Page 43 of Lady Willa's Divinely Wicked Vicar
Charlie picked up her hand and with his teeth, pulled off a finger of her glove, then all the others, and let it fall to her lap. Daring her to stop him with a gaze that seared her soul, he rolled open her palm and kissed her there. The tenderness of his homage called up more tears. He wiped them from her cheeks. “I’ve read of Lord Rasingdale. Is it true? Has he offered for you?”
“He talked with Papa two weeks ago, but has not asked me.”
“Coward.”
She pulled back. “You know him?”
“Eton.”
“Ah.” They’d gone to school together. “And?”
“Don’t marry him, sweetheart.”
“Dindon.” She grinned. The French word fit the man.
“A turkey?” Charlie hooted. “Oh, he is proud.”
“I can’t abide him.”
He tapped the end of her nose. “Good. And the others?”
She shrugged. “Lord Haver.”
“A goose. Shy of his own reflection. And the other?”
“Lord Shoreham.” She wrinkled her nose. “A bumpkin who loves his library so that his complexion is more pale than parchment.”
Charlie hugged her tightly, then pressed his lips to her temple. “Don’t settle for any man who doesn’t thrill you.”
“Papa is becoming adamant. He says the sooner I marry, the greater my dowry.” She was spilling all of this out to him and it was unfair of her to make him jealous. To tell him details. To summon ardor from him when she must go on to Brighton and leave him here. Alone. Alone as she would also be for the rest of her life.
“What? No. How can he do that?”
Sighing, she drew a fingertip down a prominent tendon of his throat. English inheritance laws were strict about dowries and jointures. “He can. Mama has argued. Her portion set aside for me is a fine amount. Three thousand a year plus the land next to her younger brother’s plot in Hove near Brighton. Papa tells us he will give another five or six thousand a year and the sooner I marry, the more thousands he’ll add.”
Charlie bit his lip.
She spread her fingers over the might of his broad chest. Firm and warm, this man pulsed with all the grace and dignity of humanity. “I see you fighting the urge to curse.”
He trapped her hand against his heart. “Soldiering is bad for the vocabulary.”
He was vital and principled, everything a man should be—and his wry humor tore her in two. “Oh, Charlie, I cannot marry a man I don’t want. I won’t allow any man to touch me who cannot love me. Why would any woman want that? It’s the devil’s work.”
Anger and jealousy flashed across his face.
She would have him. Must. Before she left, she would have him! She shot to her feet, brushed her glove to the carpet and pointed toward his bedroom to the side of his huge fireplace. “Come with me.”
Wary, he stood but did not budge.
She frowned at him.
Curling his hands into fists, he held his ground. “I won’t.”
She flung back her hair, now totally undone and flowing down her back. “I need you to do this for me. Make love to me. Show me what it should be.”
“Is this what you’ve decided?” He stilled, rigid, his eyes wide with horror.
Hmm. This was not what she had intended when she arrived, no. But not a bad idea now that she was here and aching for his affections.
Without waiting for his response, she took the few steps into his bedroom. It was spacious, warm and surprisingly neat, the bed made, the clothes press arranged just so, candles at the ready near his only chair, a woolen knit blanket across the back. She strode to the foot of his bed. With a nod, she admired its size. More than big enough for two. Determined, smiling what she was certain was an evil grin, she yanked off her other glove, dropped it to the bed and reached around to undo the laces of her gown.
“Wills.” He appeared by her side and turned her to face him. He put his hands around her waist to cover her own busy fingers. “Don’t do this, my darling.”
“Shall I simply climb into your bed and throw up my skirts?” The voice she heard was hers and thin as paper.
“Don’t make this more difficult than it is. I am bound by a morality that will not permit it. God knows I am not the best man to deliver his Word but I do try, Willa. I do try.”
She would not beg. She dropped her forehead to his chest.
With a kiss to the crown of her head, he whispered, “Don’t move.”
