Page 74 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
Duncan sipped at his wine to keep his laughter at bay.
When it was time for the ladies to retire from the dining room, Duncan watched Beatrice go, unable to keep his gaze from her.
They’d worked well together, and having her beside him through every step had been perfect.
She winked at him over her shoulder, and pleasure swelled through him.
It wasn’t so long ago that he’d remarked on something similar to Rotherby. His friend had watched Jessica McGale leave the dining room as though the sun had set for the very last time. Soon after, Miss McGale became Rotherby’s wife.
And now, here Duncan was, staring after Beatrice with likely the same look on his face. But Rotherby had married that woman. There was no possibility of the same for Duncan and Beatrice.
Once the women had retired to the drawing room, Atherton said, “You will stay the night with us, Major, of course.”
Mentally, Duncan exhaled. He’d been waiting for this very invitation. “So kind of you, Atherton. The greatest kindness.”
Mr. Atherton turned to one of the footmen. “TellMrs. Powell that we’ll need the Mahogany Room prepared.”
“And baths,” Duncan added. He smelled of riverbank and sweat.
“Yes, my lord.” The servant bowed and retreated.
“Unfortunately,” Mr. Atherton said apologetically, “all of the rooms on the first floor are occupied, and the Mahogany Room is on the second floor. I hope that won’t be an inconvenience to you, and that you don’t find it uncomfortable.”
Spirits at the conclusion of the dinner were welcome, so Duncan accepted a glass of brandy, though he’d wished for that whisky he’d dreamt of hours ago.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he replied to his host. “When I visited the palace of the king of Sweden and he made me and Mrs. Frye sleep in a room entirely made out of ice—thatwas uncomfortable. Do you know...”
And so it went as he spun yet another outrageous tale. Even without Beatrice in the room, Duncan enjoyed himself, never before indulging in the fine art of braggadocio and bluster.
As the gentlemen conversed, he was grateful that he and Beatrice would retire to a secluded bedchamber. The day had been eventful and tumultuous. Heoughtto be weary beyond imagining. Yet energy pulsed along his limbs in anticipation of sharing solitude with her.
She’d taken hold of his heart—and he didn’t want her to let go.
Clad in only his shirt and breeches after a bath in an adjoining closet, Duncan eased into the bedchamber to find Beatrice curled in a chair by the fire. Her bare toes peeped out from beneath the hem of her borrowed robe, and her freshly washed hair spread across her shoulders, forming waves and curls that he desperately wanted to rub between his fingers.
So he crossed the room and knelt beside her chair and did just as he’d desired, combing his fingers through her tresses. She purred in response, leaning into his touch.
“You smell of honey,” he murmured.
She smiled. “McGale & McGale soap, in fact. They purchase it from Birmingham, or so the maid who helped me with my clothing said. I’ll have to tell Jess.”
He recalled that Beatrice was one of the investors in the duchess’s family’s business. But the intricacies of the marketplace did not interest him right now. Beatrice did.
“You make for a superb Mrs. Frye, wife of the most significant Major Frye.” He nuzzled down her neck, sinking into the warmth of her skin, loving the way her body shook with laughter.
“What appalling tales you told,” she said, chuckling.
“What appalling taleswetold.” He nipped at her jaw.
Breathlessly, she said, “I’d no idea you had such a talent for dissembling.”
“Blame the Union for first introducing me to a life of nefarious behavior.” He dipped his hand under theneckline of her robe and growled when he found her bare flesh. “Yet with you, my taste for mischief has reached its pinnacle.”
“I’m not the least bit sorry.” She turned her head, and their mouths met.
Whatever lingering traces of weariness he still carried suddenly dissolved at the feel and taste of her. They leaned into each other, opening more and more as the kiss caught fire.
“I ache with wanting,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t get enough of you.”
