Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(22)



“He can have her heart,” came Harry’s casual reply. “As long as I have the rest of her.”

As Catherine spluttered in offended fury, Harry stood and went to the door. “Let me show you out. No doubt you’ll want to go back and sound the alarms. For all the good it will do.”

It had been a long time since Catherine had known such fathomless anxiety. Harry . . . Poppy . . . could he really have designs on her, or had he simply decided to torture Catherine with a cruel jest?

No, he had not been playacting. Of course Harry wanted Poppy, whose warmth and spontaneity and kindness was completely alien in his sophisticated world. He wanted a respite from his own inexhaustible needs, and once he was done with Poppy, he would have drained her of all the happiness and innocent charm that had attracted him in the first place.

Catherine didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t expose her own connection to Harry Rutledge, and he knew it.

The answer was to make certain that Poppy was betrothed to Michael Bayning, publicly betrothed, as soon as possible. Tomorrow Bayning would meet with the family and accompany them to the flower show. Afterward Catherine would find a way to hasten the courtship process. She would tell Cam and Amelia that they must press for the matter to be quickly resolved.

And if for some reason there was no betrothal—perish the thought—Catherine would suggest that she accompany Poppy on a trip abroad. Perhaps France or Italy. She would even tolerate the company of the galling Lord Ramsay, if he chose to go with them. Anything to keep Poppy safe from Harry Rutledge.

“Wake up, slugabed.” Amelia strode into the bedroom wearing a dressing gown trimmed with cascades of soft lace, her dark hair gathered in a thick, neat braid over one shoulder. She had just come from feeding the baby. Having left him in the nurse-maid’s care, she was now set on the course of waking her husband.

Cam’s natural preference was to stay up all hours of the night and rise late in the day. This habit was directly opposed to Amelia’s early to bed, early to rise philosophy.

Going to one of the windows, she whisked open the curtains to admit the morning light, and was rewarded with a protesting groan from the bed. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “The maid will be here soon to help me dress. You’d better put something on.”

She busied herself at her dresser, sorting through a drawer of embroidered stockings. Out of the periphery of her vision she saw Cam stretch, his body lithe and powerful, his skin glowing like clover honey.

“Come here,” Cam said in a sleep-darkened voice, drawing back the bed linens.

A laugh stirred in her throat. “Absolutely not. There is too much to be done. Everyone is busy except you.”

“I intend to be busy. As soon as you come here. Monisha, don’t make me chase you this early.”

Amelia gave him a severe glance as she obeyed. “It’s not early. In fact, if you don’t wash and dress quickly, we’ll be late to the flower show.”

“How can you be late for flowers?” Cam shook his head and smiled, as he always did when she said something he considered to be gadjo nonsense. His gaze was hot and slumberous. “Come closer.”

“Later.” She gave a helpless gasp of laughter as he reached out with astonishing dexterity, snaring her wrist in his hand. “Cam, no.”

“A good Romany wife never refuses her husband,” he teased.

“The maid—” she said breathlessly as she was pulled across the mattress, and clasped against all that warm golden skin.

“She can wait.” He unbuttoned her robe, his hand slipping past the lace, fingertips exploring the sensitive curves of her br**sts.

Amelia’s giggles died away. He knew so much about her—too much—and he never hesitated to take ruthless advantage. She closed her eyes as she reached up to the nape of his neck. The clean, silky locks of his hair slipped through her fingers like liquid.

Cam kissed her tender throat, while one of his knees nudged between hers. “It’s either now,” he murmured, “or behind the rhododendrons at the flower show. Your choice.”

She writhed a little, not in protest but excitement as he trapped her arms in the confining sleeves of the dressing gown. “Cam,” she managed to say as his head bent over her exposed br**sts. “We’re going to be so terribly late . . .”

He murmured his desire to her, speaking in Romany as he did whenever his mood turned un-civilized, and the exotic syllables fell hotly against her sensitive skin. And for the next several minutes he possessed her, consumed her, with a lack of inhibition that would have seemed barbaric had he not been so gentle.

“Cam,” she said afterward, her arms clasped around his neck, “are you going to say something to Mr. Bayning today?”

“About pansies and primulas?”

“About his intentions toward my sister.”

Cam smiled down at her as he fingered a loose lock of her hair. “Would you object if I did?”

“No, I want you to.” A frown notched the space between her brows. “Poppy is adamant that no one should criticize Mr. Bayning for taking so long to speak to his father about courting her.”

Gently Cam used the pad of his thumb to smooth away the little frown. “He’s waited long enough. The Rom say of a man like Bayning, ‘he would like to eat fish, but he would not like to get in the water.’ ”

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