Chapter 11

Marlowe had returned to the main chamber to stare out the window. During her journey back to this safe little corner, she’d

become melancholy. “The morbs” was how her friend Sophie referred to this sadness that could weigh down a body as easily as

it did a spirit.

She hadn’t meant to intrude on Langdon’s peaceful exile, but neither could she help being curious. She knew people who by

outward appearances seemed perfectly happy, but inside they struggled with all sorts of troubles and strife. She wondered

what it would entail to convince him to share his plight with her.

She wondered why she was desperate for him to do so.

Because it would help to pay him back for his rescue of her? Because she might have died without him and hence she owed him? It was so easy to try to find a convincing excuse when the truth was more difficult to face. She wanted to spend additional time in his company, wanted him grateful to her. She didn’t want them at odds. As implausible as it should be, she rather liked him. While he’d certainly had a few instances of expressing his annoyance that she was here, far more moments had been spent showing her kindnesses.

At the soft whisper of sound, she turned and watched as Langdon entered, strolled over to a stack of books, lifted the top

one, and took the second. His movements were so mesmerizing. It wasn’t fair that she should notice, that he could be so alluring

without even trying.

As if not bothered by her presence, as if not truly aware of it, he didn’t even look at her as he went to the sofa, dropped

onto one corner, and simultaneously stretched out his ridiculously long legs while opening the book to some spot in the middle.

She should leave him to it. Just stand there and idly twiddle her thumbs. He probably expected little else from her than lying

around all day eating bonbons. Most envisioned the mistress life as one of glamour. Certainly, it had its moments. But a good

deal more of it involved tedious tasks, ensuring every aspect of her, not only the physical, appealed to her consort.

Yes, she should give Langdon no attention at all. Respond to him as he was responding to her.

“You ought to build a large-cushioned seat against this window, make a little reading nook. The view is astonishing.” Apparently,

her tongue was not listening to her mind.

Looking up, with his brow furrowed, he seemed either surprised or irritated to see her standing there, as if he’d forgotten she existed or didn’t much like being disturbed. She decided on the latter because it was inconceivable that he could forget she was here. Although maybe he had expected her to retreat to his bedchamber. The truth was, she’d never much liked being ignored. She’d spent a good bit of her energy over the recent years ensuring she would not be ignored.

“The view from upstairs is much better. You can see farther into the distance,” he said flatly, and she couldn’t help but

believe that in his tone he was conveying that was exactly where she should be: upstairs, as far away from him as the storm

allowed.

She didn’t like the awkwardness that had settled in between them. Waking up with him this morning, she’d mistakenly believed

they were at least willing to tolerate each other. Although she wanted more than that. Unaccustomed to gentlemen finding fault

with her, she wanted him to at least like her, even if it was only a little bit.

“I want to apologize for my earlier intrusion into your... office. I didn’t mean to pry.” Of course, she had meant to pry

but was hoping he’d be gracious enough to accept her apology.

“My apologies if I seemed harsh or hurt your feelings. I’m working on a proposal for the estate manager. A way to increase

our revenue. Until I’ve completed it, I prefer to keep it close to the vest.”

“Like you do your cards?”

A corner of his mouth tipped up. “Like I do my cards.”

“You allowed me to see them that night.”

He gave one slow nod before returning his attention to his book.

Since he magnanimously accepted her lie, she decided to return the favor and accept his regarding what was occurring within

that room. All those scribbles had been for something else. She looked back at the rain. She could barely see through the

sheets of cascading water. The clouds were so heavy and black that if she wasn’t aware of the hour, she’d believe it was twilight.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

She did wish she didn’t enjoy the deepness of his voice so much, like he was inviting her into a secret world the two of them

shared. Slowly she began walking toward him. “Earlier, you opened the book and immediately began reading.” Or pretended to.

“But no ribbon, slip of paper, or favor from a ladylove marked your place. The corner has not been bent. I can detect no means

by which you could succeed at such a feat, so how did you know precisely where you left off?”

