Chapter 52

For the third time in as many days, Cass stood stock still, a bowl in each hand, obliged to remind Devorlane Hawley of the rules of this particular game.
"Sorry." He shifted his lean frame in order to adjust the robe. At least he'd learned that much, even if he didn't adjust the robe. "I forgot."
"Thank you."
She set the bowls down, aware as she pushed them where she always put them that the stare he'd fixed on the opposite wall was intent enough to burn holes in the lathe and plaster. Why? Because she might have placed the contents of one of these bowls somewhere other than the bedside cabinet and he expected to suffer agony? Or, he was so addicted to sex, he longed for her? A man who could have any woman he wanted, and probably had?
So long as he didn't need help with that addiction next. Especially when all this skivvying she was doing kept her so far from her goal, that square of land didn't properly exist anymore. Not that the papers had exactly proved anything so far.
What were today's revelations in that ledger she'd waded so painfully through she'd thought she was standing on nails? What Mrs. Pennycooke's burned Twelfth Night cake had cost the estate. What Mrs. Hailes had done about it when she discovered the "theft" of the ingredients from her kitchen-Mrs. Pennycooke wasn't the cook apparently. What that had then cost the estate for a new apron and mob cap when Mrs. Hailes tore Mrs. Pennycooke's to shreds. It was enough to make Cass tear her hair.
"You're welcome, Miss Armstrong, even if I don't know exactly what you're thanking me for."
Like hell he didn't. As much as her heart, beating like a set of melodeon hammers upon which havoc was being played, didn't know either. Even the way he perused her without moving his face, nearly caused a collision of hammers in her inner core. A multiplying of them too.
"Lord Hawley ..."
"Oh, you're meaning my robe. Very well. There."
"Thank you."
"So now you're going to remove the poultice?"
She peeled back the edge. "Yes."
"You know, I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me."
She placed the poultice in the empty bowl. "Now that would be difficult, the trouble you give."
It was true. Last night he'd been-again, not so bad as that first night. In fact, nothing had been as bad as that first night. It was just very difficult to stay shuttered to him and do this. Difficult when he was swept by chills and his body juddered, not to place her hand on his forehead. She had so many urges to reach out and touch him in these moments.
Of course, it reminded her of Matthew. But it wasn't just that. He seemed so alone for all he was a magnificent profligate. Tame in ways he wasn't when the fever receded. Not that she wanted him tame. In fact she preferred him untamed, sneering, carping, nasty, horrible, demanding.
"More complaints?"
Ungrateful. So those glimpses didn't open windows in her heart. She set her jaw, dabbed the wet cloth against his skin. She'd play this game to the end if it meant getting through these papers. The duration of the search. The wound looked much better. Not such angry red. She squeezed the cloth. Dabbed a little higher. What if the search ended in a blank? What did she do about this?
He raised his head, one tendril of sable hair falling over his forehead. Close, close enough to her, for his breath to be a distraction when this situation was distracting enough. The business with Mrs. Pennycooke that was. Oh, and Lady Tweadle-Maud-some geriatric aunt of ninety who'd run up that same amount of gambling debts, Lord Armstrong had felt obliged to pay for, as well as her funeral, after she'd popped, what Ruby called her soddin' clogs, after viewing her ninety first gambling bill. Ninety one bills was a lot to wade through--no wonder Cass had nearly popped hers.Of course people had their own peculiarities. Had it really been necessary for Lord Armstrong to keep every single bill though? The four pages of instructions to the vicar about the funeral too? As if he knew Cass would come looking?
Now here was Devorlane Hawley breathing all over her cheek, calculation behind the dark measurement of her. In the hope of what? She'd kiss him? Over her dangling dead body.
"Touch me and I won't help you," she said, without looking up.
"Me?"
"You heard."
"Well, I'm not going to touch you."
"Really? Then you better sit back. Thank you." Hot water. Vinegar. That was what she must reach for. She did reach for. Calmly, methodically. After all, whatever else she was, she wasn't a plaything. Break her own rules by giving an inch to the man who would take ten miles? Oh, that would be shiny bright.
As for what rose, at his heated proximity?
"No. I'm going to kiss you."
"In your dreams, Lord Hawley, because I mean what I say. I will leave here. I will walk from this place. After what I saw in that box today believe me, there is nothing to keep me. Now ... "
"Kiss you. Like you did to me that Christmas Eve."
"Ah, a moment's sweet pleasure for a lifetime of torment. Translates to a fat soddin' chance in other words."
"You know, you have no idea how true that is, Miss Armstrong."
"Well then, take your-"
'Lips off me' wasn't the thing to say when they weren't technically on her. His hands either. But his breath was. Breath didn't have quite the same ring, although she wished hers wouldn't hitch just because it mingled effortlessly with his.
"How, if I'd said that to you that night, I might not be here, you might not be here," he said.
"Well, I hardly thought you were saying it because you wanted me to think I was worth it in some way."
"No. Just that the thing is, we are here and when a life of torment's what's been, the fat chance is nothing. Sodding, or otherwise."
He leaned forward. My God, please don't let him kiss her. Don't let her lips meet his because the day hadn't been the best and despair was her master. Please don't let her lips part at least, his fingers clasp the back of her head, to bring her closer still. Please let her throw the bowl of water over him, not feel her heart pound, her throat clench, herself unfurl. Not hear his breath turn to groans of suppressed desire, feel his fingers cup her face, let him kiss her fully.
Please let her care about not choosing to sleep with him, not choosing to help him either, about everything she'd said, not about him tasting like a forbidden dish. Let her not think as he tore off his robe, they'd never both been naked together. Not properly. There had always been something, a shirt, a stocking, something. Please let her not do any of these things that only a stranger to herself would.
"Let me," she gasped, reaching for the buttons on her dress.
Let her remember he was a rou?he must be to desire her in that-that something in her shouldn't thrill to the fact he did desire her and she desired him. The dress landed on the floor, followed by her stockings, her chemise, her petticoat.
"Touch me. Do it." Let her not gasp.
His mouth found hers. Never mind his mouth, his body found hers, skin on skin, fire on fire. The hot spark his lips ignited became a flame. She wrapped her arms around his neck. She wouldn't just risk everything for the sensation of his mouth on hers, she would die for it. Her mind whispered words, filthy, coarse. At the same time, as his mouth moved down her body, things slowed, slowed in a way that left her hungrier to grab the moment. Her breath was a ragged saw, cutting the air with steel teeth. She splayed her knees. The resentment, the anger, that had festered in her veins like a viper?She let go of all of it.
Now and forever.
Later was time enough to worry about getting it back.