Lords of Desire (19 page)

“Thank you.” He stood, not giving her a moment to retreat to a safer distance. She leaned back quickly and lost her balance again. He caught her, his grip strong but gentle.

His skin was so close now. She was tall, but he was taller. If she leaned forward ever so slightly her lips would brush his chest. If she stretched just a little she could kiss his collarbone. If she—

She stepped back and he let her go, but there was a light in his eyes that did unsettling things to her stomach.

“You’re welcome.” She spun away. Her disquiet was completely understandable. Seeing Ian—being in the same small room with him—was a shock. Once she adjusted to the situation, she would be fine.

Right. And she’d be just as fine sharing that very,very small bed with him. He’d used to spread out, taking over all the space. Did he still?

She was not about to find out. Mrs. Gilbert must be mistaken. There must be some other solution—some other room that he—or she—could move to. Perhaps she could share with one of the other women.

She would ask him to move the chair to the other side of the room now and then later, when she was dressed, she would seek out Mrs. Gilbert.

“Ian—” She turned without thinking and found herself staring at his naked back while he searched through his valise. At his narrow, muscled arse.

“What?” He shifted to face her and now she was staring at something else, something that blossomed under her gaze, growing thick and long and…

She wrenched her eyes to his face. His expression was stark and…hot. His lips curved into a half smile.

“Lass, ye can look as much as ye like.”

She whirled back to the fire. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ian had always been so comfortable in his body. He’d used to think nothing of walking naked around their room—

He’d best not be thinking he could do that here.

Shehad to get other accommodations. Being here with Ian—she felt unwell. Achy.

Needy.

She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to feel anything. Feeling hurt too much.

She heard water splash against the sides of the tub.

“Can you hand me the soap, Nell?”

“Get it yourself.” She was not going to look at him again. She should just walk out right now—but she wasn’t dressed and she certainly wasn’t going to get dressed with Ian in the room.

“I can’t reach it. Please, Nell?”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Where is it?”

“On the floor under the chair. It probably went flying when you did.”

She felt herself flush. Could anything be more embarrassing than to go flopping naked toward the floor when seen by one’s estranged husband for the first time in a decade?

“Are you certain you can’t get it yourself?”

“Aye. It’s out of reach—and if you turned around, you’d see I’m already in the tub.”

“Iknow you’re in the tub. Can’t you get out and get it?”

“I’d drip all over Motton’s floor. It’s not like I’m asking you to go to Glasgow, Nell.”

“Oh, very well.” She carefully averted her gaze, moved to pick up the soap, and thrust it in his direction. He chuckled.

“What, Nell, are ye shy? Ye dinna used to be. Ye used to look quite eagerly.”

“Stop it!” She did look then. She was angry enough that she had no trouble focusing only on his face. “You can’t walk back into my life—by accident—and act as if the last ten years never happened.”

His face grew still, his eyes hard. “You’re the one who walked out, Nell. I tried to see you; I wrote you letter after letter. You refused me at every turn.”

She pressed her lips together. She had been mad that first year—angry and crazy. But it didn’t matter. Ian hadn’t understood, would never understand why she’d mourned such a wee speck of a thing, a baby that had died before her belly had even begun to swell.

She could not talk about it now.

“I—” She shook her head. “It’s…there’s just too much time gone. The wound’s too deep to heal, certainly by something as frivolous as this chance meeting—this accident of hospitality.”

“Perhaps this accident is an opportunity.”

He was not going to cut up her peace like this. She had worked too hard for too long to attain it.

“Could it be you are just looking for someone to warm your bed while Lady Remington is unavailable? Is that what this is about?”

Ian flushed. Ah, so she had hit the mark. She ignored the hollow feeling that thought provoked. Anger was what she wanted. Anger had always saved her in the past. “Whereis Lady Remington, by the way? Did she have a prior commitment? I would have thought she’d break it to come here with you.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Remington was not invited.”

“Oh? I’m surprised.” She fanned the flames of her anger higher. She had perfected the art of sarcasm over the years. It was an excellent way to repel unwanted advances. “Does Lord Motton not read the society pages? Doesn’t he know the identities of Lord K. and Lady R.?”

