Do You Want to Start a Scandal

“You should be resting.”

“I’ve been resting for two days. I feel fine.” She let his cravat slither to the floor and approached him, running her hands over his bared chest. “And I’m improving by the moment.”

He closed his eyes, trying to shield himself from the temptation of her body wrapped in a silky dressing gown, with that thick braid of golden hair just grazing her breast.

But his attempt at distance failed. With his eyes closed, the intimacy of the moment only multiplied. He found himself reaching for her, lost in the pleasure of her soft touch. Her fingertips wandered over his bare skin, tracing the contours of his collarbones and tracing the furrow of hair that bisected his chest.

And then, when he couldn’t have survived a moment longer without them, her lips touched his.

God, what this woman did to him. His lungs were emptied of breath. His heart pounded like mad.

Damn it, his knees almost buckled.

Buckling knees were a fiction of novels and penny dramas. It wasn’t supposed to happen in real life, but here he was, weak with yearning.

His hands found her waist. Or perhaps her waist found his hands. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t getting away. He made fists in the silky, slippery fabric, tugging her close as he deepened the kiss.

How easy it would be, to carry her to his bed and lose himself in her sweetness.

She was fragile. But he could be gentle.

Perhaps. Somewhat.

Then she laced her arms around his neck, and he felt a light scrape. The bandage encircling her forearm.

It jolted him back to his senses.

His eyes snapped open, and he pulled her hands from his neck.

He couldn’t allow this to happen. Not again. He could not let desire and emotion cloud his thinking. Not when her safety depended on his instincts remaining sharp.

“Who brought that breakfast tray to your room?” he asked.

She blinked, looking disoriented by his sudden change of subject. “What?”

“The breakfast tray with the monkshood.” He led her to a chair so she could sit down, then sat on the footstool across from her. He propped his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. “Who brought it to your room?”

“A maid.”

“Which maid?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I barely saw her. She had ginger hair.”

“None of the maids have ginger hair.”

“Perhaps I was mistaken, then.”

Piers doubted it. Memories weren’t perfect things. They always had holes. But ginger hair wasn’t the sort of detail someone’s imagination tended to fill in the gap.

“Why don’t you just ask?” she said.

“We have asked. Every member of the staff denied knowing anything about it.”

“Well, naturally they would deny it. They’re probably afraid of being sacked. Lady Parkhurst collects unusual plants. I’m certain it was only an honest mistake.”

“Deadly monkshood does not end up on a breakfast tray by mistake.”

She smiled a little. “Not in your line of work, perhaps. But this isn’t a scene of international intrigue. It’s a house party in the country.”

“Don’t be naïve,” he said, his tone a bit more biting than he meant it to be. “You’ve been asking questions, pursuing your little investigation. Perhaps you’ve stumbled too close to a secret someone would do anything to hide.”

“Piers, really. You must stop seeing conspiracies where there are none to find.” She touched his brow, as though trying to iron the creases straight. “This is just another illustration of the differences between us. I’m an optimist. You always think the worst. I keep everything jumbled out in the open; you file it all neatly away. I see the glass half full. You see it riddled with poison.”

“You would, too, if you were in my line of work. Which is precisely why I’ll never allow you to be in my line of work.”

“You said you’d consider it.”

He had considered it.

Despite his better judgment, he’d been intrigued by the idea of bringing her into the service. She wouldn’t be skulking along any ledges or smuggling documents, of course. But Charlotte was perceptive and quickly gained people’s confidence. He could see the two of them returning home at the end of a ball or dinner party to sort through their observations, share any bits of gossip or overheard words.

And then, make passionate love.

But when she collapsed in the corridor, all his plans had changed. Everything had changed.

“I can do it, Piers. I already have the temperament. When I return from traveling, I’ll be more worldly, more polished. A capable partner to you, and able to fend for myself.”

“I will do the fending. And you’re not traveling anywhere.”

Her gaze was wounded. “You promised to give me a chance to prove myself.”

“That was before you nearly died in my arms. When I found you there, on the floor . . .”

He swore, more blasphemously than he’d ever cursed in the company of a lady.

“I know.” She moved to the edge of the chair, curling her hands over his trembling fingers and squeezing tight. “I know you were frightened.”

No, she didn’t know.

She could have no idea how deeply that sight had shaken him, and she never would. That secret—that crushing weight of shame—was his alone to carry. He’d borne up under it for decades, and he would shoulder it for decades more.

“I need to say something.” She clung to his hands, though her gaze slanted to the carpet. “I’ve been wanting to tell you. Not that it will come as a surprise. You’re certainly intelligent enough to have guessed by now. I mean . . . the meadow . . . you likely concluded it on your own.”

He regarded her, perplexed.

“It’s not something you’ll be happy to hear, I’m afraid. You’ll want argue against it, but it won’t do any good. You’re not the only one who can make an irreversible decision, and you know how I only dig in my heels when someone attempts to dissuade me.”

Dear God. She wanted to leave him. He’d been a stupid braggart the other night, boasting of all the alternative ways he might have solved their little predicament. Now she was going to call him on it, ask to be released from the engagement.

And what was worse—he knew what his response should be. He ought to be decent enough to let her go.