The Sins of Lord Lockwood (Rules for the Reckless #6)(11)

Without remark, she refilled his empty cup.

“The men I have hired.” His voice sounded hoarse. God save her—she thought the staff rude, rough, and unkempt? His body would make a lesson for her. But she would never see it. “I will keep those men. I’m afraid I must insist on it. If you choose to add to their number, that’s your own affair.”

Her cheek hollowed, as though she were biting the interior to stem her protest. “Fine,” she said at last, very curtly.

One freckle sat directly between the peaks of her upper lip. That freckle was a taunt.

He lifted his coffee, bent his face into the cup. Bitter, dark, hot. Breathe.

How many times had young Lord Lockwood passed up the opportunity to touch her? He had imagined himself honorable for waiting. He’d believed there would be endless time to explore her. He had forgone the chance to kiss her once more, to stroke the curve of her waist, to trace the vein that wound down her chest and disappeared beneath the neckline of her lavender gown, to rip that gown apart and bare her body, to suck the peaks of her nipples and then pull her into a dark corner and lift her skirts and take her.

Honor had demanded that he wait.

Liam bolted the remainder of his coffee.

He would have reached back in time and throttled that other man, if only he were able.

“I may insist on removing them from public roles,” she said.

“Of course.” He laid down his cup, not knowing or caring to what he’d just agreed.

“As for the business of your estates,” she said, “I hope you have reviewed the improvements I made. While you were on holiday, I undertook a catalog . . .”

He watched her mouth as her voice faded from his ears. It had not all been a waste. He had not been entirely monkish. He remembered:

The heat of her, the hot wet depths of her mouth, the heavy weight of her breasts, her nipples peaking as her plump soft thighs yielded—

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He had risen from his chair. She looked surprised, but not shocked. She would look shocked in truth if he came to her tonight.

No, not shock. When he bared his body, she would be horrified. He could imagine that look. He held it fixed in his mind, for it killed his desire quicker than any drug.

“Out,” he said as he turned for the door.

“Were you always so charming?” came her sharp voice. “Four years—heaven knows I can’t remember what I saw in you.”

He closed the door with effortful care, then leaned against it, taking a deep breath of air unscented by her.

If she truly did not remember, then how fortunate she was.





CHAPTER THREE




Four years earlier

“They say he was sent down from Oxford for wenching,” said her cousin Moira.

“I heard it was gambling—and the man he fleeced was a don!”

“He set a fire in the Bodleian.” This from Helen Selkirk. “They lost dozens of books, and expelled him. He disappeared for a year afterward; even his own father didn’t know where he’d gone.”

Anna had been listening with half an ear, her attention on the dance floor. She liked a reel, the stomp and spring of it, but this orchestra had clearly been given orders to the contrary. The hostess, Mrs. Cameron, was determined to bring her daughter’s suitor up to snuff, and apparently believed that four waltzes in a row would do the trick.

“Anna, he was asking after you, you know.”

Anna glanced over. Helen Selkirk was a terrible gossip, but also a discerning one; she did not carry tales that turned out to be false. “Who said so?”

“I heard him myself, speaking with your auntie May. Imagine it—she said you didn’t like to dance!”

The other girls groaned. Anna glanced to the far corner, where Aunt May was whispering furiously into her son Daniel’s ear. Daniel looked miserable, his broad, handsome face contorting into grimaces as he furiously shook his head.

Poor Daniel. He was a sweet, decent fellow, who thought of her as a sister, and who loved a girl from Glasgow whose father was a clerk. His parents wanted more for him. They wanted him to wed Anna, to be precise.

They were not alone in that effort. All the aunts had plans for Anna. During her childhood, they had passed her around more quickly than a hot potato, despairing of her as an ungainly, graceless tomboy. But now she was grown, every one of them had a son or nephew that they knew would make a perfect match for her.

Happily, ungainly tomboys did not grow up to be easy marks.

“Poor Lord Lockwood,” purred Moira. “How downcast he must feel, to think you don’t wish to dance with him.”

“Fortune hunter,” Anna said dismissively.

“Oh, Anna!” This from Fiona Shaw. “He’s very handsome. And quite popular in London, I believe. If he only wanted a fortune—”

“I don’t wish to be introduced.”

The others gasped, their fans fluttering harder. “What? You can’t mean it,” said Moira.

“But I do.” Anna did stand in need of a husband. Otherwise, she would never have consented to an entire spring of incessant house parties up and down the country. She would much rather be on the island, for spring was very beautiful on Rawsey, the waves feisty and sparkling, the light strong and clear.

But to have the island, she must first acquire a husband.