Chapter 22

Andrew shifted yet again on the torture contraption of a settee, the ancient wood creaking beneath his weight. He picked up his watch and squinted at it in the low light from the fire. It was only ten after one—scarcely a quarter of an hour since the last time he'd checked.

He bit back a groan. Christ . He'd never get any sleep. He'd been tossing and turning since eleven o'clock, when he'd had the presence of mind to send Miss Martin to bed before he did something he knew he'd be less than proud of later.

When he closed his eyes, he saw her face tilted toward him like a flower, laughing and joyous at something so simple as a waltz. The sight had been like a kick in the jewels. How had he ever thought her a grim little dab, or whatever idiotic description it was that had tripped off his tongue?

He'd merely seen a tiny female garbed in grays and browns and had dismissed her.

For years .

Andrew flopped onto his side and tried to pull his legs up onto the settee, but his tight pantaloons—and his current tumescence—made the action unpleasant. He ran a hand over the hard ridge of his arousal, touching himself too lightly to do anything but tease and torment. He had removed his coat, waistcoat, and boots, but had prudently kept on his shirt and pantaloons. It would have been too easy to take the edge off his desire if he'd been naked, which is how he preferred to sleep.

He rolled onto his back, grunting at the way the sofa sagged beneath him, pushing his spine in ways that woke up old injuries.

"My lord?"

Andrew made a thoroughly unmanly sound and sat up so quickly that his head spun. It took a moment for his blurred vision to focus on the figure of Miss Martin wrapped in a blanket, standing at the end of the settee.

"What are you doing up?" he demanded.

"It is impossible to sleep with all your thrashing about."

He slumped onto his back, grimacing at the discomfort. "So sorry to inconvenience you."

"You take the bed. I will take the—"

"I'm not taking the bed and putting you on this torture rack."

"I am a foot shorter than you; it would not be nearly so bad."

"No."

The room was silent but for the slight settling of the old timbers.

"Then we can share the bed," she said quietly.

Andrew sat up—all of him. "What?"

"You are clothed, as am I. And if—if—"

She appeared to be stuck, like a clock with a broken gear. "If?" he prodded.

"If you give me your word to behave, then I believe we can both enjoy a comfortable rest."

"Behave, hmm ? I have never heard that word before. What does it mean?"

"Very droll, my lord."

"I'm not sure I'm capable of behaving, Miss Martin."

She heaved a sigh. Even though it was dark, he could imagine her tightly pursed lips.

"But I will try," he said after a moment, and then stood up with a groan.

"Was it very bad?" she asked as they walked toward the bed.

"Awful. Left side or right side?"

"Oh. Er, I don't know. Do you have a preference?"

"The left."

They changed sides.

Andrew gave a sigh of pleasure when he sat on the mattress. It was soft—perhaps too soft—but it was leagues better than the settee. Once he was fully reclined and covered, he turned to her. It was too dark for him to see anything but an outline.

"You can get in any time, Miss Martin."

She barely depressed the mattress when she laid on the bed. Andrew felt something brush against his shoulder and then the bed shook as she jerked away.

"Lord Shelton!"

"Yes?" he asked mildly.

"You are not on your half."

"My left shoulder is hanging off the mattress. If I move over any further, I will fall off the bed."

She muttered something and again the bed shifted. This time, no part of her touched any part of him. A pity.

Andrew laced his fingers behind his head and stared up into the darkness overhead. Beside him, Miss Martin vibrated with tension. He frowned and turned to her. "Are you sure you will be able to slee—"

"I am fine." The words sounded as if they'd been forced between clenched teeth.

He grinned. "You don't sound fine. You sound—"

"I will be far more likely to sleep if you stop talking."

He laughed. Not for the first time did the strangeness of the situation strike him. What could Kathryn have been thinking to organize such a stunt? She had done something similar at Chatham—locking the two of them together inside the armory, although not with the forethought and planning she'd employed this time. Thankfully they had only been sequestered for five or six hours and his cousin and the duchess had known it wasn't Andrew's fault, although he'd felt like an idiot for falling into her snare.

He had felt marginally better when she'd employed a similar trick on Fowler, trapping the two of them in one of Chatham's hunting boxes, an episode that had lasted most of the night, far longer than his own incarceration with the vixen.

Lord only knew why she did such things. He smiled ruefully. It certainly kept life…exciting.

"My lord?"

He turned toward the motionless lump beside him. "I thought you were trying to sleep?"

"I am awake now ."

He chuckled at her accusatory tone and turned onto his side. "What did you want?"

The bedding shifted slightly, and he saw her small form propped up on an elbow, mirroring his pose.

"I cannot sleep."

"Probably all that fruitcake you ate."

