Valaria let out a soft laugh. “You know, six months ago I would have told you I was the last person you should ask about seduction of a man.”
“I’m still the last person you should ask,” Bernadette said on a laughing sigh.
Valaria grinned at her. “We would have been three women at a loss. But I suppose time changes us all. So where do you want to start? I’ll share whatever knowledge I have now.”
“Please! Just start somewhere,” Flora said, leaning forward. She noticed Bernadette was doing the same, as if they were both about learn at the knee of a master.
Valaria drew a deep breath. “I suppose let us start on the subject of kissing.”
* * *
Roarke had felt sick when he left his cousin’s home three days before. So many times he’d considered going back and telling him to sod off. But a visit to his mother had brought that up short.
She looked so small sometimes. And all she had was him and Hilde, who needed to be fairly compensated for her work. So he had no choice.
He’d also felt sick when he sent his message to Flora and received her invitation in return. He felt sick now as he rode up her drive to meet with her. What he wanted to do was tell her the truth. All of the truth.
Perhaps he still should and then they could work out together what to do next. Even though she would hate him.
He pulled up on her drive and swung down from his horse, patting the beast’s shoulder absently before he handed over the reins to one of Flora’s servants. The door to her home was already open, her butler awaiting him with a sharp expression on his face. Protective? Perhaps that was it. If true, it wasn’t a surprise. A woman like Flora, who was so kind, likely inspired protective instincts from most decent people who met her.
Roarke didn’t feel like a particularly decent person at present.
“Good afternoon, Hendricks,” he said, handing over his gloves and hat.
“The duchess is expecting you,” Hendricks said, leading him to the parlor off the foyer. “Please wait here for Her Grace.”
He left then, off to find her, and Roarke paced the small room, running a hand through his hair absently, the terrible position he found himself in ricocheting through his mind.
His mother, with no protection because of him. Flora, hurt by what he had been told to do. And also thoughts of that day in the museum when she’d stared up at him and he’d wanted her so much. That hadn’t been a game or a lie.
“Mr. Desmond.” Her voice came behind him, and he turned to watch her enter the room.
His breath caught because she was even more beautiful than the last time he’d seen her. Her auburn hair was curled and plaited in an elaborate style, her blue eyes were bright and she wore a yellow gown with faint striping through the fabric. A silky sash settled just below her lovely breasts, accentuating her curvy figure and making him want to trace his hands along the lines of her.
No, he was definitely not decent.
“Your Grace,” he said, stepping toward her.
She wavered before she glanced back at the door. Slowly she reached back, and then she did something unthinkable: she shut it.
He stared at her hand, still resting on the barrier, her eyes holding on him.
“I’m glad you sent your message, Roarke. I also wished to see you and wasn’t brave enough to be the one to ask.” She moved forward just a half-step and clenched her hands before her. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I saw you last.”
Her cheeks filled with pink color at that admission and her gaze darted away for a fraction of a moment before she seemed to force herself to look back. To hold his stare with a shaky boldness that made it feel like she was closer than she actually was.
He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry with how we left things,” he said, hearing how rough his voice was with desire.
Her eyes widened and her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile. Like she was happy to hear him say such a thing. A wash of emotions hit him all at once. He felt want and need, and also self-loathing. In his mind, he could hear her sharp intake of breath when she’d looked at the erotic paintings, but it mixed with the cruel laughter of his cousins as they crowed about him accepting their wicked bargain. It collided with the tenor of his own lies, ones this woman didn’t deserve.
“Flora, I must tell you something,” he whispered.
She moved forward swiftly, her hands outstretched. “Please,” she whispered. “Let me go first.”
He bent his head. “Of course.”
“I…I was married to a man much older than I was,” she said softly, her cheeks blooming with even deeper color. Roarke forced himself to look at her then, to take in any information that would make him feel better about this situation.
