The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(64)

She gnawed on her bottom lip. “What if you get injured?”

He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You’re worried about me getting hurt when you were shot at?”

“I have you and Papa to protect me. I’m perfectly safe,” she said confidently. “You aren’t, however, if you’re wading into the thick of things.”

He set down his fork and reached for her hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Trusting me with your safety.” His gaze was heated, intense. “Caring about mine.”

“You’re welcome,” she said softly.

“Speaking of your safety,”—he let go of her hand to pull something out of the greatcoat he’d slung over his chair—“I have something for you.”

Brimming with curiosity, she took the white silk pouch from him. She untied the strings and pulled out the contents.

Her gaze bounced to his. “You brought me a pistol?”

“For added protection. It’s a ladies piece, designed to fit in a purse or skirt pocket. Don’t judge it by its size: while small, it shoots as well as any gun.”

Fascinated by the petite weapon, she turned it over in her hands, admiring the fine craftsmanship. “What a darling mother-of-pearl handle. And are those flowers stamped in the metal?” she said in delight. “Why, this would look most fetching with my silver reticule…”

At the silence that greeted her, she looked up. Andrew had those crinkles around his eyes, the ones that made him look even more dashingly attractive.

“What is so amusing?” she said.

“You.” His mouth twitched. “You do realize that the pistol is more than an accessory?”

“Well, yes. But it doesn’t hurt if something looks pretty and has a sensible function, does it?” She gave the pistol a loving pat. “Thank you for the lovely and thoughtful gift.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled slowly. “I’ll teach you how to shoot it, too.”

After that, conversation turned to everyday topics. Andrew was easy to talk to and apparently interested in her mundane (compared to his) existence. As she told him about how she was settling into the house, she was reminded of a problem—one that she wanted to give him fair warning about.

How on earth do I bring this up… without sounding forward?

“I’ve been trying to decide what furnishings to keep and what to have, um,”—her cheeks warmed as a specific item flashed in her mind—“… removed.”

He glanced around the feminine sitting room. “This room is quite tasteful.”

“To use Mr. Mayhew’s discreet turn of phrase, Daltry used this house to entertain his special friends,” she said dryly. “I do believe the previous occupant was one of his mistresses.”

“Ah. Does that bother you?”

“Not at all. I’m just glad that, whoever she was, she had excellent taste. For the most part,” she amended, thinking of the glaring exception in the bedchamber.

Andrew set down his napkin. “The meal was delicious.”

“What can I say? Your cook is talented.” Buying time, she said quickly, “There’s dessert, if you want it.”

“I do.”

“The blancmange is on the bottom of the cart—” Her words ended in a gasp for he’d risen and swept her easily into his arms. “What are you doing?”

“Having dessert.”

~~~

“There’s something I ought to tell you,” Primrose said.

“Let’s talk in bed.”

Andrew thought his a fair suggestion considering they were in her bedchamber, her clothing strewn in a trail behind them. He drank in the sight of Primrose: her golden tresses had fallen free of its fussy coiffure, her firm, pink-tipped tits giving a saucy bounce with each backward step she took. Six more, he judged, and she’d hit the edge of the bed—an oversized affair surrounded by gauzy white curtains that hung from the ceiling.

Five steps, four…

“I wanted to tell you this before,” she persisted.

He stripped off his jacket, tossed it over a chair as he passed. “Tell me what, sweetheart?”

Her gaze landed on the prominent bulge in his trousers, and her bottom lip caught beneath her teeth. “It’s about the bed.”

“An apropos topic.” His waistcoat went the way of his jacket, and he advanced another step.

She retreated accordingly.

…three steps… two steps…

The back of her knees hit the mattress; nowhere left for her to go.

“I didn’t have time to have it changed,” she blurted.

“I don’t give a damn.” He gave her a gentle push, and, with a little squeal, she tumbled backward onto the bed. He followed, careful to keep his weight from crushing her. He nuzzled her ear, inhaling her fragrance greedily. “In case you’re worried, my servants are well trained. I’m certain they changed the sheets without your instruction.”

“I wasn’t referring to the sheets.”

He raised his head, puzzled. Cheeks rosy, she wordlessly pointed upward.

He twisted his head around—and let out a bark of laughter. “Good God.”

“I know. It’s terribly wicked, isn’t it?” Primrose said in a rush.