Page 57 of Never a Duchess
Miss Ware released a weary sigh. “I’m beginning to wonder if the pressure of managing so many agents is affecting Mr Daventry’s logic. Yes, Lord Denton and Ailsa are friends, but he hates that she speaks her mind. They’re often at loggerheads over their conflicting opinions.”
“She’s a Scot. He should know a fire blazes just beneath the surface.” Ailsa had Lorna’s kind heart, but she would not tolerate fools.
“Still, I should not have mentioned chaperones.”
“For Ailsa’s sake or yer own?”
“Both. I would rather we spent time alone.” Her eyes held his, the energy in the room sparking a twinge of lust in his loins.
In the brief silence, he imagined them kissing rampantly, touching each other until every part of their bodies tingled with pleasure. He was pushing inside her as she clung to him, as she let down her barriers and welcomed him home.
Callan gulped.
The need to make his desire a reality ended with a throbbing erection pressing hard against the placket of his trousers.
“We’ll be alone tonight,” he said, despite his discomfort. “I told Roxburgh we would dine at six, and ye’d be home by ten.” Although the lord did not know they would be entirely alone. “I doubt we’ll have time to accomplish all our tasks today.”
Miss Ware jumped to her feet. “Then let us be away to Bermondsey. If we’re quick, we might visit Mrs Gregory after our two o’clock appointment at Baudelaire’s.”
Callan stood, wishing he could say to hell with it all, and just ask Miss Ware how she felt about him. Lorna MacTavish described her as being deeply sad beneath the bravado. Miss Ware certainly kept her feelings buried, and so he would need to dig deeper to understand her reluctance to marry.
After witnessing his father’s blatant disregard for his marriage vows, Callan should be the one avoiding wedlock. But he was a duke. A man with responsibilities. Marriage was inevitable.
He’d rather marry the woman consuming his thoughts.
The woman he wanted to kiss until breathless.
The woman he could not forget.
* * *
St Saviour’s Docks
Bermondsey
They crossed the Thames via London Bridge, the river teaming with ships bringing grain, coal and other commodities to the capital, the skyline obscured with lofty masts and plumes of billowing black smoke. Schooners, wherries and barges navigated the crowded thoroughfare, the river meandering around them like a slippery serpent.
The scene made Callan long for the rugged Highland mountains, to breathe deeply and fill his lungs with clean air. A struggle made worse when they entered Mr Valmary’s warehouse on Mill Street, and a host of pungent smells invaded his nostrils.
Miss Ware sneezed, the concoction of rose and jasmine, musk and ambergris irritating her airways, too. “Good heavens! I’m inclined to agree with Ailsa. What I wouldn’t give for a sprig of fresh heather.”
Then come home with me.
Let me lay ye down on a bed of fragrant flowers.
Make love to ye. Give ye no cause to leave.
“The men must be accustomed to the smell,” he said. None wore masks as they stirred large vats of liquid and operated the vast copper vessels used to extract oils via distillation.
Miss Ware chuckled. “I imagine a philandering husband would enjoy working here. His wife could not accuse him of smelling of another woman’s perfume.”
An unwanted memory burst into Callan’s mind.
Ye smell like a whore!
Who is she, Douglas?
Ye’ve had her in our bed!
