Chapter 5

Chapter Five

B eatrice sent her maid away and paced her bedchamber. She'd returned to an empty town house as Judith, Arthur, and Lavinia were out. She'd had the footman lie about Judith taking ill as a pretext for leaving the theater early so that Munro would be alone with the courtesan she'd hired. He was almost certainly with the courtesan now. She didn't think he would have stayed at the opera long without her. That meant he'd called for his carriage and been pleasantly surprised when greeted with a beautiful, willing woman inside.

Beatrice had made sure she was beautiful. She'd seen Mrs. Montcrief at the theater and an occasional ball on the arm of one lord or another. The courtesan was undeniably handsome, and Beatrice had her maid arrange a meeting at her modiste's shop. Mrs. Montcrief had seemed amused by Beatrice's offer, but she'd taken the money readily enough. No doubt she thought something wrong with Munro to have to be offered money to bed him.

She had probably been pleasantly surprised too to find he was handsome and skilled at giving a woman pleasure. The image of the two of them twined together flashed in her mind, and Beatrice turned and paced back across the room. She was dressed in a white nightgown and robe, but she opened the robe now as she'd grown warm from all this pacing. She should go to bed. Wondering and imagining was torture.

A light tap sounded on the door, and Beatrice paused. Who could possibly—? Ah, she'd told her maid to bring her news as soon as the footman keeping watch on Mrs. Montcrief's flat returned. That was her maid with word Munro was inside the woman's home now.

Beatrice blew out a breath and went to the door, pulling it open just as she realized her maid would not have knocked.

But she was too late. Munro stuck his foot in the doorway before she could slam it closed.

She was so shocked to see him that she hesitated long enough that he had time to brace the door open further with his hand. "What are you—"

He held out a slip of paper. "I imagine this was meant for you. I took it from your maid just now." His voice sounded raspy and breathless, as though he had run all the way back from the theater.

She took the slip of paper then tried to close the door.

"Not just yet. Go on, read your message."

She gave him another look, noting his cravat was askew and his hair tousled. Had he already bedded the courtesan and then come here? She released the door and turned her back to open the note.

He declined my company .

RM

The script was unfamiliar, but she could only assume the RM stood for Rebecca Montcrief. She stiffened as the door closed behind her, and Munro moved to stand behind her, almost touching her. "What does it say?"

She lifted the note, and he reached over her shoulder and took it. A moment later the note dropped to the floor. "I win. Again," he murmured.

Beatrice didn't dare turn to look at him. She didn't trust herself. Already her body yearned to sway backward and lean against his. "You didn't even kiss her?" she asked.

"I kissed the back of her hand once in the coach when I had to stop it from wandering and then again when I said goodnight. It seemed only proper when she'd made such an effort."

Beatrice turned her head, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "I suppose I chose poorly. She wasn't the sort of woman you fancy."

He put a hand on her waist, and she tensed as he turned her to face him. Her heart began skipping, beating like the wings of a butterfly in her chest as he held her at arm's length and looked down at her.

"I wanted her," he said. "I was tempted."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I want you more, and I earned my reward."

She shook her head. "You can't mean—"

"To claim my kiss right here and right now? That's exactly what I mean to do. And believe me, that's the least of what I want to do to you. But I'll play by your rules because something occurred to me just now."

"What's that?" she asked, her voice a whisper. She couldn't seem to draw enough air into her lungs, not with him so near. Not with his hands on her waist and those impossibly beautiful eyes locked on her face.

"You want me as much as I want you, and this game isn't just torturing me. It's torturing both of us."

"I'm not tortured." She gave a false laugh. His lips turned up at the corner.

"We'll see about that. You owe me a kiss, Beatrice."

"Fine." She leaned forward to peck him, but he arched back and away. Her mouth dropped open at his obvious avoidance. "I thought you wanted a kiss."

"Don't try me, woman. I want more than a peck. Our agreement was for more than a peck."

"We never specified—"

" Beatrice ."

His hands on her waist trembled slightly, and she caught her breath. He was exercising every ounce of restraint he had to hold her at arm's length. Her gaze clashed with his again, and she saw the naked need in his eyes. He wanted her. Badly.

