It wasn’t that he didn’t like this side of Aideen, it was…restful, but so far he’d been forced to bite his lip thrice to prevent himself from provoking, if only to see that rousing flash of temper.
Another downright incommodious sensation was that he felt wholly unsure of himself.
Always, he’d known the path he trod, the route he would take, but he was aware the path he’d thought to stomp down when he’d made Aideen his bride might have been…uncharted.
He couldn’t stay away. That was the truth. He never had.
Aideen twisted his insides, pureed his brains to syllabub and turned his controlled lust into a rabid beast. And if staying away from her had caused the debacle the other night, he’d have to consider a different course of action.
The problem was he couldn’t think of one. And that in itself was inexplicable.
“Would you like more chocolate, dearest Alex?” she simpered, and he ground his jaw.
If it was a ploy, all this niceness, he wondered who would break first? Aideen or himself? Neither of them had the temperaments for it.
Well, what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander.
“Thank you, my little leprechaun,” he purred with a malevolent grin. “I do believe I will. And with one more spoonful of sugar, I really cannot get enough, my cherished cherry.”
She smiled, but he detected a curl to the lip as she dumped three spoonfuls in his cup. “Oh, darling Alex,” she chirped, sliding it over, “you must also have a biscuit then. They are Irish and so sweet on the tongue.”
He nibbled the end. It was rather good. “Thank you, my innocent imp. I do so like an Irish tongue in my mouth. I do beg your pardon, I mean biscuit.”
Smiling again, Aideen sipped tea, but he noticed she’d purposely veiled her eyes with those dark lashes. He wondered what curses were rattling through that hasty noddle of hers – no doubt they involved sharp teeth, dogs and his tallywags.
“What are your plans for today, beloved spouse?” she enquired with a Cheshire cheese grin.
“Busy, my sweet sprite. I am at the House of Lords all morning and then with my steward for the afternoon. I also have to meet Winterbourne this evening, so I’m afraid I shall miss your melodiousness at dinner. And you, my flitting fairy?”
Was there a flash of disappointment in those eyes?
“I am shopping for new night-rails.” She beamed, twirling an ebony ringlet around her finger. “I seem to have…torn two of them. Rent beyond repair. Unusable. Have you any colour preference, my cherished husband and master?”
Hell. The winning shot.
His lust burned, and he grinned grudgingly in acknowledgement of a superior…master. “Considering I am being buried beneath your charm and benevolence, my effervescent elf, perhaps a reassuring black might be apt.”
Bottomless eyes flashed at last. “Just so, my beloved Alex darling.”
Aideen collapsed back in the breakfast chair, quite at sixes and sevens as Alexdarlingleft the room.
Who would have thought being nice was so tiring?
∞∞∞
The day had been devilishly dull and Rakecombe wished he was now home, trading sweet nothings with his wife.
He still had no idea how to reconcile his Crown work with his marital status and keeping his duchess from harm, but something had to give – he was going mad.
“You’re very quiet tonight, Alex,” said Winterbourne, frowning. “Oh, I should ask, are we on given name terms? I would say so, if we are headed to Charles Street, and… Where was I before I interrupted myself? Oh yes, well, quieter than usual, which isn’t saying much.”
It appearedJackhad been taking wittering lessons from Aideen – or was it the reverse? There must be some rule fifteen about driving your companion to distraction with meaningless prattle.
They strode towards Bluey’s home, eschewing the carriage as instructed by the chap’s wife. Jackwas even clothed in a dark ensemble for once, although he sported hessians – hardly a covert choice as the swinging gold tassels would be visible all the way from the Tower.
“Your boots are unsoiled. Gives you away,” Rakecombe grumbled, whacking his cane on his own grubby but eminently comfortable top boots.
“Brummel told me to clean them in the froth of champagne for shine, but I swear my Miggens drinks the bubbly stuff and spits on them instead. I’ll tell him to rub in some horse shi–”
