Near Brighton, England
July, 1818
Rob absently gazedout the window as his carriage rolled past Brighton and the familiar patches of seacoast along the countryside. His heart beat a little faster, for Fiona’s home, Shoreham Manor, was not far from here.
Not that he had been counting the days, hours, or minutes until seeing her again.
But he had been.
The familiar house came into view and he edged forward, eager to see Fiona’s smiling face. Were they really going to do this? Hot, lustful, naked sex for a week?
Fiona, for all her brashness, was quite shy when it came to matters of the boudoir. Perhaps not shy, exactly, but in many ways ignorant of all that could go on between the sheets. Despite her streak of independence, she was also quite traditional.
She could be quite proper when she wanted to be.
His heart opened up when he saw her standing by the door, all smiles and bobbing, dark curls as she caught sight of his carriage and waved to him.
He waved in response, then eased back and emitted a groaning breath. “What are we doing to each other, Fiona?” he muttered.
This was the question he had asked himself repeatedly over the last three weeks, ever since she had proposed the idea. A thousand times he’d asked himself this question and never came up with answers.
He remained plagued by doubts. How could he spend a week in Fiona’s bed, explore her body with shocking intimacy, and then just leave her to marry someone else?
Only the vilest of rakehells would ever do such a thing, and he had never been a rake or such a cad of a man.
The simple answer was that he could not abandon her in this fashion.
But he was not going to say anything to Fiona just yet. She had to feel this impossibility for herself.
He hoped by the time their week was up and the Bromleighs’ house party guests began to arrive, she would understand their hearts, souls, and bodies were never meant to be apart.
He hopped down as soon as his driver drew the team to a halt in front of the rambling country house surrounded by an abundance of red roses and wildflowers. It was everything a country house ought to be, old but well maintained, large but still possessing a quiet charm. A cozy retreat that felt like heaven because this was where Fiona resided.
“How have you been, Lady Shoreham?” he asked, striding toward her. He always kept to formality whenever in the presence of others, even if it was only that of her butler, Simmons.
“I am excellent, Durham,” she replied, also addressing him with proper formality. “How did your Devonshire business go?”
“Smoothly. I finished faster than expected and hope you won’t mind my imposing on you a week early?”
Fiona had contrived this stupid charade that was not going to fool anyone on her staff, especially not Simmons or her capable housekeeper, Mrs. Harris. Nor would this contrived excuse ever fool Gawain, the Duke of Bromleigh, or his wife, Cherish, who owned the neighboring property, Northam Hall.
He did not know if they had opened their seaside house yet or were still in London. However, since their house party was only a week away, they would have to return here to open the house within the next day or two.
What would Fiona do if Cherish strolled over one morning and found him already ensconced here?
Well, that was Fiona’s problem. He was ready to marry her if her honor was ever placed in question.
She locked her arm in his and led him into the house. “Come onto the terrace with me while Mrs. Harris prepares your guest quarters. There’s a lovely breeze off the water. Simmons will bring up your bags. We’ll have time to share a lemonade before you head upstairs to freshen up.”
“That will be welcome,” he said, for his throat was dry. It wasn’t from the ride, for he had spent last night at a comfortable inn not far from here. It was located in one of those charming coastal villages only about four hours west of Brighton.
The weather this morning had been dry and beautiful, allowing him to make quick time in his travels. But the sight of Fiona, her dark curls in a jumble and her smile as dazzling as ever, had tightened his throat with an all-too-familiar longing.
She still had the exuberance of a girl approaching womanhood, and her body had not changed all that much in the twenty years since her wedding day. She was perhaps a little fuller in the bosom and a touch broader in the hips, but still slender and full of vigor. And that sweet face of hers, so lively and welcoming. Was there anyone prettier?
Mrs. Harris served them their lemonade and dutifully expressed that she was pleased to see him. They exchanged quick pleasantries before she scrambled off to finish her work.
“You have a good staff. They seem to be taking excellent care of you.”
