Love and the Single Heiress

“Mr. Stanton,” the butler said in his precise tones, “I was just coming to your room. This arrived for you.” He held out a silver salver bearing a sealed note.

Andrew took the missive. His stomach tensed when he noted his name scrawled in Simon Wentworth’s cramped handwriting. Damn. He doubted his and Philip’s steward would be writing to impart good news. “Did the messenger say anything?”

“Only that the note was for you and that he did not require a reply. He’s already departed.”

“I see. Are Lady Catherine and Spencer about?”

“Master Spencer is on his way to take the waters. Lady Catherine requested a meal in her bedchamber. Breakfast is laid out in the dining room, sir.”

“Thank you. I need to read this correspondence first. I’ll be down shortly.”

Milton inclined his head, then headed back down the stairs, and Andrew returned to his bedchamber. After closing the door behind him, he broke the wax seal and quickly scanned the words.

Mr. Stanton,

I am writing to inform you that someone entered the museum last night, and I’m sorry to report that considerable damage was done. The magistrate believes that when the thief-or thieves-realized there were no artifacts yet housed in the museum, he became enraged and inflicted as much damage as he could. An ax was taken to the floor and walls, and every single one of the newly installed windows was broken. The magistrate doesn’t hold much hope that the scoundrel will be caught unless a witness comes forward with information. I’ll set the workmen up to repair the damages- no need for you to worry on that score, but I don’t have the experience to handle the investors, and I’m afraid their reactions are already not favorable. Lords Borthrasher and Kingsly were making inquiries, as well as Mrs. Warrenfield and a Mr. Carmichael. Therefore, I think it might be best if you returned to London as soon as possible. In the meanwhile, I will see about hiring on more workers. Per your instructions before you left London, I have not written to Lord Greybourne to inform him of anything regarding the museum.

Sincerely,

Simon Wentworth

Andrew blew out a long breath and raked his hand through his hair. In his mind’s eye he pictured the museum’s polished parquet flooring and richly paneled walls. And all those beautiful pane-glassed windows… Damn it to hell and back! All that work, destroyed. It made him sick inside. As did the thought of leaving Catherine, especially now. But he had no choice. And he had to tell her.

Slipping the note into his waistcoat pocket, he quietly departed his room.

Her skin still tingling from a warm bath, Catherine looked out her bedchamber window at the sun’s gentle morning glow reflecting silver off the dew-laden grass. Her gaze drifted toward the garden… toward the path that she and Andrew had followed last night.

Her eyes drifted closed. Vivid images flashed through her mind of how they’d spent the hours until just before dawn… intimately exploring each other’s bodies. Sharing the wine, bread, and cheese. Andrew feeding her strawberries. Laughing. Touching. Making love again, slowly, savoring every touch. Every look. Every kiss. Every stroke of his body deep inside hers.

For all the times she’d imagined being with a lover, for all the curiosity the Guide had planted in her mind, she’d never, not once, envisioned anything like last night. She’d always believed that one’s imagination could conjure up scenarios reality could never match.

She’d been horribly mistaken in that belief.

Imagination could not experience the wonder of Andrew’s lips and hands worshiping her, burning away everything, every thought, except him. The feel of her breasts crushed against his warm, naked chest. The musky scent of their lovemaking surrounding them in the gazebo’s golden-lit, still air. The texture of his firm skin beneath her fingertips. And the sight of him…

A long, feminine sigh escaped her. Dear God, the sight of him, his strong, muscular body glistening in the flickering light, fully aroused. For her. By her. His eyes black with want. Hot with desire. Filled with a fierceness at complete odds with his gentle touch. His absorbed expression as he aroused her beyond bearing. Then the sensual, sated languor glowing in those eyes in the aftermath of their passion. His quick grin. His lovely smile. Yet behind his humor the heart-quickening heat simmering just below his surface.

Unfortunately, she suspected she was feeling more than simply heart-quickening heat for Andrew. And that was unacceptable. Disquieting. And most of all, frightening.

She wouldn’t, couldn’t allow herself to forget that this was temporary. She well knew the heartbreak associated with a permanent arrangement. And lest she forget…

She crossed to her wardrobe, then knelt to withdraw a small mahogany jewelry box she kept hidden in the far back corner beneath several blankets. She opened the lid and withdrew the ring inside. Rising, she stared at her diamond wedding ring resting in her palm. A flawless five carats of brilliance, surrounded by a dozen smaller stones, all equally perfect. A ring most women would covet. Sadly, she was not most women. She’d kept this painful reminder of the past so she’d never forget the emptiness that resulted from all its promises. One look at the jewel was a forceful reminder that she would not, could not allow one night of passion to cloud her common sense. Whatever these… feelings for Andrew were, she needed to push them aside. Forget them. They would enjoy a few more days together, then go their separate ways, leaving them both with lovely memories, but nothing more.

Satisfied that she’d put everything back into its proper perspective, she was about to bend down to retrieve the jewelry box when a quiet knock sounded at her door. Slipping the ring into her pocket, she said, “Come in,” wondering if Mary had forgotten something when she’d delivered her breakfast.

The door opened, and Andrew stepped over the threshold. Andrew, looking clean and freshly shaved, his hair neatly combed, his fawn breeches and dark blue jacket accentuating his dark good looks, cravat perfectly knotted, boots polished to a high sheen. He looked tall and broad, masculine and delicious, and, with his eyes intent upon hers, just a bit predatory and dangerous. Her heart jumped, and every nerve ending tingled with awareness.

His gaze traveled down her length, making Catherine very much aware that she wore nothing beneath the cream satin robe knotted loosely at her waist. Her skin shivered with anticipation under his leisurely regard. When their eyes finally met once again, he reached behind him and locked the door. The quiet click reverberated through her mind, and she desperately tried to recall the Guide’s sage advice on how to greet one’s lover after a night spent naked in his arms. Her common sense screamed that he shouldn’t be here, that she didn’t want him here. Her bedchamber was her sanctuary. Her haven. Hers. Unfortunately, the pounding of her heart drowned out her common sense.

He walked slowly toward her, looking very much like a sleek jungle cat stalking its prey, and her heart rate doubled at the ravenous gleam in his eyes. As she seemed suddenly incapable of movement or speech, she waited for him to stop, to smile, to say good morning, but he did none of those things. Instead, he walked right up to her, wordlessly pulled into his arms, and lowered his mouth to hers.

Oh, my. It was her last coherent thought as she simply gave herself over to his demanding kiss. His clean scent surrounded her, as did the heat of his body. The strength of his arms. The urgent press of his thighs against hers.

She parted her lips and was rewarded with the sensual sweep of his tongue against hers. And his hands, those glorious, large, callused hands that could only be described as magical, seemed to be everywhere. Combing through her hair. Skimming down her back. Cupping her buttocks. Palming her breasts. All while his mouth devoured hers with a fierce hunger that left her breathless and starving for more. Had it only been a few hours since she’d been in his arms? Somehow it felt like years.

His arms tightened around her, and she reveled in his strength, lifting up on her toes, straining closer to him. Then he suddenly changed the pace of their frantic kiss, gentling it to a slow, deep melding of mouths and tongues that dissolved her knees. When he finally lifted his head, she wasn’t certain she could recall her name.

“Good morning, Catherine,” he whispered against her lips.

Catherine. Yes, of course. That is my name.

She supposed she murmured good morning, but she wasn’t quite certain. He leaned forward and nuzzled his