He studied her intently, the way one did someone they were measuring up in order to determine if they could be trusted. “I’ve

read it before.” He waved his hand in a gesture to encompass the entire room. “I’ve read them all before. I like to open them

randomly and start reading.”

She lowered herself to the sofa. “You’ve read all these books?”

“Yes.”

“And the ones in your bedchamber?”

“Those as well.”

“Hence, you’ve been here long enough to read each one?”

“No, I bring books I’ve already read.”

“Why?”

He released a long, slow breath, and she could see that he was striving to determine how best to explain. “These books...

I draw comfort from them. I enjoy spending time with characters I know or going on adventures I’ve already been on. I can

open these books to any page and I’m immediately... transported to someplace I know will... bring me... contentment.”

He shook his head. “I fear I sound rather mad.”

“No, I never thought of it that way. I read a book and, when I’m finished, I never go back to it. I’m too eager to read the

next one. I want the new, not the familiar. But I find no fault with either approach. And it’s such a perfect day for becoming

lost in a story. I don’t suppose you could recommend one for me.” She was interested in reading one of his favorite novels

because she thought doing so might reveal something about him. How could a story be a favorite and not in some way be a reflection

of the man?

“I don’t know you well enough to know what you might enjoy,” he said.

Therefore, to know him she was going to have to let him know her better. She supposed she could just randomly select a book, but of a sudden, she wanted him to do the choosing. “I fancy stories that offer hope and by the end bring me joy. Or even better, make me sigh and hold it close. It’s all right if it saddens me in the middle, but if I have any tears at the end, they have to be because I’m happy for the characters. I want someone to fall in love. I want to see them fall in love.”

“Frankenstein fell in love with his monster. I have that book somewhere around here,” he said drolly.

She smiled softly, even though she experienced a little discomfort doing so. She wanted to believe he was teasing and not

being an utter arse. “I think the scientist was more in love with himself. The story made me rather sad. I felt sorry for

the... creature. But he wasn’t the real monster. Frankenstein was.”

He arched a brow. “I’m surprised you read it when it doesn’t meet your requirement for happy tears at the end.”

“When people are mentioning books they’ve read, or plays they’ve attended, or operas, or avenues for new entertainments...

I find it useful to be knowledgeable about those things so I don’t stand there like a ninny with conversations going on around

me—and not being able to contribute or offer insights. Being a gentleman’s mistress isn’t all bedding, you know.”

He scrutinized her as though she’d said something significant. After what seemed eons and was at least three lightning flashes,

he asked, “Have you read Great Expectations ?”

She shook her head. “Dickens’s stories are a little too realistic.”

He set aside what he’d been reading, got up, walked over to a stack of books, and took a tome from the bottom. He returned to his place and set the novel between them. “The character Pip falls in love.”

She ran her finger along the spine. “Are they together at the end?”

“You’ll have to read it.”

She picked up the book and folded back the cover. “Ah, Charles Dickens signed this one.”

“Yes, my father knew him, quite well actually, as did I by association.”

“What was he like?”

“I was quite a bit younger and too much in awe to really notice.” He opened his book—to a different page, she noted—and turned

his attention to it.

End of discussion, then. Only she wasn’t quite ready for it to be finished. “I shared with you what I like to read. What do

you favor?”

Very slowly he closed the book and turned his head toward her. His eyes had gone that dark pewter again, and she was beginning

to suspect they did that whenever he was aroused. She didn’t think she was doing anything particularly provocative. She merely

wanted a little more conversation.

But his gaze was intense, serious, his breathing slow and steady. He was still, so very still. He reminded her of a scorpion

that had been on display in a glass case at the insect symposium. They’d dropped a huge spider into the enclosure. Both creatures

had circled around the inner edges until suddenly the scorpion had gone deathly still—

With no warning whatsoever its tail had struck out with such swiftness that the poor spider hadn’t a chance.