Heat rushed from her chest to her belly and between her legs. How could she not be aroused by the way he looked at her? She didn't want to deny herself the pleasure of his mouth any longer. She lifted her arms from her side and slid her hands up his shoulders and behind his neck. He took a slow breath, and she felt his hands flex and release on her waist. She tugged his head down until their mouths were inches apart. She looked at him, watched as he lowered his lashes and closed his eyes, clearly wanting to savor this moment.

Why did he have to do that? Her skipping heart tightened with desire and something else. She pushed everything but the desire away and slid her lips over his, closing her own eyes and simply feeling the softness of his mouth.

The kiss was…she wasn't certain where he ended, and she began. It started slow and tentative with Beatrice in control. But somehow once her lips touched his, she couldn't maintain that control. Her hands slid up into his hair, and he pulled her against him. Then his mouth claimed hers, hot and demanding, and she took as much as she gave. When his tongue stroked hers, she moaned and clung to him. He walked her backward until she was pressed against a wall. His hands slid into her hair, and he angled her head back to give him better access to her lips. He took full advantage of that access, kissing her until she was breathless and vibrating with need.

"Munro." She grasped his coat, yanked it down from his shoulders, slid her hands over his chest.

He pulled back, his eyes full of promise, but instead of stripping her naked and taking her there against the wall, he freed his hands from her hair and pressed them against the wall behind her. His breathing was rapid, coming in short pants. She could feel his heart racing under her hands, and she stilled when he pressed his forehead to hers.

"Thank you," he said between breaths. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight?"

He pushed away from the wall, adjusted his trousers, and turned his back to her. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Where are you going?" she demanded. If he was half as aroused as she—and given the bulge in his trousers, she believed he was—he would want to finish what he'd started.

"To bed," he said. "In my chamber. On the other side of the house."

"And if I asked you to stay?" she asked, telling herself it wasn't because she wanted him to stay but because she was testing him again. Yes, that was it. More tests—except was he still the one being tested?

"I can't," he said, giving her a mournful look as he opened the door to her chamber. "I haven't earned it yet."

And then he was gone, leaving her to curse him and then herself. After all, she was the one who had invented the Nefarious Scheme, and now the blasted rake had turned it against her.

She was torturing him on purpose. No woman wore a gown like the one she wore now without knowing exactly the effect it would have on the men she encountered. He glanced at the other men seated at the Duke of Ramsbury's table and clenched his jaw when he saw how many were ogling her.

Not her exactly, but her chest.

Beatrice's mulberry gown had a waist close to her natural waist and not much material in-between. The golden swells of her breasts were on full display. He could not see the back of her gown at present, as he was seated on the other side of the table, but he'd seen a good deal of the slender line of her backbone.

He was an arrogant arse, but was it assuming too much to speculate she'd worn the dress to torment him specifically? They'd not had a chance to speak privately in the few days since the kiss they'd shared in her bedchamber, but they'd exchanged glances that proved to Munro that, like him, she hadn't forgotten one second of that heated encounter. At night, he half-wished he might forget because memories of the scorching kiss kept him awake. He had to force himself to stay in his bed and not go to her chamber. Why had he allowed Arthur to talk him into leaving the Clarendon?

There had been no more tests, which relieved and concerned Munro. The wedding was only little more than a week away, and he'd only been tested twice. Munro was more determined than ever to prove to Beatrice that he was no longer a rake, that he could be faithful, and that he deserved her—body and soul.

The meal, which had felt interminable, was almost over. Soon the women would retire to the drawing room and the men would be left to enjoy port and cigars. Anticipating that moment, the duke rose now and lifted his wine glass. Munro smothered a groan. If he had to listen to one more speech about love, he'd retch.

The duke cleared his throat. "Shakespeare once wrote, Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments . I have been fortunate in that there have been no obstacles to the union of Miss Notley and myself, but that does not mean I do not anticipate such an easy course always. After all, the poet goes on, love is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken ." He lifted his glass higher, and the assembled company followed. "May we never be shaken by the tempests, dear Lavinia."

"Hear, hear!"

Munro echoed the approval and sipped from his glass, meeting Beatrice's gaze as he did so. Was it coincidence that the poet had chosen the word tempests , which meant storms but was also perilously close in spelling to temptation ? Munro thought not.

As predicted, the ladies rose to adjourn to the drawing room to take tea. Munro joined the other men, standing as the ladies exited, and Arthur, who had more than his share of wine tonight, said loudly, "Soon you will be the only bachelor among us, Munro."

