The following morning, Lucien was in a foul temper, unable to resolve the conflicts warring within him.
Trust her—don’t trust her.
Leave—don’t leave.
Search for the book elsewhere—stay here with her.
These opposing schools of thought were threatening to rip him in half.
If that wasn’t bad enough, there was something else wrong with him, too. He felt sluggish and muddled whenever he was in the bachelor’s quarters. But as soon as his steps crossed the threshold of the main house, his senses became alert and keen. Almost painfully so. Colors were too bright. Aromas too potent. And when he was alone in one of the rooms he was searching, he would swear that he could hear Meg moving around in the nursery, even when there were several floors between them.
It was utter madness.
After all, why should he have cared that Meg’s portrait wasn’t hanging in the gallery? Why should he have felt a sudden flare of anger at the mention of Daniel Prescott?
Lucien knew Prescott was no longer in her life. He’d investigated the man two years ago and discovered that he was cousin to the Earl of Edgemont, a peer who’d never indicated a desire for power or political gain or whatever else the person who’d stolen the recipes might have wanted. Then Lucien’s investigator tracked Mr. Prescott to Upper Canada, where Meg had said he’d gone. By all appearances, their relationship had been just as she’d said, and it had nothing to do with the book.
So then why did Lucien want to murder the man for breaking her heart? Or was it the fact that he’d stolen her heart in the first place that bothered him more?
He growled as he strode up the lane, his hessians kicking up dust along the way. He hated this constant battle. It was far worse than a failed experiment. At least then he had detailed notes to decipher what had gone wrong.
His path led him to the stables where he came each morning. In his current mood, he decided that a much longer ride for exercise was in order. He was always plagued by the sensation that something was familiar to him. Logically, he knew that couldn’t be the case so he shrugged it off.
Today, however, he suddenly understood why. He looked at the stablemaster and recognized him, though he couldn’t recall from where or when. It could have been any number of places over the years. Even at Caliburn Keep.
Lucien’s suspicions sparked, and he decided to have his driver make a few discreet inquiries into this man’s history.
In the meantime, he needed to expend as much tension as possible. He and Meg were performing a search of the attic later, and he knew from previous experience that resisting her in a confined space was nearly impossible.
* * *
It was stifling in the attic that afternoon, and Meg was having a difficult time keeping on task.
Her chemise and pink muslin were constantly clinging, much like his shirtsleeves. She tried not to stare at him without his coat. But with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, it was impossible not to watch the movement of those corded forearms that had first taken her fancy.
Lucien had a restless aggressive manner about him today. He was very physical, always shifting crates, stacking boxes, lifting heavy portmanteaus, his muscles undulating, straining, rippling . . .
She suspected he was the one making it hotter up here. So hot she could hardly think.
These days spent with him were leaving her frayed, like a shawl only one stitch away from unraveling completely. The air was forever charged, prickling with heat—either from their mutual animosity or mutual desire, she didn’t know which.
What she did know, however, was that her own animosity wasn’t what propelled her into dreams of him every night.
Such wicked, scandalous dreams.
Throat dry as parchment, she took another glass of the lemonade that the maid had brought earlier, drinking it down in thirsty gulps. Over the rim, she saw him watching her and the way his biceps flexed when he wiped the back of his hand against his brow.
When some of the tart juice dribbled on her chin, she caught it with her fingertips, pressing them to her lips to sip the droplets from her skin.
He growled at her for no reason at all. “Are you trying to torment me?”
“I don’t know what you could mean. I was merely thirsty,” she said primly as she set the glass back on the tray and smoothed her damp palms over the clinging waist of her skirts.
His gaze missed nothing. “And you drank the last of it, I see.”
“I could fetch more. It would only take a moment.”
He arched a dubious brow. “I’ve come to discover that a moment for you is an indefinite amount of time.”
She set her hands on her hips, the air between them crackling with swift-igniting tension. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you’re very good at leaving.” He closed the lid of a trunk with decided force. The hollow thunk reverberated along the low, arched ceiling.
“Is this about Italy?”
“Of course this is about Italy,” he said as if she were a simpleton and made a sweeping gesture to encompass everything around them.
She growled and marched across the attic floor, finger pointed. “I left a note and you bloody well know it! Not to mention the numerous letters I sent to you in Somerset.”
“Letters,” he scoffed.
“It’s true. I wrote to you for two years—two whole years—until I decided to hate you instead. Now I’m tired of your accusations, your incessant poking and prodding, and I demand that you leave here at—”
She tripped over a blue hatbox. And the lid jarred loose, snagging the toe of her slipper. She stumbled. Momentum propelled her forward, one-footed and tilting, her arms flailing for balance, graceful as a dodo.
He caught her full-on, chest to chest.
His hands settled on her waist, his gaze on her lips. “If you think that I’m foolish enough to be pulled into your web of seduction a second time, think again.”
“I wouldn’t allow you into my . . . web even if you begged me!”
Her declaration might have held more weight if she didn’t immediately rise onto her toes, take his head in her hands and crush her mouth to his.
He responded instantly. Taking hold of her nape, he slanted his mouth over hers on a greedy, satisfied grunt.
That instant flame of desire sparked to life again as if it had been waiting beneath a curfew all this time and only needed one hot breath to ignite it. His form was so firm and lean, and she fit against him perfectly.
They consumed each other, with lips and teeth and groping hands. Like ravenous animals, they licked into each other’s mouths, fists curled in each other’s hair and clothes.