She was left with the impression that Langdon was deliberating when and exactly how to strike. What sort of books did he enjoy reading that he would need to contemplate what to share or prepare himself to do so?

“I favor... long, slow kisses that last for days, the weight of a plump breast against my palm, and the sultry heat of

a woman’s tight core enveloping me.”

Feeling as though the sofa had magically moved too close to the fireplace, she wanted to toss aside the blanket she’d wrapped

around herself earlier. He had to have known she was asking about books, but he had chosen to respond with something else

entirely. Something titillating, something he believed appropriate to say to her, a courtesan. He’d certainly never say anything

like that to one of the ladies he swept around a London ballroom. And most certainly not in that low, seductive voice that

confirmed for a woman that rewards for her were to be found on the other end of all those things he favored. Her lips had

begun to tingle, her damned nipples had puckered, and dew had gathered between her thighs.

“Are you attempting to shock me, my lord, with such blatant sexual imagery?” Or seduce me? She dared not ask the latter because if he was, she feared she’d be unable to resist. Damn Hollie for even giving her leave to entertain the idea of a night spent in the company of this man. “It can’t be done. Although I do find myself wondering... if you swapped out your cards that night because you were being offered a warm, moist kiss that would last only hours rather than your preferred days. Nor were you guaranteed either a plump breast—although mine are, which you probably discovered last night—or a tight core, which I also may lay claim to possessing. Perhaps you feared you weren’t up to the challenge of gaining those when they weren’t handed to you.”

She thought he’d been still before. She wasn’t certain he was even breathing now, although his eyes had jumped from her lips

to her breasts to her lap and back up. If he’d been hoping to intimidate her with such raw words that created tawdry images,

he was going to discover that she gave as good as she got.

Then she very deliberately and slowly returned her attention to her book.

Damnation. He had been hoping to shock her... or perhaps seduce her. She didn’t blush. She wasn’t easily flustered. She

teased. And she was so damned sultry. Every movement and pose calculated to entice.

Well, it was as she’d said that night. She wasn’t a whore. She didn’t give a man a single hour or even a night. She expected

a commitment. Deserved that consideration. She wouldn’t come cheap. With his squiring her about, Hollingsworth had ensured

she could be demanding and particular when it came to her next lover.

He watched as she slowly turned a page and kept her focus on the words written by another. He considered confessing the reason

he’d swapped out his cards...

Instead he turned his attention back to his own reading. Or tried to, but even when they weren’t engaged in sparring words, he couldn’t seem to focus on the material before him.

A hushed intimacy settled in around them, disturbed only by the crackling fire, pattering raindrops, and occasional thunder.

She made not a sound. No occasional sigh. No whisper of movement beneath the blanket that he suspected wasn’t soft enough for

her skin. No sniffle, sneeze, or cough—it appeared she was not going to fall ill from her dunking in the sea.

Most of the ladies he knew would have decided the horrifying experience warranted some pampering, and yet she seemed to be

taking it in stride. He’d done the same thing following the railway accident, carrying on as though it had been perfectly

routine. Until the night he’d awoken drenched and shivering, as if he was back in that storm, comforting the dying and pleading

with the living not to give up. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with that aspect, being alone as she’d been, but he suspected

that brought with it its own trauma. As much as he wished otherwise, he assumed eventually it would hit her full on as a force

to be reckoned with. And all the sinuous moves, flirtatious glances, and tart words wouldn’t lessen its impact.

Would Hollingsworth hold her, comfort her? Would he even be there if the nightmares came? Did he stay the night or only long

enough to see to his purpose in arriving there to begin with?

His jaw began to ache, and he realized the thoughts had made him clench his teeth to such a degree he was surprised they didn’t crack. The last thing he wanted was to envision the earl with her. What he wanted was to read his bloody book.

Half an hour later, he decided it was a damned good thing he’d already read The Man in the Iron Mask , because he was having a hell of a time concentrating on the passage resting before his eyes. Probably because his gaze kept

shifting over to Marlowe as he sought to gauge her reaction to what she was reading—to what he had chosen for her to read.

