Chapter 11

Ben's eyes snapped open. Ledgers? Ledgers? Usually, he felt no hurry to wake from a dream of a lovely lady's naked limbs wrapped around his waist, of her body unclothed and spread before him. But this lady's body had been spread naked across a pile of ledgers with straight, even rows inked on them. And this lady's face had worn Lady Prudence's signature doubting expression—lips curled to one side, a single brow raised, sharp eyes digging holes into that which she doubted. And her hair, unbound and wrapped round Ben's hand had been the silkiest dark-blonde he'd ever felt. Ropes to bind a man, body and soul.

And… hell…

He closed his eyes and grabbed his cock and imagined ledgers. With Lady Prudence naked atop them. Because apparently his sleeping self knew a truth—well-organized schedules aroused him.

He grunted, his body growing harder as he pumped. Lady Prudence aroused him, not the ledgers. But they rather added to everything that made her up. He wanted to disarrange her schedule as she'd disarranged his fantasies, wanted to make her prim little mouth scream his name and put off being on time for more time with him.

He stroked harder, faster.

Yesterday, he'd wanted to do just this—throw her across the table, throw her skirts above her hips, and throw good sense to the wind. Press her into the open books he'd spread out for her, his open and chaotic life, and have his way with her just as she'd had her way with his system. Lack of one. He'd have kissed her breathless, made her moan, then flipped her so her small arse draped across the desk edge. Then she'd wrinkle the ledger pages in her fists as he thrust into her.

"Fuck," he hissed as he bucked into his hand. He wanted to fuck her. Just like that, on top of the ledgers he couldn't keep straight for the life of him.

As he came, so too did a realization. He'd never had such a mundane fantasy about a woman. Nor such an arousing one.

He groaned and rolled over, shoving his face into the pillow as he cleaned himself with the sheet. Apologies to the maids.

Ledgers and Lady Prudence. What in hell was happening to him? He leapt out of bed and crossed the room to view himself in the looking glass. Had he cut away his good sense with his beard?

He should return to London. If he stayed here, he'd have to keep pretending with Lady Prudence. She already suspected, especially after yesterday. She'd asked him to prove his sincerity. He'd been unable to.

He'd wanted to, though. Toss her down across that desk and—

That's why he should leave.

He would leave. He had her suggestions for his schedule. He'd hire a secretary. Now he could be done with her.

Because if he stayed, he might dive happily past the boundaries of gentlemanly behavior with that woman. And if there was one thing Ben Bailey didn't do, it was compromising a woman without intention to marry her. And he couldn't marry her. Not only did he not… want… to… Hell! Each word as difficult to call into existence as summoning a fairy. In his mind, they seemed like stage props, flimsy, poorly painted, and glaringly false in the gaudy light of the gas lamps lining a stage.

He could see the spare beams of wood used to prop those words up, but… they were true. They had to be because if they were paper lies, he'd muddled his way into a deep-as-the-Thames pile of horse shit.

He was lying to her.

No. He'd been lying to her. Now…

Hell.

He'd leave tomorrow.

The looking glass became a window, black as night, nothing but a void beyond it. He'd followed her about for so long now, he felt a bit… lost. Even when he'd been lurking reluctantly around the edges of her gaggle of suitors, he'd been watching her. She'd become his purpose. In a way. Similar to his printshop. And leaving felt like giving up.

He shook his head. Not giving up! Success. He'd completed this task, after all. Time to move on.

From observing her and from, had to admit it, lusting after her.

When had this attraction started? He'd been "courting" her for over a year, but only during the London Season. If he winnowed it down to just that timeframe, only a handful of months. Had it started three days ago in the portrait gallery? No. He'd been ready for it to go further then, glad of it.

To the night in the garden, watching Lord and Lady Norton tear at one another like desperate lovers. Had given him ideas. Not immediately. No. But her scent as she'd watched behind him had twisted together with the idea of midnight garden trysts in his dull brain until it had become him and her tearing at one another beneath the stars. How many times had he suffered through that dream since then? Too many to count, each one making him wake harder in the morning, forcing him to take his cock in hand to find relief.

