Soon, too soon, she was lifting her hips in time with his thrusts and crying out when another climax overtook her, just as he jerked from her body and spent against the rough sheets.
* * * *
When the sun began to creep over the horizon, Gabriel awoke to find himself tangled in the bed linen and Camellia’s black hair, one arm thrown possessively over her naked body. He’d done many things with a woman in his bed, but they had never before included sleep.
Last night had been extraordinary. He’d been delighted to discover she was every bit as passionate as he’d imagined. Had he ever been quite so focused on a woman’s pleasure, on making her feel? Certainly, he had never taken so much pleasure in doing so.
Somehow, though, even those delicious memories paled in comparison to the experience of waking beside this woman. He was tempted to accompany her on the rest of her journey—he had never been to Ireland, after all—just for the possibility of starting another day, all his days, this way. Barring that, he was tempted to snuggle closer to her right now. To drowse until the sun was high in the sky, and when he woke again, to set his lips to the place where her shoulder and neck met, a spot last night’s explorations had revealed to be most sensitive…
Instead, he eased away from her and slid out of the bed, careful not to disturb her rest. He’d delayed too long already. Unless he returned to London and challenged his uncle’s accusations, he had no future at all. And for the first time in many years, he wanted to be able to dream about tomorrow. No, he wanted to do more than dream.
A wash with the cold water left in the washbasin made quick work of his lingering arousal, then he set about gathering his discarded clothes. His cravat, however, was still wrapped around Camellia’s hair. Well, he had packed a change of linen, just in case it took more than a day to catch her. If only…ah, there was his bag, beside hers, beneath the window. Once he was dressed, he would go out to the stables to find her spectacles as he had promised.
First, however, he had to move her battered writing desk. The servant had placed it squarely atop both their bags, which formed a sort of nest for the wounded thing. The worn, ink-stained wood was scarred and chipped in several places. He bent to pick the desk up with all possible care, but it was no use. The latch had been broken by the fall and when it was moved, the front panel, which the latch had once held in place, tipped forward. The desk’s contents spilled at his feet: folded letters, quills, a penknife, and what had no doubt once been a neat stack of papers closely covered with dark writing.
He froze with the desk in his hands, then glanced toward the bed to see if the sound had woken her. But she did not stir.
He might have stood admiring her sleeping form indefinitely, until something moved, tickling the top of his bare foot. Startled, he looked down to find a length of ribbon, coquelicot silk ribbon, dangling from the gaping hole in the side of the box, like a tongue lolling almost to the ground. Only its frayed end, threads tangled on the broken latch hinge, kept it from falling. The sight of it hanging limply ought not to have made his heart lurch. It had made a much more spectacular showing at Lady Penhurst’s musical evening, bright and sensual against Camellia’s black hair and pale skin.
But to discover that his ribbon had been included among the meager possessions quickly packed for her journey home…
He shifted so that it was no longer touching him, but that only sent paper cascading into the place his foot had been. With an abundance of caution, fearful of causing another minor avalanche of parchment, he set the writing desk down on the floor and stepped back. She had not wanted anyone else to handle the desk, that much had been clear. Its contents were precious to her. Precious and private, and though he had seen every part of her last night, in this matter, he did not intend to pry. He would dress. He would go out to the stables. He regretted leaving a mess for Camellia to straighten, but he would not look. On the rare occasions Gabriel was required to offer his vowels, he always made certain to honor them. After all, a gambler was only as good as his word.
But there had never been a time, he realized as he bent over his bag to rummage for a clean shirt and a fresh cravat, that he had been forced to quell the curiosity that surged through him at the sight of his picture among a woman’s things.
Dark eyes glowered up at him from the floor, revealed by the shifting of papers that had previously hidden them. Easily recognizable. Proof she had been thinking of him when they were apart.
But hardly a flattering portrait.
She had sketched hastily—on the back of a letter, he discovered as he held it up to the pale morning light for a more thorough study. A letter from a man named Benjamin Dawkins, of the firm Dawkins and Howe. Booksellers on Fleet Street.
Camellia had written a book?
The brief letter bore the date Gabriel had first called at Trenton House. “A London audience will find your English villain wholly unbelievable, a caricature drawn out of Irish prejudice….” This Dawkins had prompted Camellia to reimagine her book’s antagonist, and her mind had gone immediately to him. Which meant…
He glanced down at the swirl of paper surrounding his feet, the manuscript pages of a novel. A novel in which he, apparently, played some part. No, not just some part. Despite himself, he laughed softly. The villain’s part. Of course.
The letter slipped from his fingers and
