Oh God. Had she really just whimpered while sitting in an inn dining room? Although that was entirely her false husband’s fault. The pad of his thumb had brushed the inside of her wrist, jolting her to the tips of her toes and making her ache between her thighs. Much like after her last wooden spoon punishment, she wanted to slide a hand down and touch herself.
Abruptly, Mr. Elliott sat back in his chair. “Drink your tea, Rachel.”
Almost whimpering again at his deliciously stern tone and the sensual way her name sounded from his lips, she obediently topped up both their cups and helped herself to a slice of cake. Then another, because it really was tasty. His gaze remained on her the whole time, not disapproving in any way, more brooding. But still, that banked heat, as though he wanted to say naughty things—do naughty things—but was holding back.
Which of course prodded the imp of mischief inside her to life, as a scandalous idea lodged itself in her mind and refused to budge. Here they were, two unwed strangers, feigning marriage, trapped together for the night in an inn. What if they behaved like a married couple in every way? If she asked him to, would he take her upstairs to their room and undress her, kiss and caress her, show her the kind of pleasure she’d never experienced but suspected he knew exactly how to provide a woman?
Already, Mr. Elliott had demonstrated kindness and generosity, and he clearly didn’t mind her plumpness. He wasn’t a devil lord like the man who had left her mother to die and abandoned his own daughter to a foundling hospital. Nor was he a slimy son of a peer who lied about stagecoach stops. Besides, it wasn’t like he would ruin an innocent. She’d lost her virginity a year ago in a brief and most unsatisfactory affair with a clerk who eventually confessed that while he liked her a great deal, he actually preferred the intimate company of men.
If she asked to be bedded, for the first time in her life something would be entirely her decision. And she would have a wickedly wonderful memory to take with her when they bade each other farewell in the morning and she continued north to take up the maid’s position. No one need ever know…
Taking a deep breath, Rachel squared her shoulders. “Mr. Elliott—”
“Arran,” he said gruffly. “My given name is Arran. You may call me that if you wish.”
She nodded, her spirits soaring further and strengthening her resolve. Thankfully the dining room was so loud and busy that no one could overhear this particular conversation. “Arran. I wondered, um…if you might consider…”
“Yes?” he replied, one eyebrow raised.
“If you might consider bedding me.”
Chapter 2
“I wondered if you might consider bedding me.”
Arran nearly choked on his tea. Consider? As though he hadn’t thought about Rachel Lindsay naked and under him, of worshiping her lush curves until she begged him to fuck her hard and deep, from approximately the first moment he’d seen her? The way she’d whimpered when his thumb accidentally brushed her wrist…hell. Knowing she responded to his touch, and could well be a most eager and passionate lover, his cock had strained so hard against his trousers it was a wonder the buttons had held.
They had a chance to make the evening ahead memorable indeed, and this would be his last opportunity to bed a woman he both instinctively liked and lusted for. Once his betrothal was official, he wouldn’t embarrass Lady Sarah by taking lovers. Nor did he really want to once they were married. He’d always been irritated by the ton’s constant dance from bedchamber to bedchamber, it was something his brother had often teased him about. Well, that and his preference to stay in the country and learn about crops and soils rather than joining the London season.
But he didn’t want to think about London or another woman now. Not when Rachel waited for his reply, those pretty hazel eyes wide and earnest, that rounded backside squirming in her chair. Wicked little minx. So brazen and bold, and yet somehow innocent at the same time. Did she know how erotic the combination was? Perhaps not, for there hadn’t been even a hint of calculation in her gaze. But this beauty intrigued him beyond all. He needed to discover her secrets, something that definitely couldn’t be done in a dining room.
Arran got to his feet and held out his arm. “Let us continue this most interesting discussion in a more private setting, madam.”
Rachel inhaled a shaky breath, her cheeks pink, and again he thanked providence for the protection of his greatcoat now folded over his other arm. He ached to be inside her, to feel her nails on his back, to hear her wild cries of pleasure in his ear.
“Of course,” she whispered.
The inside of the inn was typical for most Tudor buildings, narrow staircases, low doorways, elaborate carving, and many darkened alcoves. But he could appreciate the history and workmanship another day when his mind wasn’t addled by lust. They walked in silence upstairs to the second floor, and then along the hallway to the room Mrs. Vine had allocated, last on the left. Blessedly, furthest away from the constant sound of clomping feet on the wooden staircase and people gossiping and laughing as they drank their ale and lemonade and ate in the dining room.
Arran unlocked the door. “After you.”
She walked to the center of the surprisingly well-furnished and spacious room and clasped her hands together. “Oh! It’s lovely. A nice fire burning, bathing screen…there are our satchels, as promised, look there’s even a hand-stitched quilt on the bed.”
After latching the door behind