Until the garden had been replaced with blasted ledgers. Of all damn things.

Sigh.

He needed to write to his grandfather. He'd not sent an epistle since he'd arrived. The old man would worry. Ben donned a clean pair of breeches, sat at the writing desk in the corner, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and tried to use his most legible hand to compose the letter.

Grandfather,

Have I told you about Lady P? Practical P? Pretty P, too, if I'm being honest. I only started courting her because her brother asked me to. I suppose the trouble is that she's an odd sort of woman. Doesn't want to marry. Doesn't seem to think I mean it. Of course, I didn't mean it. I don't mean it. I'm here for the brother's sake. And for mine. We have a deal—an exchange.

But last year when all those fools abandoned Pleasant P because of her sister's scandal, I felt a bit protective. Too protective, likely. And when this other fellow by the name of Norton showed up to show his support for her, too, I wanted to ram my fist into his face. What the devil does that mean? I hear my mama's voice in my head telling me what it means. One day you haven't a clue, and the next you know. But that can't be it. But a few days ago, when she said she liked my beard, didn't mind my ink stains… I remembered how Mama used to say that. Punctual P also likes me like this. You should see me, Grandfather. All kitted out like a gentleman. You'd love it. I don't hate it. Not when she… anyway.

I'm lost without a compass. No idea where I am or where to go. Not asking for help. Merely thought you'd find it diverting.

Your grandson,

Ben

He read it through, shook his head. Unorganized as usual. He'd not send it. Would give Grandpapa ideas to cling to, to beat Ben about the head with. So, Ben shoved the paper to the side and pulled up another. He dipped his pen in the inkwell and set it to paper. Much shorter, this one, much more to the point. Much safer, too.

Then he rang for his valet. He had work to do.

Prudence's eyes snapped open. Beard? And hair? Long as it had been and escaping a queue. But Ben Bailey the same as he was now in every other way—nicely dressed in fitted clothes and making amusing quips instead of glaring. What an odd dream to wake to. And what an odd feeling it had roused in her body. The same feeling, in fact, as he'd roused in her before—hot and restless. The sheets felt like chains on her legs, and she kicked at them. The sun slanting through the window and peeking in at her between the bed curtains felt like molten fire. Unsupportable. She rolled away from the heat, but it came with her, located as it seemed to be at the very core of her body.

And he'd not even had to touch her to make her that way. He'd merely had to appear in her early morning dream, bearded and, impossible to deny, beautiful. Also impossible to deny—she'd been right. He bore no interest in her. She'd asked him to prove himself yesterday. He'd declined to do so. Confirmation, that. Whatever she'd meant to him, she no longer meant it.

She groaned, shoved her face into her pillow, and flailed her legs. Why could she not remove the scoundrel from her mind? He did not truly care for her, yet he'd been in her dream, kissing her, touching her in places she knew men touched women, proving to her what he refused to prove yesterday. That he wanted her.

She'd never been touched where Dream Mr. Bailey had touched her before, had never felt that place between her legs so… alive and aching as it was now.

Needy. The only word for it. She slipped her hand between the bed and her body and rubbed there, and oh—the ache did not go away. It increased. She bit her lip, but that little bite of pain did nothing to release the need, to cover it. And the image of Mr. Bailey would not dissipate as all dreams should. It stayed—beard, queue, tight-fitting buckskins, a midnight garden, and Prudence pressed against a tree as Cora had been.

Mr. Bailey growled into her ear. Lovely words about ledgers and being his secretary, and oh they should not make her want to replace her own hand with his, but they did. She flopped over onto her back and arched into her own hand, needing something harder, weightier than her hand at her middle, growling because she did not have it. The arousal Mr. Bailey had blazed into her body would not dissipate but would not burn hotter either, and frustration growled in her throat.

She imagined him pressing his knee between her legs, pinning her hands above her head against the rough bark of the tree, and the fires inside her leapt higher.

