James stood too. “I’m not. I wouldn’t dream of it. I think you’re going to do exactly what you’ve set out to do, and I only wish I could be here to see it.”
“You’re leaving very soon?”
“That’s my plan.” He never imagined he’d have a moment of regret for wanting to resolve the matter of the Scottish manor quickly.
Observant lady that she was, she seemed to notice. “You don’t sound entirely convinced, Mr. Pembroke.”
“Perhaps I’ve realized it won’t be as simple a matter as I anticipated.”
She watched him, waiting, her gaze searching as if trying to see beyond his words and expression to all the vulnerable parts of himself he rarely revealed to anyone.
“Well, I hope you’ll be here long enough to see a bit of my rebellion.”
Chapter Eleven
James lay awake so long, his heartbeat synchronized with the tick of the clock on the mantel, slower and steadier than the patter of rain against the windowpanes. He’d given a name to every figure, including the damned unicorn, in the mural on the ceiling.
Cecil had seemed right, somehow, for that flamboyant, fanciful creature.
The fire in the grate still flickered with warmth, but he didn’t need heat. His thoughts had wandered past propriety hours ago and rushed headlong into wanton.
He was a certifiable scoundrel, a wretch. Lying a few rooms down from a woman who made his body ache, not to mention making him smile so damn much that the muscles of his face ached.
That moment when he’d braced his hands on her waist as she climbed out of the drawing room window was emblazoned in his mind’s eye, and he’d wager all the fortune he no longer possessed that her thoughts strayed to the same place his had.
But mercy, he wanted to find out. Was Lucy awake too?
He’d talked himself out of going to her twice already. The second time, he’d made it all the way out into the hall before turning back.
Devil and rot to propriety. He’d never needed it, except what had been required of him in commerce. Business etiquette had only ever truly been about basic civil niceties and protecting the egos of male colleagues.
Then, of course, there was his rule about avoiding flings with aristocratic ladies. Yes, he avoided affairs with noblewomen because he couldn’t stand the hypocrites of high society, but he’d also wanted to save himself the trouble of ever being in danger of damaging a lady’s reputation. He’d never fancied being a ruiner of virgins. Hell, even if a noble widow had been willing, he’d never wished to be the bounder who caused a woman to lose face in “good” society.
So this—this fascination—was all bloody new.
God, how he wanted her. There was no longer any use pretending otherwise. But neither would it do him any good to fool himself into believing he could be good for her beyond a night of pleasure. Her pleasure. Every fantasy he had involved giving her release rather than seeking his own. He wanted to see her lose herself that way again and again.
But beyond that, she deserved far better than he could offer.
Even if her family considered her a spinster, as she claimed, they would not welcome a penniless earl and ruined shipping magnate into their family.
Holy hell. James stood from his chair by the fire and stalked to the window, yanking back the drapes to press his forehead against the cool glass. Somehow, he’d gone from thoughts of tasting every inch of Lucy’s body to calculating exactly how inappropriate he’d be as a husband.
Marriage was not a desire or even a consideration in his life. He’d been too busy, too eager to maintain his independence, too afraid of disappointing anyone other than himself. And he didn’t have other men’s longing for a family or heirs.
He’d lost all that and decided it wasn’t meant for him. Wealth was enough.
Or so he’d thought.
Before he did something reckless, he stalked back to the bed and sank down into the cushioned mattress. The stray thought came that Lady Cassandra Munro must have furnished the room. His uncle had never given a damn for the comfort of others.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Her expected arrival tomorrow should be a relief. The sooner she arrived, the sooner this could all be resolved. Yet now she wasn’t a name mentioned by a solicitor. She was a lady adored by the woman who consumed his thoughts. A lady who’d devoted a great deal of time and care to Invermere.
Closing his eyes, he tried to think of nothing and merely imagine how it would feel to finally see the back of Archibald Beck forever.
Sleep had almost claimed him when his body tensed at a sound. Or had he imagined it? The creakof wood and a shuffling movement outside his bedroom door. Perhaps Hercules had taken up watch. The beast had greeted him yesterday morning too.
But a moment later, there came a whisperedshhthat was definitely feminine and not his imagination.
