Chapter Thirteen

B elle had managed to drink one sherry to every two of Charlotte’s, but she still felt the effects as she helped her friend up the stairs and into her usual room, the bedroom Luke had been using to store his clothes. She’d moved those to the third bedroom for the time being.

Charlotte had sent her a frantic note and had come to grieve the self-inflicted end of her affair with William after watching him mourn the loss of his father at the funeral.

After trying and failing to convince Charlotte that she needn’t give William up so he could find a younger woman more likely to bear him heirs, she’d given up and drunk with her friend, giving her the time to process her grief.

She attempted to distract Charlotte with idle chatter, but part of her remained focused on Luke, worrying about how he was faring, wanting him to succeed. As the sherry levels lowered, her concern turned to longing. She’d enjoyed his company these past days once he’d gotten past the whining stage of recovery.

She would miss him when he was gone. No, she needed to contemplate marriage prospects, not young entertaining lordlings who accepted her as she was and even sought out her guidance. Her feelings stemmed from the lack of structure around their association. Always before, she’d known ahead of time what a partner expected. Even marriage had at least a loose set of guidelines.

Luke was an anomaly, that was all. She could not want more with him. She did not want more with him. His reputation would suffer from association with a retired courtesan nearly a decade older than him, and her emotions would not allow her to enter a contractual arrangement with him as his mistress, even if his funds allowed it.

She suspected Charlotte would want to stay for a few days to avoid William, and she was not quite sure what to do with Luke for the duration. The temptation of having him in her bedroom that long might prove more than she could handle.

However, she was not prepared to think about alternatives after an entire decanter of sherry. Thank heavens she had extra spirits and wines down in the root cellar and that Luke had not thought to check there. As it was, she might have to send for more if her friend stayed, as Charlotte had managed two bottles herself.

Stumbling into her room, she faced her immediate dilemma—whether the greater need was to lie down or to remove her stays. Swaying, she leaned one hand on her dresser and held her candelabra aloft, blinking at the attractive nuisance curled on her floor. She’d wondered whether he’d choose the guest room or come willingly to hers.

He made the right choice. She giggled, attempting to remain quiet.

That thick hair begged for her fingers, and the nobs of his spine were perfect notches for her tongue to explore on the way to bite that delicious derriere she’d been watching work for the past week.

Sighing, she set the candelabra down with a clack and twisted her arms to undo her dress. An older courtesan had once advised her to make her gowns as easy to get out of as possible, and her modiste had accommodated that ever since. Forgetting about the screen, she slid her gown off her shoulders and moved to the laces of her stays and the tapes of her petticoat.

The stays dropped with a muted clunk to the floor.

Luke stirred, rolling onto his back with the covers at his waist. Her gaze roamed, enjoying his shirtless torso.

“Mmm,” she moaned. Clad only in her chemise and stockings, she threw herself sideways across the bed to lie on her stomach, head propped on her elbows to enjoy the view.

That T captivated her. Most men had more of a heart-shaped cloud of chest hair pointing downward. In her current mood, the T seemed significant.

“Perhaps ’tis for tempting,” she whispered. “Or tantalizing... or, oh, treasure. Or it could be pointing ‘this way.’”

Luke stirred, raising a hand to rest on the cross of the T .

She giggled and whispered more ideas. “Or target.”

“What is a target?” His voice was a sleepy grumble. “Is someone else here or are you talking to yourself? And what is so funny?”

“Someone else is here. Charlotte is in your room. And I’m attempting to decipher your T . Oh, I know. The Tower of Luke. Terrifying.” She was outright laughing now, the bed jiggling under her.

He sat up to peer at her in the dim candlelight, bringing him within reach for more than a wandering gaze. “What are you going on about?”

“Touch!” she proclaimed, shooting out a hand to trail down his chest.

He sniffed and raised a brow. “Sherry? Did you bring me some?”

“No, silly. You’re not allowed. Besides, I have not worked out what to do with you yet. Or what your T stands for.” She gasped. “I hope it is not tiny!”

He narrowed his gaze and glanced to where her hand lingered. His head shot up and he growled, “No. You’ve seen it. You know ’tis not tiny.”

“What about thrust?” she giggled, listing sideways without both hands to prop her head. Her fingers curled in his chest hair and tugged.

His hand came to cover hers. “No thrusting shall happen tonight. Not when one of us—the wrong one, I might add—is another t word: tipsy.”

“Oh, Clodpate,” she sighed, folding her arms under her head.

“No,” she heard above her. His arms came around her and half-lifted, half-dragged her up to her pillows where he tucked the covers around her.

“Sleep, Belle. We can talk”—he emphasized the T and she giggled—“in the morning.”

Hearing whispers, Belle rolled onto her back and groaned. Her mouth was full of cotton.

A fully clothed Luke approached with a tea tray as the door closed. He set it down on her dresser with a minimum of rattling.

Thank goodness. Her head was almost as cottony as her mouth. She dragged herself up against the pillows, taking a moment to regret that his T was covered. She supposed she should be embarrassed by her behavior last night, but she was used to having leeway as a courtesan. If it scared him away, all the better, before she gave into her yearning for more of him.

“Good morning,” he whispered. “Your guest is still asleep.”

“That is for the best. Please, Luke”—he blinked at her rare use of his first name, but she had a more immediate concern—“do not tell William where she is. She needs a few days to sort out her thoughts. And whilst I hope she’ll realize that she is what’s best for him, I am not confident in that outcome.”

“Why?”

She shook her head. “’Tis not my story to tell.”

“Fair enough.” He stood with his teacup in hand, not drinking. “May I ask why you do not want her to know I’m here?”

Facing direct questions and finding the diplomacy to answer them after a bottle of sherry were less than ideal. She put a hand to her head, resting her cup and saucer on her lap. “For two reasons. The last thing she needs is any reminders of William.”

“Ah.”

“And second, I am trying to protect you.”

He snorted a laugh.

“Shh.”

“Sorry. But what from? You’ve said it yourself. The only way I might be freer to do as I pleased is if I were the offspring of a duke or royalty.”

“True.” Bitterness rang in the word, and she raised her head to glare at him. “However, my thought was to protect you from your cronies finding you, your creditors finding you, temptation finding you, and so on.”

He nodded, and his shoulders dropped an inch. “I see. Thank you.”

After finishing her tea, she asked the question that had plagued her all evening until the sherry took over. “How did you fare yesterday?”

“Quite well, actually.” He grinned. “Of course, it was not a happy day, but I doubt William was all that broken up at losing his father. There had been little love lost between them in recent years. As for me, I admit to craving whisky at one point, but overall I was rather proud of myself. Of course, we did not go to the public house; he asked that we meet there tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a good start, though.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take daily walks in the neighborhood if I am going to remain hidden away whilst Lady Charlotte is here?”

“I suppose you’ve earned your shoe rights back,” she conceded. “Although, the outing for drinks will be your true test.”

“I suspect there will be several of those along the way.”

After he let himself out of the room to sneak down the back stairs, Belle lingered in bed, pensive. It appeared as though her assigned project—the only framework she had for her interaction with Luke—was nearing an end. Charlotte’s sadness echoed in her heart. For all her restraint, losing her housemate would hurt.