29

L ate afternoon sun streamed through the square stone windows of the earl's study. Stephen's knee bobbed beneath his cousin's desk as he tried to concentrate on the documents before him.

Difficult, when they were three days away from the forewarned battle royal.

Stephen's mind kept replaying Elizabeth's negotiation with Reddington, and the duel she'd fought with Crump. She absolutely had the upper hand on the self-proclaimed warlord and every soldier in his army, but there was always risk in battle. The only way to ensure no harm befell Elizabeth was to find that will.

Stephen also wanted to protect Miss Oak. He researched alternate locales for an orphanage in the vicinity as a contingency plan, and found several that looked promising. He would not purchase any land without her consent—Stephen had learned his lesson about assuming he knew best what someone else wanted or needed. Nonetheless, creating a trust for the earl's aunt was the least he and Densmore could do for all the hassle and heartache the earl's careless wager had caused her. The funds would empower Miss Oak to make decisions for herself.

Besides, the reason there was excess money in the earl's accounts was because Stephen had managed the earldom's finances these past sixteen weeks. Setting a bit aside to staff a school and provide housing for children was certainly as worthy an investment as any of the others Stephen had made in Densmore's name. It wasn't charity, but an apology for Densmore wagering what wasn't his to begin with.

The clock on the mantel showed a quarter past five in the afternoon. This morning Elizabeth had mysteriously announced it was her turn to plan a romantic evening. She hadn't given a time, but Stephen hoped it would start soon.

Quickly, he signed and franked the required papers for the formation of the trust, then rang for a footman to send the documents to Stephen's lawyer.

Forester appeared at the door. "Yes, my lord?"

"Post these, if you would, please."

"At once." The footman hurried off, documents in hand.

Miss Oak and her orphanage thus sorted, Stephen returned to his cousin's accounts and correspondence. Little was urgent, but Stephen had discovered he was extraordinarily efficient with the promise of a rendezvous with a beautiful woman pending. He made quick work of the matters that remained.

The next time he lifted his head, it was six of the clock. The sun would not fully set for another two and a half hours, but already a chill breeze had rolled in over the chalk downs and limestone ridges.

Or perhaps Stephen was especially sensitive because his chest and arms were naked beneath his waistcoat.

He rose from the desk to go and close the windows. When Stephen turned around, he was no longer alone in the study.

Elizabeth stood in the doorway, a sword stick in hand and a mischievous expression on her face.

"Our rendezvous begins now?" he asked.

She inclined her head. "This very moment. Unless you are too busy?"

"I would walk away from being crowned King of England to spend one more minute with you."

The corner of her mouth quirked. "We'll see if you say the same thing after you've seen your surprise."

Intrigued, he joined her in the corridor. "Should I put on more clothes?"

The look she sent him was withering.

"Should I… remove all my clothes?"

"We'll see," she replied loftily.

His cock twitched in anticipation. But it grew three sizes the moment Stephen realized where Elizabeth was leading him.

"Your bedchamber?" he asked hoarsely.

She arched an eyebrow outside the door. "This time, I'm inviting you. Don't make me regret it."

He shook his head earnestly. "Never."

She opened the door and pulled him inside, then waggled her brows. "Tonight, I'm at seventy-five percent."

A low fire burned behind the grate. Several cushions and pillows were strewn artistically before it. The bed was made, the entire chamber impeccably clean and orderly… Except for a horrifically lopsided tower of miscellaneous rubbish nailed together in listing, slapdash fashion in the center of the room.

"And what," Stephen asked as politely as he could, "is that wooden abomination?"

She dug an elbow into his ribs. "Behave, or you don't get your surprise."

"It's beautiful," he said at once. "Excellent craftsmanship. You should design all my devices." He considered the monstrosity from all angles. "Just one small question."

She rested her sword stick against the wall. "Ask."

"Um." He would have loosened his cravat if he were wearing one. "What is it?"

"A custom contraption," she said brightly. "It's your gift. I made it for you."

"You shouldn't have." He stared at it even more dubiously. "Thank you?"

She curtsied. "It was my pleasure."

"Er… What does it do?"

She pointed with a finger. "Press that lever and find out."

"That's a lever? It looks more like…" He cleared his throat. "Yes, of course. Here I go. Pressing the lever now."

It was a lever, in the sense that, when Stephen pressed it, it moved.

Every other piece of the—machine?—also moved with it. Not in any identifiable pattern, but in absolute chaos. The entire haphazard structure disintegrated before his eyes, clattering to the stone floor in an inelegant heap of broken wood and bent nails.

He didn't move.

Neither did she.

And neither did the broken machine.

"What was it… supposed to do?" he inquired in a low voice.

She grinned at him. "It delivers a kiss."

Before he could respond, she wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him.

Stephen kissed her back for several minutes until the absurdity of her creation overtook him. He burst out laughing despite himself.

She placed a hand to her bosom in faux offense. "You wouldn't be laughing at my first tinkering attempt, would you?"

"I loved your first tinkering attempt." He returned his mouth to hers without delay.

They were thus engaged when a knock sounded outside the chamber door.

"Ah." She broke away with obvious reluctance. "That will be Martha with our evening repast."