Munro saw Beatrice's head turn slightly and knew she was listening. She was at the back of the procession of ladies and still very much in the room.

"It does seem to be my lot in life," Munro said, which was his rote response whenever someone made an idiotic comment about his unmarried state. He used to remark that he was sorry not to suffer from wedded bliss , but that was before Solomon had married Beatrice. Because after that, Munro had very much wanted to suffer all the wedded bliss imaginable if it meant having Beatrice by his side and in his bed.

"You don't plan to ever marry?" the duke asked. "Surely you can't think to wander about the Continent the rest of your life."

That was precisely what Munro had thought he would do before he'd returned to England for the wedding.

Before he'd regained a flicker of hope that Beatrice might one day be his. He couldn't imagine ever committing himself to any other woman. And he'd tried to imagine it many times. He'd tried to want a life with other women. But he'd come to realize that he loved Beatrice, and for some men, there was only ever one great love.

"I'm not at all opposed to matrimony," Munro said. "If it's with the right woman."

Arthur's brows rose so high they all but disappeared into his hairline. "The right woman! And have you met this woman?"

"I have," he said. "But it remains to be seen whether she deems me worthy."

Beatrice cast one last look at him as she moved through the door. He was an expert at reading her expressions, but even someone who didn't know her at all would have recognized the look of skepticism in her eyes just then.

"That's good news then," Arthur said, clapping Munro on the shoulder. "Perhaps we shall soon have another engagement and wedding to celebrate."

"With any luck," Munro said. The men drank their port and lit cigars. Munro disliked port almost as much as cigars, so he only made a show of doing both. Finally, the men joined the ladies in the drawing room. Munro didn't hesitate to make his way to Beatrice's side. She was seated on a couch on the far side of the room, alone. He took the cushion beside her. "Why are you all the way over here on your own?"

She set her teacup aside. "I couldn't stand to listen to any more discussion of the wedding," she admitted. "I suppose that makes me a terrible aunt."

"It makes you human. I barely leave my room at Notley House for fear I will be pulled into some argument over floral arrangements or lace."

She smiled. He loved her smiles, the way they crinkled her eyes and lit up her face.

"But I thought you enjoyed discussing weddings. Wasn't that the topic you men embarked on as the ladies departed?"

"It wasn't the topic for long, I assure you." He looked about to ensure no one was approaching. They had a few more moments before they would certainly be interrupted. "I could reopen it, if you wish."

"And say what?" she asked. "Surely you don't expect me to believe you want to marry."

Munro scowled at her. "Considering I once asked you to marry me, that is exactly what I want you to believe."

"That was a long time ago. I admit, I didn't realize how serious you were then. I am sorry for misjudging you."

"You needn't apologize now. You might simply stop misjudging me."

"Because you want me to believe you wish to marry me."

"Yes."

"And you plan to be faithful."

"As I have proven thus far."

"Tell me truthfully then."

Munro leaned closer.

"Have you booked return passage to the Continent already?"

Munro opened his mouth and thought of the ticket he possessed for a voyage to Italy just a day after Lavinia's wedding.

"That's what I thought," she said, seeing the answer on his face. "You shall return to your life of debauchery."

"I can tear up that ticket," he said. "If I have a reason."

"Don't—" But she cut off her next words when Lavinia moved toward them.

"Uncle Munro, Aunt Bea, what are you two whispering about?"

"We're discussing your wedding gift," Beatrice said smiling. "Your uncle needed some suggestions. Excuse me, dear." Beatrice rose, and Munro watched as she slipped out the rear door. Where the devil was she off to?

"You needn't give me a gift," Lavinia said. "Just having you here is gift enough for me, Uncle Munro. Tell me truthfully, what do you think of John—the duke, I mean?"

Munro returned his attention to Lavinia, then took her hands. "I'll admit I was skeptical of the union at first. He's quite a bit older than you."

Lavinia nodded, surely having heard this criticism before.

"But I'm warming to him. He seems to care about you a great deal. Quoting Shakespeare is a sure sign he's besotted."

Lavinia grinned. "Wasn't it romantic? He has entire sonnets memorized."

"Lavinia," her mother called. "Come here a moment. I just had an idea for the wedding breakfast, and your Aunt Susan agrees."

