Chapter Twenty-Two

T here's nothing I wouldn't do for the woman of my dreams.

She'd heard him say it. Loud and clear.

Standing in the corridor between her grandfather's library and the stairs to the servants' section of Silvercrest Manor, Pippa nearly lost her footing. She'd wanted to seduce the statuesque young doctor, touch and kiss him everywhere, and longed to spend more time with him. But one thing had led to another, and now that she was here alone in the manor with him, and he'd told her that he was falling in love with her, it just didn't seem real. So many wonderful things didn't usually happen to her, and she wasn't prepared to receive such a gift of fate. She'd been prepared to fight for it. Alas, she hadn't even expected to come out victorious.

So, what now?

"Come on," Pippa took his hand and dragged him down the hall, down a flight of only a few stairs. He followed her into a large kitchen.

The scent of buttery shortbread danced in the air, capturing his attention and beckoning him closer. It mingled with the fragrance of freshly brewed tea, creating an intoxicating aroma that enticed his senses. The subtle notes of salted butter and vanilla infused the space, weaving a thread of temptation that wrapped around Nick's senses, leaving him entranced. Pippa radiated a magnetic charm. Her graceful movements carried an air of mystery, as if she held secrets yet to be discovered. Nick couldn't help but feel a growing sense of urgency and excitement watching each of her steps and gestures.

Pippa's features were cast in a soft and captivating glow in the flickering light of the crackling fire. Shadows played upon her face, highlighting the delicate contours. Nick's heart quickened as he watched her, captivated by the interplay of light and shadow on her clavicle. A rucked layer of muslin covered her chest, but he couldn't stop staring. There was something about how the strands of hair had fallen loose and touched her skin that reminded him of his dream. They'd been in the greenhouse, not a kitchen. But he'd grabbed her, laid her on the table, and climbed over her, kissing her gorgeous little nipples…

"Do you like milk in your tea?" Pippa interrupted his stream of thoughts.

"No, thank you."

"Sugar?"

"Honey, if you have any."

Pippa turned and rummaged around a high cabinet but couldn't see the second shelf. There was a stool in the corner, and Nick picked it up, carried it to her, and set it at her feet. Every sound in the kitchen had a certain significance, drawing Nick further into the scene unfolding before him. The whispering rustle of Pippa's dress against the rough bricks lining the walls created a sensory tapestry that enveloped Nick.

His eyes lingered on the polished wooden table, its surface gleaming under the warm glow of the fire. A fresh bowl of oranges stood as a vibrant centerpiece, each succulent piece tempting his gaze but none as much as Pippa. The bright color and inviting aroma wafting from the bowl invited Nick into a world of luscious flavors and hidden desires, leaving him yearning for a taste.

Nick felt the rising tension between himself and Pippa, an unspoken connection that drew them closer. The kitchen became a stage for their dance of trust and heightened the suspense.

He didn't speak and watched her across the table as she set the teapot, two saucers, cups, and the terra-cotta jar with a wooden honey wand sticking out from a little brown lid on a tray. She added a small crystal dish with what appeared to be homemade shortbread, for each had a somewhat different shape, albeit all were rectangles with granulated sugar glistening on the top. Then she picked the tray up and headed to the door.

Nick opened it for her and followed her upstairs. The rustling of her dress and the slight clinking of the porcelain on the copper tray distracted him. His eyes followed the gentle side-to-side rocking of her hips, and he couldn't think of anything he wanted more at this moment than to grab her hips and touch her taut little bottom. Nick's mind returned to his dream, back to picturing how she'd wrap her legs around him as he drove relentlessly into her.

When Pippa led him to a beautifully decorated and well-heated room on the manor's second floor, he froze as soon as he stood in the door. To his left was a seating area arranged in front of a crackling fire, an upholstered settee in the same teal damask tones as the wallpaper, the throw pillows, and—Nick swallowed hard—the canopy over the bed to his right.

Nick watched Pippa, her back to him, her form a graceful silhouette against the fireplace's warm glow. She was a few steps ahead, poised to place the tray on the side table between the plush settee and the crackling hearth. A question bubbled up within him, curiosity lending courage to his voice.

"Is this your bedchamber?" He gestured towards the bed, its covers invitingly soft and untouched.

The words hung in the air, lingering like a note played on a piano. Time seemed to slow in that moment as Pippa turned to face him. She pivoted on her heel, a cup perched on a saucer in one hand, the porcelain teapot held aloft in the other. Her eyes widened in surprise, the question catching her off guard. It was then that it happened.

With a startled gasp, her grip on the teapot faltered. Nick watched in stunned silence as the teapot tipped slowly, its contents spilling in a torrent of amber liquid. The tea cascaded through the air, droplets catching the firelight. Before he could react, the hot tea splashed against his chest, soaking his shirt instantly. The expected heat through the fabric took his breath away. His shirt clung to his skin, the material saturated with the spilled tea, a patchwork of dampness spreading across his torso.

