As Simon had mentioned, it wasn’t as if she was saving her virginity for a husband. Why not bestow it on rich, dashing Lucas Watson? She could view it as a type of scientific experiment, and she had no doubt that he would be incredibly adept at showing her how enticing sexual play could be with the right partner.
But if she yielded, she understood one salient fact: Much of his infatuation was fueled by the pesky detail that she kept refusing him. If she gave in, he’d quickly weary of her, and before she could regroup, he’d decide it was over.
It was humiliating to admit, but she wasn’t ready for that moment to arrive. She enjoyed how he gazed at her so fondly, as if she was fabulously remarkable, and she was relishing every second of his delectable fascination. She wouldn’t deliberately hasten the end of it.
Better to share torrid kisses, but naught more. Better to stand across the room and fill her eyes with the sight of him. Better to be safe than sorry.
“Unfortunately for you,” she said, “I won’t be doing any slaking.”
He snorted with feigned affront. “You wound me with your disregard, Miss Carstairs.”
“It’s the method I’ve devised for dealing with a man who’s besotted.”
“I’m quite a bit beyond besotted.”
It was a stunning declaration, and they were disconcerted by it. She, because she was suffering from the same heightened affection. He, because it had been a proclamation of sorts, and he was much too manly to have confessed it.
“We’re a pathetic pair,” she teasingly said.
“We are. I can’t deny it.”
“If we make it through the next week without setting the whole world on fire, it will be a miracle.”
“You are a master of understatement.”
They smiled, a poignant sense of connection flaring between them. It was the worst point yet for her. She had to physically work to keep herself right where she was. If she rushed over to the sofa, he’d instantly have her flat on her back, and he’d never release her. She wouldn’t try to escape either.
She downed her whiskey, put the glass on a nearby table, then headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “I’m not finished with you.”
“I thought I’d have your butler give me a tour of the manor. What’s his name? Mr. Hobbs? Will you come with me?”
“Don’t be such a pest,” he complained. “I’m eager to misbehave, and it’s the perfect afternoon for it. We’re alone, and we’ve snuck off from all those prying eyes over at Roland.”
“Well, I’d like to snoop around in your house. You don’t seem to realize this about me, but I always get my way.”
“So do I, and my wishes should take precedence over yours.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a man and you’re a woman. Because I’m an earl and you’re not.”
“You are such a spoiled baby.” She laughed and hurried out, calling, “Mr. Hobbs? Where are you.”
Behind her, she heard him sigh, then grumble under his breath, but he didn’t chase after her, which was probably for the best. If she spent an hour with his butler, perhaps she would gain control of her inappropriate yearning.
She could only hope.
Luke marched down the hall to Libby’s guest bedchamber.
His servants were absolutely agog to have her visiting, and she had an interesting way with them. He supposed the knack had developed from her experience on the stage. She knew how to captivate an audience, how to make people like her. And his servants definitely liked her. It meant that, so far, he hadn’t been able to get her alone.
She’d slyly surrounded herself with them, and everyone had been charmed and hanging on her every word. With each step she’d taken, a hoard of admirers had followed her through the house, with all of them eager to have a chance to assist her.
She’d ended the afternoon by giving them a show that would have them chattering for years.
Luke had hovered on the edge of the crowd, a sort of unwanted voyeur who was anxious to drag her off to a deserted parlor so they could engage in mischief.
Because the servants were such gossips, he’d had to pretend she was just an ordinary guest and he was merely a gracious host who’d bumped into her out on the road as the storm was commencing. But he’d exceeded his limit as to how much longer he’d allow himself to be ignored.
It was evening already, with the deluge having grown worse as the hours had passed. Ultimately, he’d had a footman bundle up and ride to Roland with the news that he and Libby were stranded at Barrett and would return in the morning if the rain abated.
The message had been conveyed to Fish, with Luke practically begging her to reveal the information carefully and, if they weren’t missed, to not reveal it at all. He had ulterior motives toward Libby—why claim otherwise?—and his patience for her nonsense was exhausted.
He knocked on her door, and finally—finally!—she emerged from the room, and there wasn’t a servant in sight to provide a barrier. She sauntered over, approaching until they were toe to toe. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close for a quick kiss.
“We’re having supper,” he told her. “Don’t argue about it.”
“I won’t argue. I’m starving, but why are you glowering at me? Let me guess. I haven’t showered you with nearly enough attention today, and your feelings are hurt.”
“Precisely. Now come.”
He escorted her to his bedroom suite, arriving so rapidly that it hadn’t occurred to her that she should decline to join him in it.
The servants had set a table in front of the fire, and they’d arranged a small buffet on another table so he and Libby could serve themselves. The butler, Mr. Hobbs, was hovering, and he straightened as
