When Miss Allard asked him what he thought of the ballroom, he replied, “Difficult to heat.”
Doors at the opposite corner of the ballroom led to a parallel corridor, narrower and lined with more draped furniture. The corridor opened to a music room with piano and harp; a salon; a small gallery with landscapes and sculptures. Abbott’s lantern was an asset here; the light from the corridor windows only stretched so far. Miss Allard wanted to see everything, and Luke swung the light in dark corners and behind doors while she peeked beneath sheets and tested chair springs and opened desk drawers.
When she wasn’t exploring, she clung to his arm. She kept a running dialogue about dust mites, and plaster cracks, and the evidence of mice. Luke listened, but he also thought about the shape of her small breast pressed against his elbow; her delicate wrists when she tugged off her gloves to touch velvet upholstery; the sound of her laughter when he somehow managed to say some droll, clever thing.
In the fourth room, a long, narrow space with no clear purpose, they found a hodgepodge of sporting equipment and bottles of wine.
“Surplus from the billiard room and wine cellar,” he’d guessed.
Miss Allard looked about in a dazed sort of revery and said, “Surplus. Did you know both bedrooms at our cottage in New Bridge Road are half the size of this room, which the baron devoted to nothing more than surplus?”
Luke considered this, an admission devoid of resentment or avarice. In no way was Danielle Allard the princess he’d expected. She’d taken to this small castle without the least bit of intimidation, despite being raised like any other girl in any other village. She was wholly unaffected, but also bold and confident. She was unintimidated by possibility. He’d never met anyone with this singular quality. Except himself.
“Finding everything to your liking?” a voice said suddenly from behind them. It was Abbott, materializing from the ether. No footfalls, no rustle of coat. Clearly, Luke’s instincts had gone to shite because he hadn’t heard the man. Miss Allard jumped and spun, colliding with Luke. He barely managed to catch her up and not drop the lantern. They stood face-to-face, forearms clasped, the lantern swinging between them.
“Careful,” he whispered, ducking to speak into her ear.
“He startled me.”
“Me, too. Don’t tell the papers. Shameful oversight for a war hero.” To the caretaker, he said, “Mr. Abbott. You’ve caught us unawares. Again.”
“Silence was a priority to my last employer.”
“How expert you are,” Luke said. “Rest assured, it’s less important to me. Thank you for looking in on us. We are quite well.”
“Very good, sir,” intoned Mr. Abbott. “I should like to point out that the most delicate furnishings have been sealed in this salon for safekeeping. Also, any piece that might be faded in sunlight or damaged in an unheated room.”
“How resourceful,” said Luke. “Thank you. We shall take inventory in the days to come, I’m sure.”
“So you shall,” said Abbott. “Will there be anything else at the moment?”
“No. Thank you, Abbott.”
The caretaker affected a painful-looking bow and shuffled noiselessly away.
Miss Allard exhaled, and it came out like a laugh. “Has he gone?” She made no move to pull away.
“He has done.” Luke stepped closer. Her temple was inches from his lips. He need only bend his head to press a small kiss—just the tiniest little gesture, chaste, brotherly—on her temple. But it was one thing to catch her up and quite another to kiss her.
He set the lantern on the floor and slid his hands up her back, tracing her spine with his fingers. Not particularly chaste. Or brotherly. A one-time indulgence, he told himself.
She raised her head and he thought,Step away.But he didn’t. And she didn’t. And so they remained, clasped together.
Don’t look at her mouth, he told himself, but he looked anyway, half-lidded and hungry.
“I’m not typically so easily startled,” she said softly. Desire prickled down his body, a slow awakening. Muscles tensed, groin tightened. She was so very pretty; lashes long, nose interesting, mouth full. The ten-year gap in their ages was made so very obvious by her sweet yellow dress, her dewy skin, the litheness of her body against him. She was unspoiled and innocent and pure. It should’ve repelled him—not only was it the opposite of the plan, he didn’t even like youthful, virginal idealists. He liked mature women. Of a certain age. And level of experience. And understanding. And resignation.
Luke cleared his throat. “I think perhaps a little bell is in order for Abbott. Something he might wear round his neck like a goat.”
She laughed and he felt the sound in his gut. If ever his heroism was proven false, it was now. He wanted her. And not for his revenge and rescue. He wanted to show her pleasure. He wanted her for his very own. He wanted—
Through sheer force of will, he slid his hands from her spine to her waist. After that, he dropped them to open air. He took the smallest step back. “Shall we carry on?”
She nodded, staring up. The sail in his chest puffed out again,
“After you,” he rasped. She stumbled when she moved away.
“Careful.” He reached out a hand. He’d unsettled her. The notion made him happier than it should’ve.