"Ben," she groaned, her fingers focusing on a particularly buzzing bit of herself. Was that what the ladies had talked about? The little pearl some men could not find? Had no idea what to do with it, but that could—oh yes, she saw what it could do. As she pressed her thumb into it, a squeak popped out from between her lips. She slammed her eyes more tightly closed, imagined Ben hiking her skirts above her hips, finding that particular spot with his fingers.

And imagining his hand there, big and gloveless, ink-stained and rough… it tore a scream from her, rippled sensation like she'd never felt across her skin, turned her bones to liquid. As her body melted heavy into the mattress, and her hand fell heavy to her side to tangle in the sweaty blankets there, she managed to whisper, "Ben." And in the fantasy she'd weaved behind closed eyes, the dream Ben grinned.

She sat bolt upright, eyes going wide.

What… had she… heavens. Heavens.

She flew out of the bed and tore into her trunk. Dressed. She must dress for the day and put herself to rights. What time was it? She glanced at the sky. Oh no. She'd slept too late. The ladies might already be gathered on the lawn.

See what this unhealthy preoccupation with Mr. Bailey had gained her—a disorganized schedule, an inability to keep to times. Mr. Bailey's lack of punctuality was catching.

She called for her maid and was soon dressed and coiffed well enough, and she found Cora and the others assembled on the lawn. At least they'd kept to her schedule.

Unlike Prudence. Yet she managed a smile as she greeted them. "Terribly sorry for being late. I overslept."

They stared at her as if she'd just said she'd had to pluck a chick for the cook, but then they shrugged and turned back to what they'd been doing before she'd bounced in with too much gaiety in her voice.

Mrs. Garrison notched an arrow to her bow and took aim as the sun cooked them all. A bead of sweat ran down Prudence's brow, and she stripped her gloves off, light lace though they were, and tossed them to the grass.

"It's sweltering," she groaned. Or perhaps that was the remnants of the heat Dream Mr. Bailey had gifted her while abed.

Cora snorted. "You were hot before you arrived. Cheeks red as berries. What kept you abed this morning? Are you ill?"

"N-no. Merely taking advantage of the slower country pace."

Lady Templeton snorted. "You've set a bruising pace for us, Prudence. Every hour a new activity. But you yourself late. Someone feel her forehead."

The back of Lady Macintosh's hand slapped against the top of Prudence's head, and she beat it away.

"I'm perfectly well." But my, her cheeks were hot.

"You're perfectly good at organizing," Lady Macintosh said, abandoning her pursuit of Prudence's forehead. "This house party has been a splendid idea. It is nice to speak as we please and when we please. I think this house party will be a success in the future as well, when we invite others."

"If we can keep Lord Norton from inviting unexpected guests." Mrs. Garrison notched another arrow. The first had hit the bullseye, and she stuck her tongue out the corner of her mouth. "I'm going to split that one." She didn't, but the arrow thunked into place right next to the first in the middle of the bullseye. "Rats."

Lady Macintosh slipped an arrow from a sheath and eyed it. "Speaking of arrows and speaking freely… what size do you all prefer?"

"Size?" Cora shook her head.

Lady Macintosh held the arrow upright and wrapped her hand around it, scooted her hand closer to the tip. "Smaller or"—she moved her hand closer to the bottom—"larger?"

"Girth is more important, my dear," Lady Templeton said. "That's my stance."

Lady Macintosh repositioned her hand on the arrow. "This is just about the size of Lord Macintosh."

"Aroused or not?" Lady Templeton asked.

"Not."

Lady Templeton whistled. "He's an inch or more on Lord Templeton. But Fitz does know what to do with what he's got."

Cora shook her head still. "I'm entirely muddled."

"Gherkins," Prudence whispered. "Shafts, members."

"Oh! Yes, of course. I tend toward the more metaphorical in my poetry. Size does not matter unless we're speaking of the heart, the soul."

Lady Macintosh sighed and picked up a bow. "And that is why we adore your poetry. When will you treat us next?"

"Tomorrow, I think. But I was wondering if we might do something different from the usual. I'm working on something new, and it calls for open skies. Sunlight. Not shadows and darkness."

"Interesting." Mrs. Garrison hummed as she lowered into a wicker seat. "I approve. What shall it be, then?"

