Lord of Wicked Intentions

“You went to a great deal of bother to arrange things for this evening,” he said quietly.

She nodded, touched the necklace at her throat. “It just seemed that a mistress should ensure that the evenings are rich with flavors and fragrances. I know you’re not wooing me, but I thought I should create an atmosphere in which it appeared you were.” She didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like an absolute ninny. “I came to the realization last night that you’re not such an awful sort—”

“High praise indeed.”

Darkness hovered at the edge of his grin, and she wondered if he would ever bestow upon her a smile of pure enjoyment. Ignoring his interruption, she continued. “This afternoon I came to understand that with my father’s passing, I lost everything. I was simply too overcome with grief to fully comprehend the extent to which my life had changed. I’m here until you tire of me, so up to that moment I shall strive to make our arrangement pleasant for both of us. I thought I could read to you after dinner. Or play the pianoforte, if you prefer.”

“Surely, you can think of another entertainment.”

His gaze was hooded as he sipped at his wine in a manner that made her think of him sipping at her mouth, slow and leisurely, taking all until he’d had his fill. She knew what he wanted her to offer—bed sport, but she wasn’t going to make giving up her maidenhead as easy as all that. Yes, she owed him, yes, she’d promised. But he could damned well do his part to entice her into the bed. “Would you prefer a game of chess? I’m rather good. I played with my father quite often.”

His lips curled up into a smile that promised wickedness. “We’ll begin with a reading.”

She suspected they were going to end with a tumble. “It’s going to be tonight, isn’t it?”

She was extremely pleased that her voice didn’t quiver.

“I’ve been more than patient.”

“I daresay you’ve been as patient as a saint.”

“I’m hardly a saint.”

A sinner, and soon she would be one as well. “I’m trying not to get nervous.”

“Drink some more wine.”

She did, savoring the flavor on her tongue, the warmth swirling through her, the light-headedness taking hold. “I can’t think of anything to talk about.”

“Then don’t talk. You don’t have to entertain, not tonight.”

She furrowed her brow. “Will I on other nights?”

A corner of his mouth curled up. “I doubt it. I suspect once I’ve had you that it will be awhile before I’ve had you enough.”

Had it been that way with her mother and father? She didn’t want to think about them tonight, but she heard herself saying, “My father loved my mother, more than he loved his wife.”

His wineglass was halfway to his mouth when he stilled. “I’m not your father.”

She released a quick burst of laughter. “Thank God for that.”

He studied her intently. “I meant, Evie, that I don’t love. Don’t begin to think that what happens between us is more than it is.”

She nodded. He had emphasized often enough what she would be to him. Still, she found herself hoping for more. “Have you never loved any lady that you’ve . . . been with?”

Slowly he shook his head. “It is not within me to love.”

Sadness swept through her. What a lonely person you must be. She didn’t say the words aloud. She didn’t want to travel any conversational path that would lead them away from enjoying the night. “You’re right. We shouldn’t talk.”

He studied her for a moment as though he were memorizing every line and curve of her face. She wondered if he would study her as thoroughly during breakfast in the morning, if there would be differences for him to note. How much would she change tonight? Would anything about her remain the same?

“If I were the sort to spout poetry,” he finally said, “I would spout it for you.”

She didn’t know whether to weep at his sincerity or laugh at the words he’d chosen to use. She settled on a soft smile. “Spout poetry? You don’t think very highly of poems.”

“I have a difficult time following them. Words don’t always mean what they are supposed to mean. They’re not always in the right order. They circle about.”

“You prefer things straightforward.”

He gave a slow appreciative nod. “I do.”

“I enjoy poetry. Even when I can’t figure out exactly what the poet is saying, I like the way the words flow, especially when read aloud. I believe poetry must be read aloud in order to be truly appreciated.”

“Perhaps if you read it to me I’ll grow to appreciate it.”

She smiled, accepting the challenge. “I suppose we’ll find out, since you’ve already agreed that we’ll begin with a reading.”

She didn’t recall ever seeing a gentle smile on him before. It looked at once out of place, and yet so very natural. Leaning over, he tucked a finger beneath her chin, pressed his thumb to her mouth. “Don’t be nervous.”

“It’s a little hard not to be.” She couldn’t manage to quiet the romantic in her. She wanted more than this. He was going to bed her and she would never be the same again. Her stomach was twisting and turning like the strings of sugared candy that she’d watched being pulled in a confectioner’s window once.