Why the devil he should care two figs whether she was enjoying it was beyond his comprehension. What did it matter if he’d

selected a book that would be to her liking? He should have just told her to wander around until she found something that

looked appealing. Or read a few pages and if it didn’t draw her in, move on to another.

He’d expected her to favor reading matter that was tawdry, naughty. But then he supposed she encountered enough of those elements

in her daily—nightly—life. Last night he’d assumed by the way she was moving about freely before him while wearing his shirt,

not at all self-conscious about revealing those shapely legs, that she’d been attempting to seduce him, but watching the manner

in which she turned pages, he was beginning to suspect that moving sensually was second nature to her. Whether it had come

from practice or a natural inclination was open to speculation.

“Does Hollingsworth gift you with books?”

Why the devil had he disturbed the quiet with such an inane question?

As though coming out of a trance, slowly she lifted her head and turned it toward him. “No.”

“Don’t you like books?” He couldn’t imagine anyone not treasuring them.

“Of course, I do.”

“But you prefer fancy baubles or trinkets.”

He suspected if her nose wasn’t bruised and still slightly swollen that she would have wrinkled it in disgust at his statement.

“I prefer giving to receiving but I have no preference when it comes to what sort of gifts I should be given. Which is good

because Hollie is atrocious at determining what I might favor. He once gave me some jewelry to clamp onto my nipples.”

He didn’t know whether to be stunned by the gift or her casual use of nipples , a word most ladies would cut out their tongues before uttering.

She gave a little laugh. “Based on the set of your features, I’d say you were scandalized. My face was no doubt similarly

arranged when I learned what they were for. I was wearing them as earbobs at the time.”

Her eyes held a wicked gleam, and he fought not to laugh. He was not going to be like every other man in London and fall victim

to her charms. He imagined her proudly strutting about, showing off the gift that was designed to be shared with a private

audience of one. “How long have you and Hollingsworth been together?”

“Three years come May. You’d think he’d know my tastes by now. But he favors unusual objects, takes joy in purchasing them.

And giving them. So I always make a point of reassuring him the gift is unlike anything I’ve received and thanking him profusely.”

“How can he learn your tastes if you’re dishonest with him?”

She angled her head to the side. “Am I being dishonest?”

“You’re pretending to like what you don’t.”

“The gift is unique. That’s not a lie. And I thank him because he thought of me and went to the trouble of bringing me something

that brought him joy to present to me. The actual gift is not important. It is the act of giving and the pleasure that results

for both parties, hopefully, that matters. When I look at the atrocious gifts lying around my residence, well, they do warm

me because they remind me of Hollie and the way he smiled when he gave them to me.”

He’d assumed she’d demand particular gifts, gifts that, if need be, could be taken to a fence or sold. That she’d be difficult

to please. She was spoiled for choice when it came to benefactors. “I suppose it pays to keep him happy.”

Her eyes dulled. Her small smile withered. “Ah, yes, Langdon, that’s exactly why I demonstrate kindness: for the benefits

doing so brings to me.”

It seemed he couldn’t go long without tossing an insult her way.

Although she merely turned her attention back to the book, it felt like a hard slap across his face. The woman was too damned

skilled at communicating with her actions and body. He had no doubt that if she was drawn to him in the least, the desire

would be fairly sizzling like the lightning across a darkened sky. It couldn’t be denied.

Instead, he was left with the impression that she could hardly be bothered with him. Which was fine. Which was how it should be. He shouldn’t be bothered with her. Taking a deep breath, he focused on his book. But it couldn’t snag his attention. His entire being was attuned to every aspect of her: each breath, each turn of a page, each twitch of a toe. She looked relaxed, content.

While he was strung so tightly, he thought he might break. It was the book he was reading. Or trying to. It wasn’t doing its

job to distract him. He needed something different.