The scent of the tea, a blend of aromatic floral notes, filled his nostrils. It was a heady mix, but the shock of the sudden spill overshadowed the fragrance. Nick could only stand there, frozen in surprise, as the last drops of tea dripped from his shirt. He looked down at the small puddle seeping into the carpet below.

"Oh dear!" Pippa's gasp echoed in the room, her hands flying to her mouth as she saw him. The empty teapot clattered onto the tray, its job done. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the distant ticking of a clock.

Nick looked down at his shirt, the fabric darkened by the tea. He lifted his gaze to meet Pippa's, his eyes reflecting a mix of shock and amusement. Despite the discomfort, he couldn't help but chuckle. After all, it wasn't every day one got doused with tea in a moment of surprise.

*

"I'm so sorry," Pippa exclaimed, trying not to laugh. Spilling the tea without breaking the teapot had been easier than she'd thought, and she'd spent all five minutes gathering the tea set and carrying it upstairs, contemplating how to force Nick to stay.

"It's nothing," he mumbled, ever the gentleman, as he stared down at the puddle of tea around his boots. It wasn't all right because his shirt and breeches were so wet that they dripped into his boots. Yet, he didn't shake the dripping liquid onto the carpet.

He wasn't like the men she'd met at the balls. Any mishap, no matter how small the resulting stain or rip of their garments, and they'd made a fuss as if she'd all but cut off one of their sleeves entirely. Not Nick. He turned and searched for something with which to dry himself.

Pippa rushed to the armoire on the wall perpendicular to the fireplace, turned the key, and retrieved a pressed cotton towel.

With care and her gaze woefully cast aside, she attempted to pat Nick dry, but it didn't help; his linen shirt was soaked.

He looked down at the puddle at his feet again and unbuttoned the top of his shirt—button for button. Slowly, the wet fabric fell limply off his chiseled torso. A chill ran down Pippa's back as he removed his damp shirt, bunched it into a ball, and dropped it onto the floor. He lifted his right foot, pulled his boot off, then lifted his left and pulled the boot off. After he'd set them aside neatly, he stepped on the shirt and tried to soak up all the liquid. Pippa watched in amazement.

"I'm afraid some of the tea is seeping into the parquet. It might stain," he said, squatting on the floor at Pippa's feet.

He was concerned about the flooring.

The muscular man with bare feet and—Pippa gulped—a naked upper body used his shirt to soak up the tea she'd spilled. Air left her lungs, but she didn't find the strength to inhale more as she took in the sight of him. What had she done?

She'd abducted a doctor from his practice on the day before his birthday. He'd responded gracefully and said he'd like nothing better than to be with her. Pippa's heart beat faster.

Then she'd told him about Violet's wicked accounts with her new husband, and Nick had expressed his willingness to try. Pippa's heart beat even faster.

And when she'd spilled tea on him, instead of yelling at her as every single other man of the Ton had done in the past, Nick had taken his shirt off—the only one he had with him—to soak up the puddle lest it stain her parquet. Pippa's heart lurched, and she gasped for air.

He was beyond perfect.

And, he hadn't said that he didn't want to fall in love with her but that he mustn't .

Only a second passed, but Pippa's entire life flashed before her eyes. Her world shifted around her as if she was pivoting on skates on a frozen pond. This was when she knew she'd fallen in love with him. It wasn't a mere fancy or desire to touch his perfect face. Gone were the doubts that she might only have wished to feel what Violet had described. She loved him and wanted to show him. Not that she knew how, but couldn't he teach her as the earl taught Violet?

"Your shirt," Pippa said when Nick rose from his squat with the wet and stained mess in his hands. "I'm so sorry," Pippa said as she took it from him and put it on the copper tray.

In her other hand, she still held the bunched-up cotton towel and patted Nick's chest after hesitating for what couldn't have been longer than a heartbeat. She was drying him.

Interesting.

Her gaze was low, and Nick caught on. She avoided his gaze, lifted the towel fully off his chest, and placed it back on slowly. She pressed it against his bared abdomen and stilled.

"I'm afraid your shirt is ruined, I'm so sorry—"

"Are you?" Nick said the moment she laid her bare hand on his chest, next to the place where her other hand pressed the towel on his skin. He was exposed, well, his upper body was. She also noticed his feet, large but clean. Everything about him looked manly but neat, youthful, and strong.

"Did I burn you?" She trailed her bare hand over this chest, and he followed the motion with his gaze. She'd stopped patting with the towel, mesmerized by the perfect male shape.

"You know you didn't, Pippa." His hand grasped her wrist tenderly, and then he pushed her hand onto his heart. His voice sounded stern, but there was a flash of amusement on his mien.

He was playing along.