“Your private parlor?” Greenhouse looked appalled. He watched Trent with suspicion. “Are you certain, my lady?”
“I did not stutter, Greenhouse, did I?”
The butler’s lower lip pulled tight. “No, madam.”
“Make sure the fire isroaring, Greenhouse. I’m freezing.”
Greenhouse clapped his hands and a maid appeared. He whispered instructions to her before the girl sped off in what Haddon guessed was the direction of Marissa’s parlor.
“Lord Haddon is soaked to the bone, as am I. My son left behind a dressing gown in the large armoire in the guestroom. Lord Haddon can avail himself of it while his clothes dry. Please retrieve it immediately. And send my maid to me.”
The butler stared at her, eyes bugging out. “In the parlor?”
“I’ll meet her upstairs, Greenhouse.” She clapped her hands. “Hurry.”
Trent watched in bemusement as the butler fairly sprinted up the stairs, eager to do her bidding. His hand trailed down the line of Marissa’s back, gratified at the way she arched into his touch. “Marissa—”
“Don’t speak, Haddon. Not yet.”
Once Greenhouse returned with the robe, a silken thing with dragons embroidered on it, Marissa thrust it into Trent’s hands before gesturing him to follow her to another innately feminine room he felt too large to be stomping around in. He caught sight of a pair of discarded reading glasses and a book, tossed atop a blanket that looked as if a child had knit it. The thing was full of holes and loose yarn. The furniture, in contrast to her drawing room, was older. Worn. Comfortable.
This was Marissa’s private domain.
She took his discarded coat from her shoulders, shaking it out before the fire to dry, and turned to face him. Gone was the woman who’d ordered about her household staff with military precision. She was regarding him cautiously, the blush from earlier still staining her cheeks, as if undecided about what she should do.
“I’ll leave you to dry yourself and make use of the robe. I’ll return momentarily.” A slight tremble lit her words.
“You don’t wish to stay?” Trent stepped before the fire, stoked and roaring as she’d instructed. Before she could answer, a knock sounded at the door and a servant wheeled in a cart stacked with sandwiches and pastries along with a steaming pot of tea.
Once the door to the parlor was shut again, Marissa cautiously approached him, the dark strands of her hair slithering out of her coiffure to fall upon the peaks of her breasts.
“Tea?”
“I thought we were having whisky,” he said quietly.
Marissa nodded and went to the sideboard. “I’ve only one glass.” The words were husky. “We’ll have to share.”
The sound of the whisky splashing in a glass met his ears before she turned around and came back toward him. She held out the glass, tilting the whisky against his mouth for him to drink, then took a mouthful herself.
Trent watched her swallow, wanting to taste the whisky on her lips.
He shrugged out of his waistcoat before sliding the cravat from his throat. “You have good taste in whisky.”
Marissa’s mouth parted slightly, the pink of her tongue flashing between her lips. “So I’ve been told. My nephew sent it to me.”
Taking a seat on the ottoman before the fire, Trent relieved himself of his boots before his fingers slid to the buttons of his shirt. His eyes never left hers as he tossed the sodden garment over his head. Once everything was laid before the fire, Trent stood and faced her. He was nearly naked, and Marissa hadn’t yet objected.
He undid his trousers, peeling the damp fabric down over his hips.
“I—” Marissa blushed furiously again, something Trent found endlessly enchanting. She stared at his chest, her fingers fluttering as if she wished to touch him and was afraid to do so.
“Marissa.”
Taking a deep breath, she looked up to meet his eyes. The motion strained the fabric of her bodice, pushing the tops of her breasts against the modest neckline of her dress. Water dripped from the edge of her skirt to the floor, dampening the rug.
“My dress,” she said, her breath hitching. “Is wet and—”
Trent shucked off his trousers to stand naked before her. “Take it off.”