He shoved himself to his feet, set the book on a random stack, walked over to another, and grabbed a different novel. He stopped

by the fire to add a few more logs. There was a definite chill in the air, and he suspected it was coming from her following

his last comment. He didn’t want to like her. Certainly, when he’d first seen her in the secretive rooms at his club, he’d

been drawn by her beauty but lust was more easily ignored when a woman didn’t appeal to him on an intellectual level. She

was beginning to appeal and in his defense, he’d been an arse.

If he were smart, he’d find an excuse to go out in the rain and stomp around for a bit until he’d worked her out of his system.

The problem was, he didn’t know if she was the sort that could be worked out of his system—not until he’d had her at least.

Naked. Flush against his body. In his bed.

Putting distance between them by retreating to his bedchamber wasn’t a viable option because he wouldn’t be able to look at the bed without seeing her sprawled over it. At the settee without envisioning her lying along its length. At the washbasin without recalling the feel of her in his arms.

After unfolding his body, he stormed from the room, went to the kitchen, snatched up a box, opened it, and returned to the

main chamber. Like a recalcitrant child, he sat in his corner of the sofa and placed the box between them. “I have a fondness

for chocolate,” he announced. “You’re welcome to however many pieces you’d like.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she slid her attention to his offering.

“Is that an apology?”

“I don’t know how long the rain will last. It will be more pleasant if we’re not at odds.”

“I didn’t realize we were.” She plucked a bit of chocolate-covered caramel from the box and studied it. “I have a weakness

for sweets, but chocolate is my favorite.” She slowly pushed it into her mouth, her lips puckered as though she was kissing

it.

He had to look away. He’d put too many logs on the fire and his face was probably turning red from the heat. “You can’t help

it, can you?”

A smack echoed between them, followed by what sounded very much like a lick—and that had him turning back toward her.

She arched a brow. “Pardon?”

“You can’t not be provocative.”

She picked out another piece and popped it into her mouth. “I suppose it’s ingrained in me to put on a show when I’m not inside

my residence. I’ll try to be more attuned to your sensitivities.”

“I’m not bothered by it. I was merely making an observation.”

Bringing her feet up, she tucked them beneath her and twisted around slightly, closing the book, leaving a finger inside to serve as her marker. “You’re not comfortable with me. I suspect because you don’t quite approve of my... life.”

“I find no fault with it. I recognize that choices for women who choose not to marry are limited.” It was something Poppy

continually complained about.

“ Who choose ? Not all women are given a choice. I wasn’t.”

He furrowed his brow. “What? Did Hollingsworth kidnap you?”

“Nothing quite so dramatic. If you find no fault, then why are you irritated with me?”

To lie or reveal the truth? The truth, he decided, would shock her down to her toes. Shocked him actually. He wanted her so

badly he could barely see straight.

“Listen,” he said in a low voice instead. Her eyes widening, as though that would improve her hearing, she went still. “Do

you hear it?”

“What?” she asked softly, and he wanted that sensual sound repeated with her mouth against his ear.

“The rain.”

She jerked her head toward the window, and he decided he liked her profile, the way it revealed her neck sloping down to her

shoulder. “It stopped.”

After tossing the book aside, she hopped off the sofa and dashed to the window, and he imagined how welcoming it would feel

to walk through a door and see her dashing toward him with such unbridled enthusiasm.

“The sun is peering through the clouds, just barely, but they aren’t as dark as they were.” She spun around. “Do you think the storm has passed?”

“Possibly.”

“Do you have a way to get off the island?”

“I have a small boat.”

“Therefore, we can leave?”

It bothered him that she was so anxious to be rid of him. He’d been a terrible host. Standoffish. Caring for her while trying

not to show he cared. He set aside his book, pushed to his feet, strode over to the window, and looked out. The isle was so

small that there was nowhere in this dwelling where one couldn’t see the water. “It’s too choppy. It would be a struggle to

row us across. Perhaps it’ll be calm enough tomorrow.” The disappointment in her eyes hit him hard, so hard that he was tempted

to at least try to get her to the other shore. “What I can do is offer you fish for dinner.”