It was indeed Martha, and three other maids besides. They carried in several trays laden with covered dishes and silver pots, as well as little tables, which they placed on either side of the sea of pillows and cushions.

"This came, too, ma'am." Martha handed Elizabeth a missive.

"Thank you. That'll be all. We're not to be disturbed unless I ring for you."

"Understood." The maids bobbed, then hurried from the room with wide grins. They shut the door behind them.

Elizabeth kicked a path through the detritus of the obliterated machine, and led Stephen to join her in relaxing before the fire.

"I intended to pour our chocolate whilst it was hot, but I recognize Graham's handwriting on this letter. Do you mind?"

"I'll pour. You read."

She broke the seal and skimmed the contents, a smile growing on her face.

"Good news?" he could not help but ask.

"Wonderful news." She pressed the letter to her chest, her green eyes shining. "My brother has uncovered Densmore's true whereabouts."

"Eyewitness confirmation?"

She nodded. "Your cousin was spotted by two different sources disembarking in Ireland. Graham's men are closing in. They should have the precise location of the earl in a matter of days, at the most."

The news did not fill Stephen's chest with as much joy as he might have predicted four months ago. While he was glad to know his cousin was hale and hearty, the return of the Earl of Densmore meant the respective departures of both Elizabeth and Stephen.

"That's great," he managed. "Truly splendid."

"I know." She bounced a little as she handed him the letter. "Densmore will be a great help. As his mother's son, he'll have a better understanding of the clues she left behind. In fact, he may have found the will already and be carrying it with him. This will all be over before you know it."

"Yes," Stephen said. "It does sound as though a conclusion is impending."

Looming over them, if you will. A multi-headed hydra, casting unwanted shadows over an evening meant to be light and happy. He set the letter aside.

Elizabeth sipped her chocolate, eyes twinkling. "I do hope you enjoy the nutritious menu I've selected for our supper. Take a look."

He lifted the first lid, then the second, then the third. Every single dish contained cakes or biscuits or bonbons or candied fruit.

"It's everything my nine-year-old heart ever dreamt of," he answered honestly. "I cannot wait to gorge myself sick."

"Not too sick." She shook a finger at him. "There's a real supper later. But before we get there, if you're very lucky, there might be one… more… present to unwrap."

"I will consume a respectable, but non-gluttonous number of delicious desserts," he assured her. "Thereby, I shall be in optimal condition to unwrap anything you please at any moment you wish it."

They sampled all the various tea cakes and sweetmeats, then settled into a comfortable snuggle before the fire. Elizabeth kicked off her slippers, so Stephen removed his shoes as well. Their legs were now gently intertwined, and her cheek lying against his chest.

"The floor isn't as comfortable as a sofa, is it," she murmured.

"Well," he said. "Cushions cannot compare to a bed, but I would happily hold you like this anywhere we happen to be. Grass, sand, stone staircase, river of nails…"

"Lake of marbles from one of your machines…"

He nodded and kissed her forehead. "I'll make a new one that spits out a carpet of goose down."

"How long will that take to build?"

He considered. "Two hours? Well, two hours after we take delivery of a large enough shipment of goose down. With luck, that could happen in the next few days."

"Too long to wait," she answered, rolling off his chest and to her feet with impressive agility.

Stephen could not help but admire her. If this was Elizabeth at seventy-five percent, Elizabeth at one hundred percent would eclipse her brother the acrobat.

She held out her hand to him.

He took it, not because he needed help up from the pillows, but because he had no intention of wasting an opportunity to pull her back into his arms for another kiss.

Without taking her lips from his, she tugged him backward toward the bed—and promptly tripped over the loose fragments of the erstwhile contraption that now littered the floor.

"Ow." She hopped on one foot, trying to stay clear of the jumble of broken parts.

"Here." Stephen helped forge a safe path to the bed. "May I rub your foot?"

She made a regal expression. "I suppose I'll allow it."

As she climbed onto the bed, he tossed some of the pillows from the floor back onto the mattress, then seated himself at the opposite side and pulled her feet into his lap.

He adored touching her. She was strong and soft and curvy, but it was more than that. He liked being helpful, and he loved bringing her pleasure. He would happily build her a foot rubbing machine that was really a wooden box with Stephen hiding inside.

"You can rub higher," she said softly.

His eyes cut to hers. "How much higher?"

"My legs."

"Through your gown or beneath it?"

She hesitated. "Through."

He set about massaging her legs at once. It was not as easy, with the skirts tangling up every few moments, but any manner in which he could touch her was heaven indeed.

"You… can rub a little higher."

He glanced up at her with interest. She made a gesture that might have indicated her bosom. He pretended not to understand. His hands were already on her outer thighs. He placed them on her hips instead. "Here?"

"Higher."

He slid his palms up her hips to the curves at her midsection. "Here?"

"Higher."

His hands skated lightly up her sides until the tips of his fingers grazed the underside of her bosom. "Here?"

Her voice was no louder than a breath. "Higher."

He cupped his hands over her bosom, each plump breast larger than could fit in his hand. His fingers found her erect nipples beneath the soft muslin and gave them a light squeeze. He lowered his mouth until his lips brushed hers. "Here?"

"There," she said, and kissed him.

Stephen needed no further invitation.