Chapter 10
Damian leaned back in the steaming, copper bathtub and put the book down on the polished mahogany tray he’d made specifically for such times. Outside the bath water, it was cold. Even in high summer, the room wasn’t particularly warm.
So the copious amounts of scalding hot water that he’d helped to haul up, much to the horror of the maids, was very welcome.
He had yet to face an English—or Scottish—winter since his return from the East.
The idea was harrowing given the temperature of the place in summer. He doubted he’d be able to face it. No. He needed to depart again by the end of October at the very latest.
He wasn’t going to spend the winter months shivering in a cavernous house, the damp penetrating every damned corner of his rooms, his clothes, and his soul.
It was a miracle everyone wasn’t covered in mold by spring.
He closed his eyes.
She’d spied upon him.
The very knowledge curved his lips in a smile.
It stirred his body, too.
She’d spied upon him and for several minutes.
It had occurred to him that she’d watched Blakemore, as well. But deep in his gut, he knew. He’d felt it. Like the point of a sun’s ray focused through a magnifying glass. She’d been watching him. Studying him. Admiring him.
Could that not then lead to wanting?
Leaning his head back against the copper tub, he let out a slow sigh. He tried to ease the sudden discomfort his body underwent thinking of her, desiring him.
It had been years since he’d longed to make love to another woman. To be consumed in passion. Not like this. Not since Jamilah. It was, at once, horrifying and. . . Strangely wonderful.
Over the years, he’d begun to think he was half-dead.
It hadn’t mattered, truly, because he’d been pleased to honor her. The woman who had accepted him as he was and loved him in any case.
But he also knew she would hate to see him so lifeless in things beyond his findings.
Jamilah had loved life from the honeyed figs she adored to the crocodiles that sat upon the banks, magnificent and brutal. She’d claimed it was all the same. Beauty and death. It was all part of one, great unknowable force.
She’d been so wise and kind.
He closed his eyes and grabbed on to the rim of the tub, allowing the metal to bite into his hands.
Now, he was contemplating another woman. A woman so completely different than his wife, it was almost shocking.
Except he didn’t shock. Not any longer.
It was a good indication, if she had, indeed, stared. For though she wished to be his friend, lust would help her accept him as a husband.
And with every hour that passed, he agreed more and more with Blakemore. She was the ideal choice and not just for the gold in her bank.
He stood from the bath, allowing the hot water to sluice from his skin. A rough hiss of air came from him as his skin met the chilly air.
The loch had brutalized him with its nearly frigid temperatures. But it had also been exceptionally invigorating.
It was, he thought, this place which was awakening him. Scotland was a world unto itself. Her world. And he liked it. Indeed, he did. Now, he had to persuade her to like his just as much.
How the deuce was she going to look at him? Andromeda charged down the stairs, refusing to be a bit of fluff now. But truly, how was she going to look at him without her whole face bursting into flames?
All afternoon, she’d walked about, unable to turn the perfection of his form from her mind. His shoulders, his torso, his dark hair, his arms. And then he’d walked out of the water and she’d seen. . .
No. She wasn’t going to give it another moment’s consideration.
“Good evening, Lady Gateshead.”
She stopped, closed her eyes and desperately tried to ignore the delicious feelings that growling rumble of a voice evoked.
Clearing her throat, she descended the last step and met his gaze. “Good evening, Lord Peterboro.”
In the lowering light of evening, his evening kit hugged him like a second skin. In fact, the way his breeches hugged his legs and his black coat stretched over his shoulders, she realized she needed very little imagination to feel as if he were naked. Before her. Within her reach.
“Did you take too much sun this afternoon?” he asked, his brows drawing together. “The sun can be a dratted sneaky thing, you know. Even if it’s cold out, a strong sun can leave one burnt to a cinder.”
“How kind.” Her voice was remarkably high. She forced herself to draw in a deep breath. “I did forget to wear a hat with a suitable brim.”
His gaze fell to her breasts which had expanded tightly against her low cut evening frock as she inhaled. With a slight smile, he snapped his gaze back up to hers. “A bit of oil on the skin tonight. It will do the trick.”
“Thank ye,” she managed to breathe. Good God. Her whole body seemed to tighten with want. Just from one look from the wild lord.
He offered his arm to her, clearly intending to lead her to the drawing room.
It would seem absolutely ridiculous if she didn’t take up his gesture. After all, she had invited him here!
So she allowed herself to place her gloved hand over his forearm. My goodness, if she had not believed in electricity before, that strange unseen force discovered by that American, Mr. Franklin, then she would have to now. For just the touch of him beneath her sent a current racing through her entire being.
White, hot, desire urged her to peel back both of their gloves, their clothing, and simply allow their skin to touch.
What madness was this?