"More likely that sherry."

"You seemed to like the taste of it."

"My father used to drink it."

"Tell me about him."

There was a long silence, and then, "Why?"

"Because I would like to know. Unless it is too painful to talk about him."

Again she was quiet. This time for so long that he thought she might have fallen asleep. "It was only the two of us for a long time. He was a very fond parent, but…absentminded."

Andrew thought she sounded affectionate more than exasperated. "Your mother died when you were young?"

"I was eight."

"My parents died when I was four."

" Both at once?"

"Yes. A carriage accident."

"I am sorry."

"I hardly remember them as I rarely saw them. I'm sure it was far worse for you at eight. You would remember more—have more to grieve."

She did not confirm or deny his words. Instead, she said, "The Duke of Chatham's father took you in after your parents' death?"

"Yes. I was raised with his two sons, Nicholas and Sylvester. Sylvester—that's Chatham—was only a few years older, but Nick was an intimidating fourteen when I came to Chatham Park."

"The duke's older brother died?"

"Yes. Nick died in a hunting accident while Sylvester was in a field hospital recuperating from the injury to his face. I was given leave to accompany him home—he was still in a bad way and unable to travel alone—but afterward I was to return." Andrew's thoughts touched dangerously on the particulars of that trip and he shied away. "But you have changed the subject. We were talking about your father."

"There is not much to say. That sounds bad," she quickly added. "What I meant is that he had a solitary nature and lived a quiet, scholarly existence."

"What did he study?"

"Illuminated manuscripts."

Andrew thought of the fans he had purchased—of the absolutely exquisite detail and how long it must have taken her to master such an art. Had she learned to paint to please him? To make him notice her?

He did not ask.

Instead, he said, "He was absentminded and yet you had a Season, so he must have lived in the real world to some degree."

"My aunt—on my mother's side—reminded him of his duty. As it was, I didn't end up going until I was twenty. Almost on the shelf."

Andrew wished like hell that he could recall meeting her. "We, er, never danced?"

"No."

He wanted to tell her that she was better off not having attracted his notice, that he had been too busy nursing his hatred and looking for ways to harm Chatham to care about anyone he met at the balls and parties he haunted. But the argument would sound too self-serving.

"When did your father die?"

"A few weeks before the end of the Season. He died in his sleep. We—I—there was no hint or clue that his heart was weak, so it was completely unexpected."

"I'm sorry, Miss Martin."

"Thank you."

"And your cousin inherited the title?"

"He inherited everything." Pain and anger colored her voice. "He even—"

"Yes?"

"He even took my father's personal possessions—his books, his few pieces of jewelry, not just the Clayton signet."

"Was there no provision for you?"

"My father's will was old, made when he reached his majority and he never thought to change it. There is a little money that was part of my mother's settlement, but it is not enough."

"I cannot believe he threw you out. What a scoundrel. I beg your pardon for my blunt words, but there is no excuse for that."

"He was…angry."

"That is no reason to toss a woman out on the street. What about your aunt—you mentioned your mother's sister?"

"Er, she was angry, too."

"What, pray, happened to make them both so angry that they would abandon a—how old were you?"

"I had just turned one-and-twenty."

"What happened to make them abandon a young woman barely of legal age?"

"I think I have already shared enough, my lord."

"You are going to be my wife, Miss Martin—" he broke off with an irritated huff. "What is your Christian name?"

"We do not yet know that will be necessary, my lord. It is poss—"

He gave an unamused laugh. "You are lying in a bed with me, alone, in the middle of the night. There is no getting out of this, ma'am. My name is Andrew, so you might as well— Eustacia! That is it!" He felt foolish, not to mention disturbed. How had he almost forgotten her name when he had so recently learned it?

"Ugh. Nobody calls me that, my lord."

Andrew shook off his unease. "Tell me what you prefer or I will call you Eustacia."

"Stacia."

"Stacia." He liked the sound of that a great deal more than Eustacia, which called to mind a strict governess, the sort of woman who'd rap your knuckles at the slightest infraction. Of course there was a certain appeal to that, as well…

"I do not wish to share all the details of my life. At least not without some reciprocation," she added.

"Good Lord! I told you about Sarah—was that not reciprocation enough?"

"It was a start," she said primly, shifting and sending another tantalizing whiff of something floral to tease his nostrils.

Roses . She smelled like roses.

"I propose we exchange information the tried-and-true way," she said.

"Which is?"

"Question or Command."

Andrew gave a startled laugh. What in the world had come over the prim and proper Miss Martin?

***

What in the world had come over her?

Stacia was stunned at the words that had come out of her mouth. Who would have guessed that something as simple as darkness could make her so bold?

