She opened and shut her mouth, but didn’t refuse him the suggestion as she slowly got to her feet and moved toward the dining room. She didn’t call him back as he strode from the room and down the hallway. Iverson was coming from the opposite direction and Ezra slowed.
“Where was Her Grace’s driver put?” he asked.
Iverson blinked, confused by the question for a moment. “Mr. Wynn?” he asked.
Ezra chuckled. “If that is her driver.”
“Er, the third floor, sir. Fourth door to the left. In the servant quarters.” Iverson shifted. “Should I…should I fetch him? Is there a problem you need me to attend to?”
“I’m happy to fetch him myself,” Ezra said, and began up the stairs. “And there is the complete opposite of a problem, I assure you. Have a place added for supper, will you?”
He could practically feel Iverson’s confusion radiating off of him, but the servant didn’t ask further questions. All of Ezra’s staff were accustomed to his…idiosyncrasies. And to the private nature of those who were invited into this space. In that, Ezra trusted. And if things played out in the most interesting way, he’d be certain that the Duchess of Sedgewick knew it too.
He bounded up the backstairs into the servant area of the house and stopped at the door that Iverson had mentioned. He smoothed his jacket slowly before he rapped his knuckles on the surface. There was a rustling and then the door opened to reveal Oliver Wynn. The man had been in the process of changing, it seemed. He had a clean, dry shirt on, but it wasn’t fully buttoned, so it revealed a v of extremely attractive chest. Muscular from work. His hair was wild, probably from the towel that was draped across his shoulder. Behind him, Ezra could see his sodden jacket and shirt spread out to dry before the small fire in the grate.
“Mr—Mr. Pembroke,” he stammered, straightening up into a more formal posture. Erasing from his expression a feral jealousy that he hadn’t been able to control the moment he first saw Ezra at his door.
Oliver Wynn really was a very attractive man. Ezra had never been able to resist a very attractive man. He had no idea what this man’s…proclivities were. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t look. And maneuver, if the moment was right.
“You must wonder what I’m doing here.”
“Does Anna…” Oliver dropped his head a moment. “Does Her Grace need me? Is she well?”
“Calm yourself,” Ezra said softly at Oliver’s genuine reaction of concern. “She is very well. She requests your presence at supper.”
Oliver’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, warm brown eyes. “What?” he gasped out.
“You heard me,” Ezra said mildly, leaning against the doorjamb and watching as Oliver paced away.
He pivoted back and now he looked suspicious. Guarded. “Why?”
Ezra tilted his head and held the other man’s gaze evenly. “I think you know why. Or do you pretend you don’t?”
Oliver’s jaw when tight and his eyes flashed with angry emotion. “Don’t be vulgar.”
“Anything but,” Ezra said with a small smile. So he had not misread the situation. Good. He leaned closer, marking how Oliver’s pupils dilated slightly. Interest, even against his own will. “Come join us, Mr. Wynn. Please.”
Oliver let out a shaky breath and then jerked out an unsteady nod. “If that is her wish.”
Ezra gave him swift directions to the dining room and smiled. “I’ll join you momentarily.”
Then he turned and left, his body all but humming with possibility. And a pulsing desire that felt so damned good because it had been so very long since he’d last let himself feel it.
* * *
Anna
Anna was trembling. She had no idea why, but the crackle in the air since her arrival at Mr. Pembroke’s home felt both exciting and…well, dangerous. Perhaps it was because of that moment with Oliver in her bedchamber. For almost a year, she had held the man at arm’s length, trying to pretend away what she knew about him. What she felt when she was near him.
She should have continued to do so, if she was trying to be fair to both of them. She should have asked Mr. Pembroke for a servant to assist her when she changed. But truth be told, she’d wanted Oliver’s hands on her, even briefly. She’d wanted his breath on her neck. And God, but she wanted it still. Him still. Always.
And then there was Mr. Pembroke, himself. Ezra—he’d said his given name was when he’d loomed over her in the foyer, filling all the space and making her feel…fluttery. There was no mistaking the heat of his stare. He did nothing to hide it. But it didn’t feel salacious or frightening. When he looked at her, she felt…wanted.
It was so disconcerting. All of it. Was she a wanton?
The door to the room opened and Oliver stepped in. All her thoughts faded as she stared up at him, he looked down at her…and the world seemed to slow. Spiral into focus between them.
“Oliver,” she whispered.