Ian’s face grew stiffer and his voice sounded more English, precise and cold. “I have no idea what Lord Motton does and does not know. I didn’t know you read that twaddle.”

“Well, I do. I like to beau courant . It’s so entertaining to keep up with your escapades.”

The anger felt good—and she could see she was infuriating him as well. “I would have thought you could have got her an invitation.”

“Perhaps I could have, had I tried.”

“Oh, so you didn’t wish to be encumbered by your mistress? Did you hope to find her replacement at this house party, then—someone younger, more entertaining? Poor Lady Remington.”

Ian’s face was red with anger. It was a wonder he wasn’t causing the bathwater to turn to steam.

She glanced down at the thought—and jerked her attention back to his face. The water was exceptionally clear. She could see…everything. At least that part of him had calmed down—unlike the rest of him. His jaw was tense—he must be gritting his teeth. His words certainly came out as though he were.

“Perhaps I shall look around. I don’t usually have difficulty finding bed partners—and I suppose that would help our rather cramped situation here, wouldn’t it? If you are certain you aren’t interested? Though I suppose a wife can’t be a mistress, can she?”

She wanted to slap him. “You conceited, arrogant—”

“Consider carefully. It would make sharing that bed so much more comfortable. As you point out, I am without Caro—and you are without Pennington—”

“Pennington?” She might be able to generate some steam herself. How dare he throw that disgusting, slimy…octopus in her face?

“MacNeill said the man was embracing you in the library.”

“Exactly.He was embracingme —I was not embracing him. You are the one who sent the man to Pentforth. What were you thinking?”

“I certainly wasn’t thinking to send my wife a paramour!”

“You really think…Pennington and I…you actually thought we…”

Ian shrugged. “You used to be a lusty girl. I’m not naive—I know women have needs.

It’s been ten years since we…” His voice softened. “I assume you’ve had lovers over the years, Nell—you’ve just managed to be discreet—and you’ve not presented me with another man’s brat, for which I’m thankful, by the bye.”

Her jaw was hanging open. She wanted to cry and scream at the same time. She wanted to drown the despicable, obnoxious, ignorant cur. Did he understandnothing ?

She would hit him. She would strangle him. She would—

She was still holding the cake of soap in her hand. She wanted to throw it at his head; instead she flung it into the bath, sending water splashing.

She sincerely hoped she’d hit her target.

CHAPTER 3

He’d certainly bungled that.

Ian opened the bedroom door and let Nell precede him into the corridor. She’d wanted him to leave as soon as he’d got his clothes on, but he’d pointed out she needed help dressing.That had been an uncomfortable exercise, akin to clothing a statue. They’d not exchanged a single unnecessary word since she’d tried to emasculate him with the soap cake. He winced. Thank God the water had slowed that missile. Her aim had been uncomfortably good.

“Will you take my arm?”

She spared him one cold look and started down the corridor alone. Wonderful. He lengthened his stride. He was not going to chase her all the way to Motton’s drawing room. “Don’t you think you are being a little childish?”

She glared at him again, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.

“If you clench your teeth any tighter, you’ll break your jaw.”

She made a short noise—a cross between a hiss and a growl—and moved faster.

Blast it. It wasn’t his fault they’d been tossed into that wee room together. He was as much a victim of Miss Smyth’s twisted sense of humor as she was.

He offered her his arm when they reached the stairs. She grabbed the banister.

Zeus! So he’d flirted with her. He was a man. Damn it, he was still legally her husband.

He could have insisted she climb into that bed and fulfill her wifely duties. Not that he would have, of course. He had no need for an unwilling bed partner….

But shehadn’t been unwilling. Hell, she’d hardly been able to keep her eyes off him.

He’d been holding his breath, waiting for her to touch him, to run her fingers over his naked—

He could have seduced her. She must know that—she’d never been a cabbage head. And she had no cause to get on her high horse. If he’d had mistresses, she’d had many male

“friends.”

He glanced at her. Her face could have been carved from stone. She still would not look at him.

