The carriage lurched forward as the rain began to increase, hammering the poor driver as well as the horses. The vehicle rocked as it fought with the wind outside.
“My house is fairly close,” she said, her eyes fixed on the hollow of his throat. “Just on the other side of the park.”
It was true. Trent’s own house lay a good distance away. “Yes, it is.”
“You can’t,” Marissa hesitated, wiping a wet curl from her cheek, “return home soaked to the bone, Haddon.” Her voice held an undercurrent of something wicked. “You’ll catch a chill.”
“No. I don’t suppose I can.” His trousers, already tight, became increasingly uncomfortable. Marissa’s dress, as wet as it was, left little to the imagination. Christ, he could see the points of her nipples. Unfortunately, her home was so close he’d not have enough time to ravish her in the coach. Which was what he wanted to do. Trent’s fingers drummed lightly on one knee. Truthfully, he was the furthest thing from being chilled.
“The least I can do for the rescue of my hat is to offer you tea. You can warm yourself before the fire while your clothing dries.”
“I think I’d prefer whisky.” And you naked beneath me.
A blush rose up her cheeks despite the cold air. Trent found the way she flushed adorable. “I, too, prefer a good whisky. Much more than ratafia.”
His cock twitched against his leg.
They sat in silence on the short ride to Marissa’s town house, neither willing to interrupt the fragile acceptance of what was going to happen. Trent was afraid if he spoke, Marissa would change her mind, something the deep ache between his legs wanted to avoid at all costs.
Once the carriage slowed, Trent ran up the steps, Marissa’s hand clutched firmly in his, not caring which one of her neighbors spied them out their parlor windows. Once inside, Marissa’s ruffled butler greeted them, nose pointed high in the air at the water dripping all over the floor.
“Greenhouse, send word to Lord Haddon’s daughter we’ve arrived safely. He will be home after his clothes are no longer dripping wet, and he’s been warmed.”
The wet trousers pulled tighter though he didn’t think she’d meant the words as an innuendo. Trent turned, pretending to observe the large vase of greenery and purple flowers to his left. Marissa still had his coat around her shoulders.
“Have tea and something to eat brought to my parlor.”
“Your private parlor?” Greenhouse looked appalled. He watched Trent with suspicion. “Are you certain, my lady?”
“I did not stutter, Greenhouse, did I?”
The butler’s lower lip pulled tight. “No, madam.”
“Make sure the fire is roaring, Greenhouse. I’m freezing.”
Greenhouse clapped his hands and a maid appeared. He whispered instructions to her before the girl sped off in what Haddon guessed was the direction of Marissa’s parlor.
“Lord Haddon is soaked to the bone, as am I. My son left behind a dressing gown in the large armoire in the guestroom. Lord Haddon can avail himself of it while his clothes dry. Please retrieve it immediately. And send my maid to me.”
The butler stared at her, eyes bugging out. “In the parlor?”
“I’ll meet her upstairs, Greenhouse.” She clapped her hands. “Hurry.”
Trent watched in bemusement as the butler fairly sprinted up the stairs, eager to do her bidding. His hand trailed down the line of Marissa’s back, gratified at the way she arched into his touch. “Marissa—”
“Don’t speak, Haddon. Not yet.”
Once Greenhouse returned with the robe, a silken thing with dragons embroidered on it, Marissa thrust it into Trent’s hands before gesturing him to follow her to another innately feminine room he felt too large to be stomping around in. He caught sight of a pair of discarded reading glasses and a book, tossed atop a blanket that looked as if a child had knit it. The thing was full of holes and loose yarn. The furniture, in contrast to her drawing room, was older. Worn. Comfortable.
This was Marissa’s private domain.
She took his discarded coat from her shoulders, shaking it out before the fire to dry, and turned to face him. Gone was the woman who’d ordered about her household staff with military precision. She was regarding him cautiously, the blush from earlier still staining her cheeks, as if undecided about what she should do.
“I’ll leave you to dry yourself and make use of the robe. I’ll return momentarily.” A slight tremble lit her words.
“You don’t wish to stay?” Trent stepped before the fire, stoked and roaring as she’d instructed. Before she could answer, a knock sounded at the door and a servant wheeled in a cart stacked with sandwiches and pastries along with a steaming pot of tea.
Once the door to the parlor was shut again, Marissa cautiously approached him, the dark strands of her hair slithering out of her coiffure to fall upon the peaks of her breasts.
“Tea?”
“I thought we were having whisky,” he said quietly.
Marissa nodded and went to the sideboard. “I’ve only one glass.” The words were husky. “We’ll have to share.”
The sound of the whisky splashing in a glass met his ears before she turned around and came back toward him. She held out the glass, tilting the whisky against his mouth for him to drink, then took a mouthful herself.
Trent watched her swallow, wanting to taste the whisky on her lips.
He shrugged out of his waistcoat before sliding the cravat from his throat. “You have good taste in whisky.”
Marissa’s mouth parted slightly, the pink of her tongue flashing between her lips. “So I’ve been told. My nephew sent it to me.”
Taking a seat on the ottoman before the fire, Trent relieved himself of his boots before his fingers slid to the buttons of his shirt. His eyes never left hers as he tossed the sodden garment over his head. Once everything was laid before the fire, Trent stood and faced her. He was nearly naked, and Marissa hadn’t yet
