“Make sure they’re trailed through the balusters. We’ll not have some drunken lord tripping over greenery and tumbling to his death.”
“Of course.”
They discussed a host of ridiculous points, the most shocking being a plan to station violinists outside each tent so guests wouldn’t have to hear their own debauchery.
Daphne was still absorbing that when Mr Ramsey burstinto the ballroom below, clutching the base of a marble statue as if he’d wrestled it from a museum.
“Where do you want her? In here or on the terrace?”
Mr Hawke had the other end. He was in his shirtsleeves, his cravat missing, his shirt open at the throat. One hand gripped the head. The other was planted firmly on Venus’ bare marble breast.
Daphne drew a sharp breath.
Every nerve in her body sparked to life.
Her gaze fixed on his hand, the way his thumb brushed over the stone peak. A shiver chased down her spine. Her nipples tightened, a maddening ache beneath her corset.
He wasn’t touching her. Not even looking at her. Yet somehow she could feel the heat of his palm. The warm stirrings of arousal.
“In here,” Mr Hawke said, adjusting his grip without a hint of shame. “We’ll drape her in chiffon like a goddess of autumn.”
That’s when he looked up, as if her soul had called to him. Their gazes met and he almost lost his footing.
Every intimate moment they’d shared passed through her mind. His hand at her back, dipping so low her pulse raced, every muscle in her belly tightening. His tongue so deep in her mouth she’d forgotten her own name.
His heat. His scent. The weight of his body against hers.
The scrape of his jaw against her neck.
The way he growled when she bit his lower lip.
She might have dreamt that part.
He blinked. Just once. As if the memories struck him, too.
Mr Ramsey tugged at Venus’ base, too preoccupied with the weight to notice the charged silence. “I’ll drop her if we don’t move.”
Mr Hawke didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained locked on hers, one hand still planted on the statue’s breast.
Slowly, his thumb circled the peak.
The scoundrel.
She forced herself to look away, muttered something about inspecting garlands, and turned for the stairs. Anything to escape that gaze before it burned through her stays.
She needed air. She needed a safe place to calm her pulse. And to maybe hit herself over the head with a skillet.
The cottage was hardly a sanctuary.
The valise Mrs Flavell had given the coachman was still on the chair and contained the oddest assortment of things: a red oriental wrapper with pretty gold orchids, a wool shawl, and a tin of Earl Grey tea. Warm stockings with sweet little ribbons. Plain undergarments. A mahogany case containing a set of pocket pistols, complete with dangerous accessories.
Perhaps she was meant to seduce Mr Hawke, drown him in tea, shoot him, and wrap his body in a cotton chemise. The stockings and shawl were for warmth while she dug his grave.
She’d need one more taste of him first.
She wasn’t a complete martyr.
“Are you talking to yourself, Miss Harland?”