She knew about desire! Granted, her marriage had not allowed for it. But this? This was the sort of hunger that made men do truly absurd things. Like Antony throwing off Caesar for Cleopatra. Or Lord Nelson risking all for Lady Hamilton.
“Do you think we might eschew our titles?” he asked. His voice was a low whisper, as if he were saying something sinful.
“I beg yer pardon?” she asked, nearly tripping over the hem of her gown.
“Terribly improper,” he agreed, though his voice was now a rich hum of temptation. “Impossible I suppose. Only you did seem the adventurous sort, not bent by society’s noose. And I loathe being called Peterboro. Makes my skin crawl every time I hear it.”
“Truly?” she asked, astonished, craning her head back to look up at him.
“Truly,” he confirmed. His sensual lips curved ever so slightly.
She frowned. “I should hate to make yer skin crawl.”
He laughed a booming sound. “My way with words is clearly not as good as Byron’s.”
She couldn’t help her own laugh. “Byron? Sir, yer way with words couldna be matched by the worst of limericks.”
He gasped with mock horror. “You wound me, my lady. Indeed, you do.”
“I suppose the only way to make amends is to grant yer request.” She smiled up at him and it felt like her whole body was smiling as she threw herself into such an intimacy. “That means ye must call me Andromeda or our relationship will be bizarrely uneven. Dinna ye think?”
“I’m all for us being on equal footing. I don’t know why so many men don’t like it. Equality that is.”
Did he truly believe that? From his serious expression, it seemed so. “This is a subject to which I have devoted a great deal of thought.”
“And have you come to a conclusion?” he asked.
She gave him a sly grin. “Not a polite one.”
“You shall have to tell it to me,” he coaxed. His arm somehow gently led her closer to his body so that her skirts brushed against his legs.
“No’ when we are headed into dinner,” she stated. She suddenly realized that they were on entirely new ground together.
“Are you afraid of putting off my appetite?” He waggled his brows. “Impossible. I have dined upon locusts and been certain I wouldn’t see the morning.”
She stared at him. He had eaten locusts? “Now, it is ye who is putting me off dinner, as ye say.”
“Damn. I do not even deserve the praise of a poor limerick man.”
She laughed again. How could she not? He was not a man of subtle manners. Far from. Though she wondered, if he chose to be charm itself, could he? Only time would answer this question.
“Come then,” she said. “Let us go in and meet the others.”
“I should rather discuss the independence of women with you. And then we could discuss the Nile Delta and its history. You can tell me your thoughts.”
She paused. How did he make that proposition sound like the world’s most seductive promise?
“I should like that very much,” she replied.
“Good. Then you must join me after dinner.”
She studied him carefully. “Willna ye be having drinks with the gentlemen?”
“Good God, no,” he barked, clearly horrified by the idea. “I’d rather hang myself with my own cravat. Can’t stand all that male puffing. No. It will either be bed and book. . . Or you.”
She swallowed. Somehow, he managed to make or you sound as if she might be his second helping of dessert. The words were entirely innocent and yet his intensity and the soft rumble of his voice conveyed a wealth of possibilities.
“We shall see,” she replied. “After all, perhaps I prefer to stay and chat with the ladies.”
He stopped then and covered her hand on his arm with his free palm. “No. No you don’t. And don’t lie about it. Let’s at least not do that. Your mind is a knife that longs to be sharpened and you know you can’t do it discussing trivialities.”
“Lord Peterboro—”
“Damian,” he corrected.
“Ye think little of my friends,” she replied. She was hoping to dissuade him from his course, even if the deepest part of her longed to hear what he had to say.
“I do not,” he countered, his green eyes shining like emeralds. “Your friends are superior. They are all, no doubt, excellent. . . But it is you that longs for the unknown. What lies beyond the horizon. And what whispers from the past. Don’t deny it now.”
Her heart pounded in her chest at his words and she opened her mouth to reply. The power of her feeling at that moment was overwhelming.
“There ye are, man!”
Her brother’s voice thundered down the hall.
They both tensed then, as if a spell had broken. They faced Angus.
“Ye went for a swim this afternoon, I hear. Good. Good.” Angus clapped his hands together. “Andromeda is quite the swimmer, too. I hate the freezing water. I canna understand why anyone would willfully do that to themselves.”
“There is some pain, Your Grace,” Damian agreed.
She studied him, realizing he wasn’t finished.
“But if you simply do not care about the pain,” Damian continued, “you’ll find that the rewards. . .” He looked to her, his green eyes blazing. “Well, they are beyond imagining.”
And then she knew. She knew that he knew. He knew! Somehow, he’d seen her up on that ben, studying him.
It was tempting to shrink in horror. But she wasn’t made of weak stuff.
So, she lifted her chin and said, “Ye’ll find I have a remarkable imagination.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it. Indeed, I am.”