“When in doubt, sneak into the lady in question’s chamber,” Dorset had counseled sagely.
“Why the devil would I do anything so improper?” he had demanded, outraged at the suggestion.
“Because,” Dorset had said, grinning smugly. “Ladiesadoreimproper. Trust me on this, old chap.”
Neville had to admit that if there was any lady present at this country house party who seemed the sort to adore a gentleman who behaved in improper fashion, it was Lady Charity. But still, he had attended luncheon hoping to spy her there and take advantage of an opportunity to speak with her alone, on the fringes of the rest of the company.
No more reckless kissing in the dark.
Or reckless kissing in the library.
Or reckless kissinganywhere, for that matter.
Neville may have revised what he wanted in a wife, but he was not a completely different man. He still believed in propriety and rules and in keeping his future viscountess free of scandal. He believed in being a gentleman and behaving properly.
But how was he to do any of those things when Lady Charity remained conspicuously absent from the festivities? His mind swirled with questions as he gazed down, unseeing, at the park below.
Was she avoiding him?
What if Dorset was right?
Shouldhe seek her in her chamber?
His mind knew the rational answer to all these queries. However, all he could think about was seeking her out. The rest of the house party was engaged in various entertainments or returned to their chambers to rest and then dress for dinner. He had time aplenty until the gong announcing the next meal rang through the manor house.
All he had to do was muster the courage to seek out Lady Charity. Or the stupidity. He was not certain which he would require more.
Courage, he told himself.
And then he forced himself from his chamber. Taking great care to avoid being seen, he moved through the complex maze of halls that was Fangfoss Manor in search of the guest chamber door bearing Lady Charity’s name.
Just when he was about to surrender to failure, he found it.
With a glance over his shoulder and down each length of the hall, he knocked.
“Come,” she called.
Hastily, Neville entered, closing the door at his back. Could it be that sneaking about at a house party was this easy? He had never thought to try.
“My lord!”
Lady Charity’s shocked exclamation drew his mind from his thoughts and his gaze across the chamber to where she lounged on a bed, a book in hand. Her hair was unbound, the golden waves cascading down her back and framing her lovely face. She was wearing a dressing gown which was quite modest, but without her voluminous skirts and bustle, the generous flare of her rump was on display.
He had to steal himself against the sudden, overwhelming rush of lust that hit him.
“Lady Charity.” He bowed as if they were in a drawing room.
What was the protocol for arriving unexpectedly in the bedchamber of a lady to whom one was neither betrothed nor wed? Neville had never needed to consult it before. Damn Dorset. This truly was a terrible idea.
Lady Charity thrust her book aside and scrambled from the bed, going to great efforts to shake out her dressing gown and make certain she was properly covered. He caught a glimpse of her calves and ankles, and the enticing swells of her breasts beneath her dressing gown drew his eye.
“Why have you come to my chamber?” she asked, thrusting her hair over her shoulders.
Could it be that she was fretting over her appearance? Did she not know how astoundingly lovely she was?
Neville recalled her question, which was not an irrational one. He searched for an answer. He could hardly tell her he had come to her chamber upon the advice of the Marquess of Dorset, could he?
“What did the cook do to the man who disliked mutton?” he asked instead of answering her question, quite out of sorts now that he had landed himself where he wished to be.
