Hellfire. The image alone was enough to make him hard. “No, it should be somewhere comfortable, where you can relax.” In bed, he could take his time with her, learn her responses, pleasure her until she forgot her own name. “These things can’t be rushed.”
He savoured those final words like a rare vintage. Heaven knew how he would sleep tonight. It was absurd. The man who prided himself on control, undone by his own wife.
“Before this conversation strays beyond redemption, perhaps we should discuss something that doesn’t involve me removing your new dress.”
She nodded, tried to hide a smile. “We’ve made some progress today. We know Mrs Hodge is acting strangely, and that the rectory lies west of the mausoleum.”
“Daventry’s man reported she goes nowhere but home, the rectory and church. Perhaps we should attend Sunday service at St Luke’s.”
“She visits the market most mornings,” Olivia added.
“Perhaps she’s in cahoots with the fishmonger. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if half of London were part of the conspiracy. I’d wager a crate of mackerel she has no intention of checking the burial records.”
“We can call at St Luke’s and check them ourselves. We need something constructive to do tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Surviving the night would be challenge enough.
They continued eating, though he was a man with a fever, delirious enough to watch every morsel that passed her lips. For two hours, they spoke of Kincaid’s Scottish heritage, the families in the parish, his grandmother’s sensory garden, about everything but the slow burn of desire between them.
They retired to his private drawing room, drank wine and debated whether the poets should focus on traditional faith or question it. The intelligent conversation was nowhere near as satisfying as the curve of her smile when he conceded a point.
“I’ll walk you to your room.” He rose, not quite ready to say goodnight.
Along the way, he paused before various paintings, naming ancestors and recounting family tales. At one portrait, he smiled. “Cecil wore his doublet so tight people wondered how he drew breath.”
He ignored the likeness of his mother. He’d need to be three sheets to the wind to pass comment.
They stopped outside the Peacock Room.
Invite me in, Olivia.
But it wasn’t what they’d agreed.
“I’ve had a lovely evening. Thank you for explaining your family history, though I doubt I’ll remember all thenames.” She hesitated, the moment turning faintly awkward. “Good night, Gabriel.”
She rose on her toes, her mouth an inch from his.
One more breath, and he would stop pretending he could resist her. He saw the invitation in her eyes, felt his restraint snap, bent his head and kissed her.
The kiss was urgent, desperate, all heat and hunger, too fierce to retract. He wanted her now, tonight, of that there was no doubt. He’d be fit for Bedlam if he waited another hour, let alone a day.
But a gentleman never went back on his word.
He broke the kiss, the devil on his shoulder prodding him with its pitchfork, begging him to crush her to his chest and feast like a beast.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean for?—”
Her finger touched his lips. “I’m your wife. No apology is needed. We both crave companionship. But I shall abide by your request and come to you when I’m ready. How will we ever trust each other if we cannot keep our word?”
He stepped back. The distance failed to dampen his ardour. How could it, when he’d tasted heaven and longed to wallow in it?
“Good night, Olivia. I trust you’ll sleep well.”
He’d spend the night pacing like a caged lion.
“Good night, Gabriel.”
“Lock your door.”