"I accept," Lord Shelton said before Stacia could retract her words. "I will go first—"

"It is my suggestion, so I will go first."

He made a low growling sound, but said, "Go on then, ask."

"You have to choose before I—"

"Question."

Stacia suspected he would be even less eager to play if she started off with the questions she really wanted to ask.

Build up slowly, lull him into a false sense of security. Pry around the edges. Be subtle.

Then…pounce.

"If you have no intention of remarrying as you mentioned earlier, then why were you going to London for the Season?"

He sighed. "I might have misrepresented myself to Kathryn."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that my thoughts about marriage have recently changed."

Stacia stared into the darkness as she assessed his words. Did he mean—

"It is my turn," he said.

"But wait—"

"I answered your question."

Stacia sputtered.

"Question or Command?" he asked, implacable.

"Command."

Stacia felt him jolt and couldn't help smirking. There! You don't know everything, after all. Do you?

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

He is giving you a chance to retract your foolish choice.

"You heard me, my lord."

"Kiss me."

This time it was her body jolting. "That is not fair."

He laughed—which she deserved. "You were the one who chose command . Kiss me. And make it a good one," he added. "Not the sort I give my Great Aunt Lydia. I am ready," he said a moment later, when she'd remained frozen.

Stop stalling. You know you want to.

Of course she did, but…

"Shall I come closer, or—"

"I can do it," she snapped, shoving forward, only realizing he was far closer than she'd thought when her chest bumped against his and her knee struck something…hard.

" Ooof. Careful, darling. Don't break your betrothed before we are even married."

She swallowed at the darling —not to mention his threat of marriage—even though she'd heard him call half-a-hundred girls by pet names as he'd outrageously flirted.

She reached out a hand.

" Ow!" he bellowed when her finger poked something soft and wet. "That was my eye."

"I'm sorry!" Stacia caught her lower lip with her teeth. "Are you—did I hurt you?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. "

He grumbled and she felt his arm move as he likely rubbed the offended organ. "I am still waiting for my kiss."

She couldn't help smiling at his petulant tone. She reached for him again, her hand a bit lower, and swallowed when her fingers skimmed fine linen, the body beneath it warm and hard.

He grunted, this time a more approving sound.

Stacia took a deep breath, leaned forward, and kissed his…chin.

He snorted. "I meant my—"

"I know what you meant." She inched closer, until her hand was pressed between their bodies, and adjusted her aim. This time, she encountered soft, full lips.

He groaned and she felt the tension in his big body, as if he struggled against something.

Stacia kissed him once, twice, and then softly, gently, did as he had done earlier and nipped his lower lip.

"Bloody hell!" he muttered explosively.

Stacia scooted back away from him as quickly as a startled shrimp in a rock pool, not stopping until her bottom hung over the edge of the bed.

"My turn," he said.

Why did that sound so threatening?

***

Miss Martin was damned lucky that Andrew hadn't grabbed her. How could a kiss that innocent—like the brush of a feather—get him so hard?

Your cock was already hard .

That was true. Her kiss just made it hurt .

Her voice, with a bit of a quaver now, came at him in the darkness. "Question or command?"

Andrew briefly considered saying command , but suspected hers wouldn't be nearly so pleasurable as his. He suspected he'd find himself putting his tongue on a frozen pump handle, or whatever the equivalent would be in their comfortable prison.

"Question," he said.

The silence told him that he'd surprised her.

She cleared her throat and asked the question he expected. "Why did you want to hurt your cousin?"

Andrew rolled onto his back and closed his eyes—as if that would make what he had to confess better, somehow—and said, "I hated him for marrying the woman I loved."

After an eternity, she said, "Oh."

"Question or command?" he asked.

"C-command."

His lips curled into a slow smile. Well, well, well. "Touch me for an entire minute."

" What ?"

"You heard me."

"That seems…extreme."

Andrew gave a delighted laugh. Oh, Miss Martin! Life with her sharp tongue would never be boring. "Are you trying to renege, Stacia?"

He heard a gulping sound. "No. B-but how will I know when a minute is up?"

"I might not be the smartest of men but even I can count to sixty," he said dryly. He waited rather than taunt her again, enjoying the tightening in his groin at the prospect of her small hands touching him. Andrew fully suspected that she would thwart his desire by concentrating on his elbow or the heel of his foot, but he didn't care.

Her touch, when it came, was even lighter than her kiss had been. It wasn't his elbow—or his heel—but his chest. The muscles jumped beneath her hand, and she gasped. Andrew caught her wrist before she could jerk away, his physical reaction and instincts accurate, even in the dark.

And even though so much else about him was now less than sharp.

He placed her hand back over his heart. "Don't stop, Stacia."