~ ~ ~
Jake turned on his heel and strode through the open doorway, making a straight line for his dressing room. He’d just conducted an entire conversation about Japanese utility chests clad in nothing but a strip of cotton. He’d never blushed a day in his life, but if the heat suffusing his body from head to toe was any indicator, he was now.
What was he thinking? Allowing that woman access to his bedroom?
He tore off the towel, grabbed the first pair of trousers at hand, and yanked them up his legs. Next, he had his arms through a white lawn shirt and over his head. He’d skip the cravat, no time for intricate knot tying as he must return to hisguest.
But the real question was this: what was Lady Olivia Montfort—Olivia—doing in his private rooms? He mustn’t let her duck the question again.
The moment he slid open his dressing room door the question fled to the Outer Hebrides. Connective words refused to link the images together: Bedroom. Bed. Floor. Hands. Knees.
Olivia. The very thing of beauty who would surely lead to his undoing.
At the sight of her upturned bum, an instinct—instinct surely passed down from generations of medieval warlord ancestors—to drape her skirts across her back, and take her then and there, surged through him on a wave of unslaked thirst. What in the world was the woman trying to accomplish? His undoing?
He cleared his throat and in doing so hoped to clear his mind. It didn’t work. He must say something. “Have you dropped your reticule?”
An honest laugh floated on the air, tinkly and joyous, and at complete odds with the dark seed of lust sprouting inside him. When she sat back on her heels and twisted around to reply, delight lit up her entire being, and another layer of his desire unfolded.
“I didn’t bring a reticule with me.”
His mind conjured up that word again. The one that described what he most liked about her when she allowed it.Unbound. . . andvulnerable.
A gentleman didn’t allow himself to think in such a base manner about a lady. The gentleman and the medieval warlord battled for dominance.
She would be unbound, and he would be undone.
“I was investigating how your bed is constructed. I’ve never seen its like,” she said, oblivious to the struggle waging within him. “I don’t have much experience with beds other than my own.” Another melodic laugh sounded.
Her bright mood infected him, and he felt a smile of his own unbind, even if his stubborn medieval hunger hadn’t abated a whit. “It’s called a platform bed. You see them in the Scandinavian countries.”
“From above, it appears to be floating.” Her smile turned sheepish and charming. “I had to see if a spell was cast upon it.”
She rose to her feet, and he took a seat on the other side of the bed. Oh, how he liked the way she looked in this moment: hat askew; cheeks flushed; unwary, uncool, uncollected smile curving her Cupid’s bow lips. Utterly kissable lips, he’d learned from recent experience. Lips he would like to taste again. The bed wasn’t the only entity in the room that had a spell cast upon it.
“While I like the simplicity of the Japanese bedroom, it consists of little more than a futon spread on the floor,” he explained. For some reason, surely self-destructive, he wanted her to understand him. “The wizened sailor in me prefers sleeping above ground.”
“I would hardly describe you aswizened, Lord St. Alban.”
“Jake,” he cut in. He wanted to hear his name, his real name, on her lips.
“Jake,” she repeated softly. Her smile took on a knowing quality. “There isn’t a woman in London who would describe you that way.”
If they’d been surrounded by the glitter and pomp of a ballroom, and she’d spoken those words to him, with that particular smile lifting the corners of her lips, he would have sworn she was flirting with him. But, given their history, he wasn’t sure what to make of her words. Only this: they made his insides feel as light and variable as a fall leaf released to the four winds on a blustery day.
“Well”—He tried to ignore the feeling—“this bed is a solution to that problem.”
A wicked laugh escaped Lady Olivia . . .Olivia. “And which problem is that? That too many women find you irresistible? I know women, my lord, and I’m of the opinion that your bed might only exacerbate the problem.”
“It addresses,” he replied, his voice a husky register out of his control, “my particular desire to sleep at an elevated level, my lady.”
What he really wanted to say was,And you, Olivia? Can I count you among those women who find me irresistible? Might my bed exacerbate that problem for you?
She focused on a point beyond his shoulder and gasped. “Oh, it’s lovely. So intricate, yet subtle.”
She’d spotted thefuna-dansu, and he was enchanted, thoroughly and irrevocably, by her.
Without a consideration for the relation of their bodies to one another, she moved between his place on the bed and thefuna-dansuto run her fingertips across its intricate geometrical pattern of ironwork overlaid onto smooth keyaki wood. Seeking a wider view of the piece, she backed up by slow increments until her skirts brushed against his knees.