Picking her up with one arm around her waist, he carried her to a narrow trestle table against the wall. He sent boxes crashing to the floor, then set her on the edge and stepped between her ruckled skirts, his mouth never leaving hers. When his hips bumped hers and a sound—something between a sigh and exultant cry—rose up inside her, he swallowed it down on a guttural growl.
She clung to him, hips arching, desperate to ease the burning ache thudding in heavy liquid pulses between them. He pressed against her, a slow, thick grind that made her shudder.
“I still think about that night.” His tongue dipped into the shallow valley at the base of her throat. “The way we fit together, moved together. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” she rasped, her head falling back, neck arching. She felt a rough tug at the cap sleeves of her dress, the sudden relief of seams rending, and then his mouth closing over her breast. Yes.
Her fingers threaded into his hair, molding over his scalp to hold him close as he drew the ripe peak into his mouth. He suckled her flesh in deep pulls, her body clenching, warm and wet.
He looked up at her as he licked the perspiration from between her breasts. “I’m going to take you. But it’s going to be hard and fast the first time. Slow later.”
She nodded, shifting restlessly as he stood between her thighs and lifted her hem higher, his fingertips on the bare skin above her stockings. That heavy pulse thrummed hotter, more insistent.
It was taking forever for him to touch her.
“Hurry,” she said, fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers, her hands shaking.
He stilled her efforts.
“Let me touch you. I need to please you first because”—he cursed under his breath as he cupped her sex, the linen drawers damp between them—“I’m not going to last. I’m almost over the edge.”
She agreed. This was no time to argue, after all.
He found the slit in her drawers and her eyes closed on the sweet ache as a ragged breath fell from her parted lips. Oh, how she wanted this. And so did he. His desire was so potent, she felt the tremor of his fingertips as he sifted through her curls and heard it in his rough murmur of approval at finding her drenched for him. And it only took his deft slide along the swollen cleft to circle the tender bud once—twice—before his name came out on a sigh. Lucien.
“Not too quick,” she begged as he circumnavigated again.
He nudged her entrance with the blunt tip of his middle finger, then sucked in a breath as he pushed inside the tight constriction. “Damn. I cannot . . . promise anything . . .”
She completely understood. Blindly, she took hold of his wrist, feeling tendons and muscles shifting beneath her grip as he edged inside. Garbled sounds left her with every thrust. And when he added a second finger, wordless pleas were followed by ecstatic exclamations as he drove deeper, his palm rotating against that frenzied pulse.
“Shh . . .” he whispered in her ear, going still. “I think I hear someone on the stairs.”
No sooner had he spoken than Aunt Sylvia called out, “Meg? Are you up here?”
Her eyes flew open. And she felt him stiffen, still inside her, with her body clamped tightly around his fingers. He looked over his shoulder to the mountain of crates between them and the stairs before he spoke.
“It’s Lucien, my lady,” he said. “I believe Miss Stredwick went down to the kitchen for more lemonade.”
The footsteps fell silent on the stairs. Every movement paused—even their own. Though, it was clear that neither of them wanted to stop. He hadn’t moved away from the welcome of her hips, and she was still holding on to his wrist.
What if they were caught like this? What would she say to her aunt?
Lucien was just handing me down from the table. This is how it’s done on the Continent.
Um . . . no. She’d never believe that.
Then, perhaps, if Meg incorporated a bit of truth: You see, there was this hatbox, and I stumbled toward the table, and at the very last moment, Lucien was kind enough to . . . slip his hand beneath my skirts to ensure that I was unharmed . . .
No. That wouldn’t do either.
He was saving me from a spider?
Erection? What erection?
Nervous, Meg licked her lips and saw his gaze darken. His hand twitched, fingers shifting, flexing inside her. Her breath fractured in response, and he silently quieted her with a kiss against her lips.
But the contact only made her body more eager, her walls issuing an encouraging squeeze. And even though she couldn’t think of a single excuse to prepare for the possibility of discovery, she still couldn’t force herself to stop.
“Very well. I shall look for her there,” Sylvia replied, and Meg’s shoulders sagged with relief. “However, if you should see her first, please inform her that she has a guest. A Mr. Daniel Prescott. I’m sure she’ll wish to be forewarned.”
As the footsteps retreated, so did Lucien. And from his suddenly stony gaze, she felt as if she’d been doused in cold water.
Slipping down from the table on unsteady legs, she attempted to put her clothes in order. Of course, there was nothing she could do with the torn sleeve. Her hair was in complete disarray, her skin flushed. Disheveled as she was, she likely looked like she’d been in a battle with a wild animal.
She noted that he hadn’t bothered to turn away but faced her with his arms crossed, his expression unfoundedly suspicious.
“What?” she asked, seating a hairpin in place. “It isn’t as if I’ve invited him.”
“I thought he lived in Upper Canada.”
“Well, apparently, he’s back in England,” she rifled back with equal terseness. After all, he wasn’t the only one leaving this room unfulfilled.
In response, he growled and snatched his coat in his fist before he tromped down the stairs.
Well, if he wanted to be in a snit, perhaps she would have to give him a reason.
With one last shake of her wrinkled skirts and hopeless flick of her floppy sleeve, she stormed downstairs, too.
Drat you, Daniel Prescott, she thought on a huff. Why were you never around when I needed you, but suddenly here when I do not?