"I'd like to recite something out on the lake," Cora said. "We can take the rowboats out."

Rowboats and lakes. Difficult to control.

"I'm not sure I approve." Prudence studied the high walls of the house as if she could see the lake on the other side of it. "Everyone will be able to see us out there in the boats. They'll wonder what we're doing. And what if there is bad weather or one of us topple in or—"

"It will be fine," Cora said. "Norton took me out in a boat just yesterday while everyone was resting in the afternoon. Perfectly safe."

"Did he now?" Lady Templeton leaned closer to Cora, studied her face with both eyebrows raised. "Enjoying his company better than before?"

Cora waved away the lady's question. "He asked. I saw no reason to tell him no."

"And now you wish to recite poems in rowboats?"

"Rowboats have a certain romantic quality," Cora said.

"An unpredictable quality," Prudence grumbled.

"Are all rowboats romantic," Mrs. Garrison asked, "or just one particular rowboat ride with one particular husband?"

Cora grabbed a bow and arrow, marched to the stand before the target set up across the grass. She notched, aimed, let the arrow fly, and missed the target entirely. Clearly Prudence had spent too much time worrying about Mr. Bailey over the last few days. She'd come here to help her friend, and her friend remained unhappy.

"Lady Prudence?" a voice called from nearby, a man's voice.

She looked over her shoulder. The butler approached, a square of paper held lightly between his pristine gloves.

"Yes?" she asked.

"This is for you." He held out the paper.

She took it, and he left, and she felt the weight of four gazes heavy on her. She dared not look up. She recognized the scrawl across the front. From the letters almost a fortnight ago. From the ledgers yesterday.

"It's from Mr. Bailey."

"What could he have to write you about?" Cora asked, standing beside her and peering over her shoulder at the square of white burning in Prudence's fingers. "He can seek you out with ease."

"I've no idea." She slipped the note into her pocket.

"You're not going to read it?" Lady Templeton now stood on her other side.

"Later. When I'm alone."

"Unfair," Lady Macintosh said from behind her left shoulder. "What is it you two were up to yesterday?"

Prudence sighed, a rather dreamy sounding thing. "Organizing."

"The way you say that"—Lady Macintosh shook her head—"as if you enjoyed it."

"I did," Prudence snapped. "I do enjoy it, and Mr. Bailey recognized that, sought out my help."

"Ah." Lady Templeton chuckled. "You're beginning to like him. Whether he's courting you or not, he's certainly succeeding."

Cora wrapped her hand around Prudence's upper arm. "I know you were feeling more comfortable with him, but… is Lady Templeton correct? Do you hold a tendre for him?"

"I… No. I… well… perhaps but…" She growled, pulled her arm from her friend's grip, and headed for the gardens. When her friends' voices were nothing but lilting melodies on the wind, she sought out the shade of a tree in bloom and leaned against its trunk.

She rubbed her thumb once over her name in stark black ink and messy lines before taking a deep inhalation and opening the letter. No more than a note, really, short, but shattering.

Lady Prudence,

I am leaving tomorrow afternoon. As I came here with the express purpose of seeing you, I thought I should tell you first. Business draws me away. I've much to do today to prepare for my departure and do not know if I shall see you at dinner. I shall implement your suggestions and, perhaps, see you in London.

BB

Sunlight slanting through the branches above threw wiry shadows across the paper, across his farewell. Sunlight or shadow. Which was he? Which his intentions? She knew that now. He may appear a sunbeam dressed to advantage, but he belonged to the shadows, possessed his own reasons for pursuing her. And something in the last week had changed that, changed everything.

He no longer felt compelled to pursue her.

Yet she… curse it all, she rather wished he still did. Mr. Bailey was a rugged scoundrel and not a charming gentleman with a pure heart. But another part of her, as new as Mr. Bailey's short hair, viewed him with a different understanding.

He missed his parents.

He asked women for help.

He made her laugh.

Heaven help her, she might have begun to like the man a little more than she'd ever thought possible. She'd not allocated time for falling in love, but Mr. Bailey had never seemed to care for schedules, and he'd scrambled the ledger of her heart into utter chaos.