Page 65 of Counting on a Countess
He was still reeling from it, how fast and hot the desire between them could rise up. He’d known from the beginning that they shared a powerful chemistry, and to his surprise, he saw that the more he knew of her, the more he desired her.
Kit felt himself set at a constant simmer. He’d been chaste for too long, having had to resort to hard, fast wanks before being able to fall asleep. Yet more than that, he wanted to know what would happen once he and Tamsyn finally let go—and how brightly they would burn.
She had to feel the attraction between them, too—last night had shown him that. Unguarded, she’d given voice to and acted on the pull of desire that had them circling each other like hawks in a mating dance. Now she gazed at him with warm familiarity, either pretending that last night hadn’t happened or that it didn’t affect her.
He wanted her, yes, and he craved having her close. He yearned to wake up beside her and hold her closely as she stirred from sleep. Kit had always believed it the height of banality to discuss dreams, and yet he wanted to hear his wife’s. Did she journey to places of happiness or fear? And if she did dream of fearful things, he wanted to be there beside her to offer comfort.
Despite her relaxed manner today, she was a little pale, most likely from the aftereffects of drink. He was slightly tender in the head this morning, but he’d developed a strong constitution when it came to alcohol. Still, despite recovering from intoxication, she’d risen at a decent time—which was notably different from ninety-five percent of theton, sober or crapulous.
“I can accompany you,” he answered. It might provide more insight into who she was—though after the last few nights, he recognized her courage and determination.
“You’d find it dull,” she replied lightly. “And a carriage is a very uncomfortable place to take a nap.”
“Anything dull I can make amusing.” He’d gotten through the worst of the War’s tedium by finding ways to entertain his men. They’d have knife-throwing contests, and dirty rhyme competitions, or else Kit would challenge them to see who found the most weevils in their bread. No prizes were given out—what with all things of value being in short supply—but winning bragging rights could often spur someone to great heights.
Tamsyn rose from her chair and strolled toward the door. “This would strain even your ability to be diverted. I’ll take Nessa. I should be home sometime this afternoon.”
“Are you interested in any of these?” He gestured to the stack of invitations. “There are no fewer than five different balls, fetes, and dinners requesting our presence.” At her profoundly disinterested expression, he said, “Quite right. It’s all a lot of tedium. Let’s dine alone together tonight.”
A flush of pleasure stole into her cheeks. “I’d like that.”
“We’ll see each other later, then?” He couldn’t keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“Look for me,” she answered. “I’ll be the one in lavender.”
“Thank God you told me, or else I’d have trouble picking you out from all the other redheaded countesses milling about the dining room.”
Their shared smile warmed him everywhere, from the tips of his fingers to his smallest toes.
Before he could say another word, she had gone.
He sat alone with the invitations, trying to make sense of his excitement over tonight. The moments with her seemed all too brief, and he found himself wanting more and more.
Yet he sensed that part of her remained hidden from him. She seemed as private as a fairy guarding enchanted treasure beneath the earth. He could ask her questions and hope she’d reveal herself to him, or he could learn more about her.
Intelligence gathering had been part of the war effort. More than once, Kit and some of his most skilled men had gone in search of information, tailing the enemy while keeping hidden so that he might gain important knowledge about troop placements or the strength of the enemy’s defenses.
This was peacetime. One simply didn’tspyon other people—especially one’s wife.
On the other hand, if he didn’t find out more about Tamsyn, wooing her became that much more difficult and the pleasure garden would remain out of reach.
He exhaled heavily at the dilemma. Ethics versus the attainment of his dream.
After a moment, he got to his feet and hurried upstairs. In the hallway, he heard Tamsyn speaking with her maid as the two of them got ready to leave. He darted into his room, grabbed a hat and coat, and sped downstairs, his conscience pricking him all the while.
To the footman by the door he said, “If Lady Blakemere asks, I went to White’s.” It was far too early for anyone of interest to be at the club, but it was unlikely that she would know that. “I’m leaving the carriage for her use.”
“Yes, my lord.”
With that, Kit threw on his coat and hat and left. He hurried down the block before hailing a cab.
“Where to, my lord?” the driver asked as Kit neared.
“In a few minutes, a carriage is going to pull in front of that house,” he answered, pointing at his own front door. “After a woman gets in the carriage and drives off, I want you to follow it.”
“Here now,” the driver said fretfully, “I don’t cotton to following ladies, especially them of quality.”
“She’s my damnedwife.” Kit spoke between his teeth. He didn’t need anyone reminding him that what he was about to do wasn’t precisely ethical. Clamping down on his principles, he handed the driver a shiny guinea. “There’s more in it for you, so long as you stay on top of the carriage, avoid being seen, and keep your opinions to yourself.”
