Unfortunately, he would have to talk to his valet about last night. Dashwood would need to make sure the blood on the sheets was taken care of in some way that did not get Caro into trouble.
Because Phineas wanted no harm to come to his darling. He wanted her happy. And happy with him. He would prowl around today and catch the tall girl somewhere in the house and persuade her to repeat her visit to him tonight. He wanted to get a good look at her quim, bury his face between her legs, lick her sensitive little nubbin. She had spent for so long and with such vigor under his finger. If he got a chance to use his mouth on her . . . oh. He wanted to be the one to give her that rapture.
Phineas chuckled and sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and stood. His feet nudged something soft and white. Thinking it was his own shirt, he leaned over and picked it up.
It was her shift. He held it to his face. Yes, her scent clung to the material. An intoxicating and indefinable scent that was also the taste of her skin. And the shift was so soft. So much softer than linen. Or cotton. It slid like silk over his nose and his lips and the stubble on his jaw.
Like silk.
He looked at it now. Itwassilk. And the intricate lace at the neck and the hem had not been made by some country granny’s clever needles.
What was a serving girl doing with a silk nightdress trimmed with lace made on bobbins in Brussels?
Phineas suddenly had a bad feeling.
Dressed and shaved by the fastidious Dashwood, Phineas crossed the gallery, heading toward the stairs that would take him down to breakfast.
His thumb played with the bit of linen his valet had insisted on tying around his left fourth finger.
Dashwood had sniffed. “I will say you cut yourself, my lord. The laundress will know it’s a lie given the other material on the sheet, but that excuse will suffice for the rest of the staff. I will make sure the wench doesn’t get into trouble, don’t worry.”
And indeed, Phineas didn’t worry about discovery once reassured by Dashwood. He trusted Dashwood. Dashwood could handle a gaggle of country servants and hush any gossip. But Phineas couldn’t ignore the gnawing concern he had felt ever since he had rubbed the silk nightdress against his face.
Was Caro really a serving girl? Perhaps she was a governess? But were there children at Sudbury Manor who needed a governess? He had seen none, heard of none. But what manner of woman both worked in a house and owned a silk nightdress?
Perhaps for his seduction, Caro had stolen the nightdress?
He grinned. How gratifying if it were true. This darling girl choosing him and taking so many risks just to be with him—
Good God.
He came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the gallery.
Holy fuck.
His heart and lungs sank into his stomach and stayed there. His grin vanished and his mouth hung open.
Rising above him, enshrined in oil paint and larger-than-life was the green-eyed, raven-haired, square-jawed temptress whose flower he had plucked last night.
She was dressed in some horrible, frilled confection of a dress. Her gorgeous hair was largely obscured, swept up into a curl-infested tower that surely added another six inches to her height.
But it was her. Unmistakably.
Her green eyes were as unreadable as they had been when he had stimulated her slick nubbin, when he had penetrated her. Her brows were relaxed, just as they had been after he had finished outside her. But in the painting, her lips—those lovely lips he had ravished with his own—were curved in a smile.
He smarted. She hadn’t smiled once in his bed last night. Why was that? She would smile for some portrait painter but not for the Earl of Burchester?
She was the absent sister, of course. The one who hadn’t been at dinner. The sister whom he knew he should remember from some time ago. Some ball. But surely she had been his height then? Not the Amazonian princess she was now.
What would happen next? Would he go down to breakfast and be met with an ultimatum to marry from her brother, her father? Would he be challenged to a duel by his friend? Were these his choices? Marriage or duel?
Marriage. Without question, marriage. Definitely.
He had not thought to marry so soon, but he knew he would eventually. He had to make an heir. And to marry the lovely sister of his best friend?
It was a totally suitable match.
In a way, how fortuitous the decision had been taken away from him. Otherwise, he might let decades slip by before taking a wife.
