Page 49 of Counting on a Countess
“Have you dined?” Kit asked. It was nearing six o’clock.
She blinked at the abrupt change of subject but answered, “Not yet. Despite the lateness of the hour.” Her mouth curved winsomely, and he recalled the kiss they’d shared in the hotel room on their wedding night. Its sudden heat and the strength of their responses to each other. “At home, we dine by five and sleep by eight.”
“A respectable city gentleman doesn’tthinkof going to bed before three in the morning,” he announced with faux grandeur. “Anything else is bourgeois.”
“No one would ever mistake you for a sleepy burgher,” she affirmed.
Kit planted his hands on the desk and leaned closer. “Would it be entirely conventional of me to ask if you’ll join me for dinner tonight?”
Her lips parted. “Just us?”
He picked up her hand and stroked his thumb over her knuckles, back and forth in a slow, spellbinding rhythm. But who was being ensorcelled—her, or him?
“You and me,” he murmured. “Here.”
“I...” Her pupils were dark and large as she gazed up at him. “Yes.”
He could do it now. Lean down and take her mouth with his—God knew he wanted to. His gaze strayed to her mouth.
She blinked and cleared her throat. “Let me finish up a few items here, and then I’ll be up to change for dinner.” Carefully, she removed her hand from his, but she curled it into a fist and rested it against her chest as though holding on to the feel of him.
I can win her—if I don’t lose myself in the process.
“Of course. Is there anything I can help you with?” He gestured to the paperwork.
She smiled slightly. “Thank you for the offer, but I think I have the matter in hand. It’s fortunate that my childhood governess was very insistent that I learn mathematics.”
“I’ll leave you to your work.” He bowed before retreating. His last glimpse of her was the brilliant crown of her head bent over a sheaf of documents.
Turning away from the study, he went in search of an available servant. Finding a maid in the parlor, he said, “Please send Lady Blakemere’s abigail to me in my bedchamber.”
“Yes, my lord,” the girl answered with a curtsy.
Kit pensively climbed the stairs to his room. What he had planned verged on calculating, yet there wasn’t another option. The pleasure garden had to be made real, for the sake of his own peace. Seducing Tamsyn would not be a chore, either. The air between them already sparked with attraction. He had but to urge that spark into a flame.
His heart thudded in anticipation of them burning together.
Kit entered his chamber and a minute later the ruddy-cheeked Cornishwoman appeared in the doorway, her expression cautious.
“You wanted to see me, my lord?”
“Come in,” he said, “and close the door.”
“Am I in trouble?” she asked, brow furrowed.
“Not at all,” he assured her. “But close the door so that we may speak in confidence.”
She did as he asked, but didn’t move farther into the room.
Sitting down at his dressing table, he fiddled with the silver grooming set that his valet had neatly arranged. “You have known my wife for a long time, is that correct?”
“Aye, my lord. Ever since she was no bigger than an idea.”
He smiled at that. “I think, then, that you’re the right person to advise me.”
“On what, my lord?”
He spread his hands. “On my wife.” At the maid’s puzzled expression, he continued, “We knew each other so briefly before our wedding, and now I find her mostly a stranger to me. And what I need from you is information. Her likes. Her dislikes. Things that make her happy.”