"Duty calls," Lavinia said and rose. Munro watched her approach her mother then took the opportunity to follow Beatrice. The door she'd passed through led to a small parlor such as a lady might use for correspondence, as it possessed a desk near the window. The chamber was dark, but Munro ascertained quickly it was empty. Another door at the other end was ajar, and he moved through it, emerging into a large room this time. The scents of ink and old paper immediately told him this was the library.

"Beatrice?" he said, looking about the room. "Are you here?"

The door he'd come through closed, and he turned to see a maid standing before it. "Might I help you, sir?" she asked.

"Have you seen Mrs. Barnet?"

"No." She moved toward him, her hips swaying in a motion he wasn't used to seeing in a maid. "But we don't need her, do we?"

The maid began to pluck at the pins holding her bodice, and before Munro could think to object, the material fell open. She wore nothing underneath.

He considered himself a reformed rake, but he still had a pulse and eyes. He was far from immune to the charms of a lovely woman. And she had quite a pair of charms. She moved toward him, reached for his hands, and began to draw them to her chest. Munro shook his head and pulled back. This woman was another of Beatrice's temptations. Beatrice had apparently decided he no longer deserved any quarter or semblance of mercy. He was alone with a half-naked, willing woman. "Touch me," she said.

"I think I'd better return to the drawing room." Even to his own ears, he didn't sound convincing. He didn't move either.

"Don't you want to see what I'm wearing under my skirts. Or rather—not wearing. Let me show you." She reached for the ties of her skirt, and Munro shut his eyes. He took several deep breaths and thought of anything and everything he hated—rats swimming in the canals in Venice, the lice he'd acquired from a poorly chosen inn in Albania, the smell of the Paris sewers, and the way his testicles contracted when he jumped into a cold lake in Switzerland.

The reminder of the cold water and his freshly shorn head to rid it of the lice was enough to cool his ardor. He opened his eyes again, keeping them above the woman's head, and bowed. "Excuse me, madam."

And he walked out of the library and back into the small adjoining parlor. Not yet trusting himself, he continued walking right back into the drawing room. He looked right and then left, searching for Beatrice. He had a few words to say to her. More than that he wanted to grab her hand, drag her out of there, and kiss her senseless. He was on fire now. He needed that release.

"Uncle Munro, are you ill?" Lavinia approached him, her brow wrinkled in concern.

"I—" He cleared his throat, which was dry and tight. "I'm fine."

"You look a bit flushed. Aunt Beatrice said she felt overheated and left a few moments ago. I do hope her illness isn't catching."

That little coward. She hadn't even stayed to see the results of her machinations. If she'd truly just left, he might still be able to catch her.

"I just need some fresh air," he told Lavinia, running for the drawing room doors. "I'm fine," he called over his shoulder as he burst through the doors and ran down the steps.

Ramsbury's butler had just closed the front door and turned sharply as Munro skidded across the parquet floor of the foyer. "Where is she?" he gasped.

"Mrs. Barnet?"

"Yes! Where is she?"

"I just put her in her coach, sir. Might I—"

Munro pushed past him and flung the door open just as the coach was turning out of the drive and onto the main thoroughfare in front of the town house. "Oh, no you don't," he muttered and began to run. He caught up with the coach a moment later, and still running, banged on the window. Beatrice opened the curtains and blinked at him. A moment later, the coach slowed, and she lowered the window.

"What are you doing?"

"Open the door," he said, jerking his head at the coach.

"But—"

"Open it, Beatrice."

She raised the window, and Munro half-feared she'd knock on the roof and the coach would start away again. He could keep chasing it, but he was panting and wasn't sure how long he might keep that up. But the door to the coach opened, and he caught it, climbed in, and slammed it again. Then he reached up and banged on the roof.

The coach lurched and moved away.

Across from him, in the golden light of the lanterns, Beatrice blinked at him. "I suppose this means you weren't tempted."

"Oh, I was tempted, but not so tempted that I forgot one thing."

"What's that?"

"I only want you."

He saw her throat work as she swallowed, quite obviously more affected by his words than she let on. "You can't have me. You should have taken advantage of what was offered to slake your lust."

"I think you're forgetting something," he said, tone ominous. He'd just remembered it himself.

"What's that?"

"I win a prize."