Page 98 of Counting on a Countess
They fit together as though hewn from the same rock. In him, she felt her perfect complement. Apart, they were strong, and together, they were unequaled.
Perhaps they had a chance. Perhaps this marriage had a possibility at survival.
Yet, tomorrow night loomed in her mind, keeping her from losing herself completely in his kiss and the hope of a better future. Heaven help her, but she had no choice.
She had to keep deceiving him.
Chapter 24
Kit had seen abandoned homes in Portugal and Spain that looked better than this crumbling old brick house.
Years of neglect showed in the warped, water-damaged floorboards, in the vermin that freely traversed the corridors, and in the sunlight stabbing through holes in the roof. If ever the manor was the pride of the region—itwasa baronial estate, after all—those days were long past.
Alone, he now ambled through a picture gallery. Dusty squares revealed where paintings had once hung, and he could only guess that the ancestors who’d built the house and worn the title were now gazing out on the parlors of newly rich merchants. He searched in vain for a portrait of Tamsyn or her parents. It seemed as though the painting of the late baron had been sold off.
Barring her possessing a miniature of her mother and father, Tamsyn likely had no images of her family. Nothing to hold on to besides memories.
Red fury hazed his vision as he strode from one empty space on the wall to the next. It was fortunate that neither Lord nor Lady Shawe crossed his path, because it would have been far too easy for Kit to chase them off the property with his pistol, no matter how they flattered him and plied him with blandishments.
Last night’s dinner had been an exercise in discomfort. Lady Shawe had pressed him over and over again for London gossip, while Lord Shawe had boasted about his own youthful exploits as well as the influence he had as one of the area’s few titled gentlemen.
Tamsyn had said very little at dinner, seemingly preoccupied. But when he pressed her later for some reason behind her quiet, she’d claimed exhaustion. He’d been uncertain about going to her bedchamber last night. So he’d lain awake in his uncomfortable bed, in his uncomfortable room, his mind full of her, his body urging him to action.
After leaving the gallery, he paced through the echoing corridors in search of her. All he encountered was the occasional apathetic servant. It was as though he’d become a ghost, haunting Tamsyn’s home, forever trapped in the mire of her past.
He moved now, heading toward the stables so he could check on Empress, then stopped abruptly on the path leading to the outbuilding when he saw Tamsyn hurrying toward him. She wore a dark green dress that turned her hair as bright as a blaze and brought out the rosiness in her complexion.
Her gaze was downcast, her brow furrowed. She didn’t seem to notice him until they nearly collided.
“Good morning,” he said to her as she glanced up in surprise. “I trust you had a productive morning.”
Her face went blank for a moment before she answered. “I was the picture of industry. Busy since the sun came up.”
“We’ll make a print of you and sell it at shops throughout the northern mill towns,” he said soberly. “To inspire them.”
“I can see it now,” she agreed with a nod. “Armies of redheaded workers laboring away, turning England into a global giant. At least,” she added, “where collecting eggs and sweeping stoops are concerned.”
“Didn’t know barons’ daughters gathered eggs or did any sweeping,” he noted.
“Samantha Markham and Lucy Temple are advancing in years. They don’t move quite as nimbly as they used to.” She lifted a shoulder. “Everyone else is so busy in the mornings it’s hard to find someone to look in on Samantha and Lucy. So I do it.”
He shook his head in admiration of her thoughtfulness. Many young women of her rank might deliver baskets of food to poor or elderly tenants, but wouldn’t stoop to manual labor. Not his wife.
“They must have very clean hens,” he observed, glancing down at her hands. “Not a speck of grime on you.”
She tucked her hands into the pockets on the front of her apron. “I washed up before heading home.” She gave him a smile that verged on being too bright, too forcefully cheerful. “Have you broken your fast?”
“I ate a moderate amount of toast and jam but my hosts force-fed me platters of compliments,” he answered, which merited him a quick smile. “Tamsyn.” Placing two fingertips beneath her chin, he stroked her soft flesh.
He peered closely at her. Shadows darkened beneath her eyes and brackets of strain surrounded her mouth. Something about being here clearly troubled her. Whatever it was, he couldn’t wait to spirit her away from this manor.
Touching her was a sweet agony as awareness traveled through the length of his body. Last night had been tormenting, knowing that she was so close but being unable to go to her. Even if they hadn’t made love, he simply wanted her beside him, near him.
At his touch, her pupils flared and her lips parted. He couldn’t wait another moment—he had to kiss her.
She recognized his intent as he lowered his head, meeting him halfway. They kissed with a hot desperation, both of them too long denied the taste of the other. He cradled the back of her head, his other hand low on her back, urging her closer. She pressed tightly to him, and he felt all her sweet, yielding flesh beneath layers of clothing. He went fully hard within moments.
With her fingers threading through his hair, holding fast to him, he grew drunk on the flavor of her, on her very essence. He wanted to pull her down to the ground, to have them both lost to pleasure as he worshipped her, heedless of where they were or who could see.
