Do You Want to Start a Scandal

First, she’d slipped in through his window. Then, he’d surprised her in the garden a few nights ago. It was her turn again.

Charlotte set the candle aside. Then she walked on tiptoe, crossing the carpet as though the embroidered medallions were steppingstones across lava, holding her breath and coming to stand just behind his tufted leather chair.

She placed her fingers lightly over his eyes, like a blindfold. “Guess who?”

Except that it came out more like “Geh—ack!”

In a swift motion, he shoved his chair back from the table and grabbed her by the forearms. She found herself inverted, pulled directly over Piers’s shoulder. She landed in his lap, both her arms pinned with one of his, breathless.

And with every racing heartbeat, a cool, metallic point throbbed against her pulse.

He had the letter opener held to her throat.

“Charlotte.” He cast the impromptu weapon aside, releasing her. As she started to breathe again, he rubbed his face with his hand. “Jesus.”

She was dizzy, still a bit breathless from her somersault. Her shift had tangled about her legs, and her hair was everywhere. She laughed a little, as was her habit in moments of awkwardness.

“It’s not amusing,” he said.

“I know.”

“I could have hurt you. I could have . . .”

Killed you.

She realized for the first time what should have been obvious since he’d dismantled the cutpurse in that alleyway.

In all likelihood, given his chosen duty, Piers had taken lives.

It was a sobering thought. But on reflection, it didn’t make him any different from most men of his generation, thanks to England’s endless wars on multiple continents. She doubted he’d found any pleasure in it. So few of them had.

He ran his hands down her arms, scanning her body for injuries. Now that the clamor of her own pulse had quieted, she could feel the rapid thump of his heart. The tension coiled in his arms and shoulders.

“I’m not hurt,” she said. “And I’m not frightened. I’m fine.”

“You must stop creeping up on me like that.”

“But it’s the only way you’ll let me close.”

He smelled of brandy and warm linen and the musk of his skin. The collar of his shirt hung open, and she could see the muscles of his neck, the dark hair on his chest.

She slid her fingers under his shirt, gliding an exploratory touch along the ridge of his collarbone. “What are you doing up so late?”

“Just going over correspondence.”

“Correspondence?” She raised an eyebrow. “And what kind of correspondence would that be? Diplomatic affairs? Parliamentary business? Or encoded spy letters, written in invisible ink?”

He flipped open a leather folio and fanned the contents with one hand. “See for yourself.”

Charlotte looked at the papers splayed across the desk blotter.

They were architectural plans and decorative schemes. Diagrams of a building, floor by floor. Interiors painted in washes of color with samples of fabric attached. All of it tasteful and surely expensive. She sifted through the sketches until she located a view of the exterior: a grand façade with Grecian-inspired columns and large, modern windows. The cost of glazing those windows alone . . .

“Is this Oakhaven?” Despite herself, she was a bit dazzled by the idea of being mistress of such a place.

“No, no. That’s the dower house.”

“Dower house?”

“It’s a mile or so down the lane. Close enough for visiting, but well out of earshot. Surely you didn’t think I’d permit your mother to live with us? God, no.”

He chuckled. Could it be that after the better part of a week, this was the first time she’d heard him laugh?

He had a lovely laugh, too. Deep and warm. He really ought to use it more often. She would have to work on that.

He plucked a paper from beneath the others and drew it to the top. “That’s Oakhaven.”

She looked at the drawing, alarmed. “Goodness. It’s enormous. Whatever do you do with it?”

“Not much of anything, lately. It’s rather a lonesome place for one.”

As he sorted through the drawings and diagrams with one hand, his other hand caressed her back. His fingers traced up and down her spine, treasuring her vertebrae as though they were pearls on a string.

“The furnishings are in good condition, of course, but you’ll likely find them outdated in style. You’ll see potential for a great many modernizations and improvements, I hope.”

I hope.

Her heartbeat caught on those two little words. Did he hope, truly? Could he want a lifetime with her—even see her companionship as a way to make his vast, grand, important life a bit less cold and empty?

The idea touched her.

And so she touched him, more boldly this time, easing his shirt aside and adjusting her position on his lap until she straddled his hips.

The searing heat of his mouth met hers, and she melted into it, giving herself over to the mastery of his kiss and the warmth of his embrace.

Oh, this man. He’d built a wintry fortress around himself—whether out of desire, necessity, or both, she didn’t yet know—but inside it, he was anything but cold.

He broke the kiss. His eyes were lit with blue flames. Possessive, desirous.

Even his gaze could arouse her, all on its own.

“Go to bed, Charlotte,” he said.

She poised herself to remind him that commanding her to do one thing was the surest way to make her do the opposite, and really—he ought to know her better by now.

But then it struck her.

He wasn’t a fool. He did know her better by now.

He must understand that commanding her to go was tantamount to daring her to stay, and he intended to provoke precisely that rebellious response.

He wanted her here. With him.

She wanted the same.

She lifted his hand and cupped it over her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple through the fabric of her shift, sending ripples of pleasure through her.

Bending her head, she kissed his throat. The underside of his jaw was deliciously rough with whiskers. She shifted in his lap and nestled closer still.

The swelling ridge of his arousal pressed against her thigh.

She teased it, dragging her knee a few inches up . . . then down.

The motion was like dropping a spark on dry tinder. In an instant, his hands were on her, all over her, possessive and claiming. Gripping and twisting the linen of her night rail, cupping her backside and bringing her hips flush with his.