She needed to be fed, and he needed to chase away the lingering cobwebs in his mind. That was all. Selfish, really.
Even so, as he watched her gracefully pour in the sanctity of his private library, he could not say he regretted the decision. She had already invaded his domain last night. What was the harm in one more time?
Moreover, there was something to be said for the act of a woman pouring tea. It was deliciously sensual. Miss Hilgrove’s hands were small and dainty, and he had spent the better part of the morning admiring her fingers as they flew over the ebony of the typewriter whilst he droned on.
He would be lying if he said he had not envisioned those pale, slim fingers upon his cock. Stroking. By God. The very reminder had him going hard as a fire poker in his trousers now. Benedict shifted in his seat in an effort to relieve some of his sudden discomfort.
When had he ever found the sight of a woman pouring tea erotic?
Was there something about the hands of Miss Hilgrove in particular he found so bloody riveting? Or would he have turned into a ravening lunatic for any female typewriter, eventually, having deprived himself of the charms of the lovely Roberta for far too long?
He was afraid he knew the answer already, and it was one he would not like.
“How do you take your tea, Your Grace?” she asked calmly, her mellifluous voice cutting through his tortured musings.
“Sugar,” he rasped, because he was still tenting his trousers with the erection of the century.
Over a woman dressed in funeral garb, with her hair plaited down the center, who had railed at him, upbraided him, and regularly gazed upon him as if he were street dung. What the hell was wrong with him?
He needed to seek out Roberta. This evening.
Why did the thought leave him feeling only tepid? Scarcely interested?
“Your Grace?” Miss Hilgrove presented his tea to him as formally as if they were in the midst of a societal engagement.
He accepted the cup and saucer, his fingers grazing over hers in the process. Awareness jolted up his arm, as if he had just touched flame. The cup rattled in the saucer as he bobbled it, shocked by his reaction to her.
“Thank you,” he managed past the swelling tide of lust.
If he felt so much heat over a mere brush of fingers, he could not imagine what it would be like to touch her in truth. To trail his fingers over the lush bosom her dinner gown had exposed last night. To trace them over her graceful throat. To sink them in her hair, remove all those damned pins, set her burnished locks free to tumble down her back and around her shoulders.
He took a bracing sip of tea before he completely lost his mind and upended the tea tray, hauling Miss Hilgrove into his lap. His intent in inviting her here for tea had not been to slaver over her like a green youth who had never slipped his hand beneath a lady’s skirts.
She was hungry, he reminded himself firmly.
And so was he. But not for the bloody biscuits laid out for their consumption. For her.
She was not for him, however.
He picked up a biscuit and stuffed it into his mouth quite inelegantly, but he did not give a proper goddamn. His chef had perfected the art of buttery decadence. It crumbled on his tongue, but the flavor was mostly lost upon him as he watched Miss Hilgrove take a cautious sip of her own tea.
Inevitably, he thought of last night and his foolish offer to her of his own glass, the brandy, the kiss they had almost shared…
He needed to distract himself.
He swallowed his biscuit, took a sip of tea, and then cleared his throat. “Have a biscuit, Miss Hilgrove. It ought to do wonders for your hunger.”
Her eyes flew to his, widening. “Forgive me for my lack of decorum, Your Grace.”
She thought he was taking her to task? Did she truly believe him that much of a tyrant? One look at her stricken expression confirmed she did.
“No need to apologize, my dear. I have an excellent chef. Rochelieu’s confections are meant to be shared.” He attempted to keep his voice mild and unaffected.
But in truth, having her here in his sphere by the bright light of day, without the excuse of brandy and wine, was affecting him in a way being near her in his study or the main library had not.
She took a biscuit and nibbled at it. One small bite.
Surely she was ravenous. He stifled the urge to hand feed her the biscuit himself, which made no sense. Alfred had been the mother hen. He was…well, he did not know what he was in the absence of his brother. Perhaps he was still trying to find the answer. Perhaps that was what accepting his position with the Special League had been about.
“Your chef is talented indeed,” she said, once more dispersing the heaviness of his thoughts with the sweetness of her speech. “These are the best biscuits I have ever tasted.”
Of course Rochelieu was talented. He had cooked for queens, princes, statesmen.
But Benedict said none of that, for giving voice to the difference between the Manning wealth and the proprietress of a ladies’ typewriting school would only drive further distance between himself and Miss Hilgrove. And at the moment, he had no desire to drive that wedge. Rather, he longed to bridge the distance.
More fool, he.
“I told you that you would not regret taking tea with me,” he said lightly.
“Perhaps you were correct.” A reluctant smile curved her lips. “In this instance, of course.”
He stifled his grin of appreciation, for it would not do for the troublesome wench to think she