He should divorce her. Caro had been teasing him to do so almost from the moment he’d first climbed into her bed. Her motivation was obvious, of course—she wanted to be his next countess. Hell would freeze over beforethat happened.

Truthfully, he’d used his married status as protection, to stave off husband-hunting mamas and their daughters. Any female choosing to dally with him knew from the outset a wedding ring was not in the cards. That suited him perfectly. He had absolutely no desire to step into the parson’s mousetrap again.

But now he was thirty. He could no longer ignore the reality of his position—he needed an heir. He had no brothers or male cousins waiting in the wings. And to get an heir he needed a wife—a real wife. A woman who would—if not welcome, at least allow—him into her bed and into her body. Obviously Nell would do neither.

He would have Motton fix this infernal room situation and then he would avoid her for the rest of the house party. When he got back to London, he would see about ending his marriage.

Bloody hell, his stomach felt like lead. He’d love to hit something. Someone. Perhaps Motton—he couldn’t very well hit Miss Smyth.

The footman took one look at them and flung open the door, almost jumping out of their way.

There was Motton, by the hearth, talking to two young women—twins. They could be trained monkeys for all he cared.

“Motton.”

The man raised an eyebrow. The women actually stopped their bibble-babble to gape. He had not sounded particularly polite. Well, he did not feel polite.

“If I might have a moment of your time? We”—he gestured toward Nell—“have something of an urgent nature to discuss.”

“Ah.” Motton’s smile remained in place, but his eyes turned watchful. He’d always been a downy one. “What—”

“Lord Kilgorn, Lady Kilgorn, how lovely to see you.”

Ian was certain there was nothing lovely about him at the moment. He turned to see who had spoken. A short, gray-haired woman smiled up at him.

His frown deepened; her smile widened. Her blue eyes were actually twinkling.

“May I present my aunt, Miss Winifred Smyth?” Motton said. He treated the woman to a very pointed look. She patted him on the arm.

“Have a touch of indigestion, do you, Edmund? Never fear. I have just the elixir for that.

I’ll give you some later, if you like.”

“No, thank you.” Motton smiled slightly. “The last time I tried one of your quack remedies, Aunt Winifred, I had to see a physician to be cured of your cure.”

“Fiddle-faddle. You probably took too much—or not enough.”

Miss Smyth turned back to Ian and smiled even more brightly, if that were possible. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to welcome you when you arrived. I trust you found everything in order?”

Motton choked on his sherry.

“Actually, Miss Smyth, things are most certainly not in order.”

“Oh? I’m sorry to hear that, Lord Kilgorn. What is amiss?”

Had he entered Bedlam? “Perhaps we could discuss this in a more private location? It is an issue of some delicacy.” Not that the entire drawing room didn’t already know he and Nell were estranged. Motton definitely knew or he wouldn’t have that carefully blank expression pasted on his face. Miss Smyth must be the only woman in all of England and Scotland who was not fully aware of their marital situation—ifshe were truly in ignorance.

“Of course.” Miss Smyth sounded as cheery as if they were chatting about a balmy spring day. “Let’s step into the green parlor, shall we? Edmund, why don’t you bring along the sherry?”

“A splendid idea.” Motton grabbed a decanter and motioned Ian and the ladies to precede him.

The green parlor was a modest room with a settee, two upholstered chairs, a scattering of tables—and not a single hint of green.

“It used to be green,” Motton said, pulling the door closed behind him, “but my mother hated the color. Had it painted over the day after she married Father. Care for some sherry?”

“Please.” Whisky would be preferable, but Ian would take anything alcoholic at this point.

He considered Miss Smyth. How did one vent one’s spleen on an exceedingly cheerful woman who looked old enough to be one’s mother? Nell was sitting on the gold-colored settee next to her. Perhaps she should handle the issue.

Or perhaps not. Miss Smyth was leaning over and patting Nell’s hand.

“Don’t say a word until you’ve had a glass of sherry, Lady Kilgorn. You poor thing!

You do look like you could use a restorative.”

“Yes, well—”

“And I shall have one, too, Edmund—a full glass, please.”

“Of course.” Motton handed the ladies their drinks.