Oh, God, that’s good.”

She smiled. He saw it. A sly little smile.

Triumphant. He thought…triumphant. But the smile turned into a studious frown.

She wiggled down his legs and bent down.

He shut his eyes tight and willed her to do what he thought she intended.

Even so, when she licked his tip, he shouted.

No words. An animal sound. She bolted upright. Startled.

Something like a laugh slipped from his mouth. He wriggled to sit up, then wrapped his arms around her, and rolled her beneath him.

Harrington’s sister. His conscience stabbed him. He was going to tup Harrington’s sister.

“Camellia, are you sure you want this?” Say yes.

“Yes.”

“You know what we are doing. And that it is wrong. You know that, Camellia.”

“Yes, Crispin.”

“Good.” God. This wasn’t just wrong; it would be the worst thing he’d ever done.

*

Camellia lay in her own bed fuming, eyes stinging and eyelashes wet.

Marianne was wrong. The stupid School of Venus was wrong.

It was hardly “the most sovereign pleasure we poor mortals enjoy.” She’d done what the book said to do.

Not everything, naturally, or they would have been there all night, but enough that Crispin obviously enjoyed himself.

But he didn’t “tickle” her the way the book said he would.

Lud. He hadn’t even kissed her! Wasn’t it strange that there had been no kisses?

After, he was angry. Maybe not at her. Maybe more at himself—which he shouldn’t have been since she had seduced him .

But after he’d…done what The School of Venus had described, he rolled away, putting his back to her, leaving her to slip out of the room.

And she had to slip out. She had to clean herself the way Marianne said.

Still. She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

She regretted nothing. In fact, she was proud that she’d been brave enough to follow through.

Now she knew . No better chance would ever present itself.

According to Neville, the major was experienced in intimate matters.

And he was committed to the army. She wouldn’t be trapped into a marriage just because she’d given herself.

She trusted he wouldn’t say anything to anyone, and neither would she.

So there was nothing to regret.