Page 44 of Avenging the Earl's Lady
On the one full night they’d had together, Reginald had marveled over her unbound hair.She squeezed her eyes shut on that memory.
A mere girl of fourteen—how could he have done what he did?True, she’d been more than willing, a thoughtless puppy seeing men for the first time.She’d even been breathless around Shaldon—who hadn’t noticed her at all—until Reginald had appeared.
She poured another sherry and drank it down.The past was over.The son Reginald had left her withstillrequired her help.She needed to sleep for just a few hours and move quickly tomorrow.
She rubbed her eyes and raked her fingers through her tangles.A stiff brushing was just what she needed.
The dressing table stood behind an ebony-framed screen painted with fading cupids and wreathes.In the shadowed corner, she groped for the brush.
A rustle of cloth sent chills through her, freezing her breath.
Her hand found the brush and she clutched it, lifting it high, ready to strike.Around her, the air filled with scents—horse, leather, and a subtle cologne, the sort a wealthy man’s valet applied to a noble cheek after shaving it.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she backed slowly away watching him rise.
Tall, darkly clad, at home in the night, he loomed over her.She heard her own pulse, heard her tight gasps, smelled her own fear as it turned into rage.
Somehow, she managed a breath.
“Who took your gold sovereign?”she asked.
“Jane,”Shaldon said.
It was the only word that would come.Her hair swirled around her in a riot of silky waves, and with the light behind her, the diaphanous nightgown made her look nakedly lush.
His body’s response was instantaneous and gratifying.
By God, she was beautiful, and by the way she was strangling that brush, she was also infuriated.
He didn’t care.Heat poured from her in lilac waves, sending her scent to addle his brain more, to drown him.
When had he last had a woman he’d truly wanted?
There’d been Addy, his son Bink’s mother, and Felicity, his wife.Both had betrayed him for their personal causes.For Addy, it’d been the Irish rebellion; for Felicity her love of fine things.
And it was a certainty, Jane had stolen the painting.More hot blood rushed to his groin.
She’d stolen out of loyalty, not betrayal.She’d stolen to help her child fathered by Reginald Dempsey, the man whose death had weighed on his conscience for twenty-odd years.
She had good cause to steal from him.
And he wanted her desperately.The madness of it made him want to laugh, another thing he hadn’t done in far too long.
The drugging he’d suffered had blown the lid off the simmering pot of desire he’d become since he’d spotted Jane entering the Hackwell ballroom last winter with Lady Sirena.Bakeley hadn’t been the only Everly pole-axed by a lady that night.
He gently loosened her grip on the brush.“Come.”
She went, stiff, vibrating with anger held in while he seated her on the hassock, taking the armchair behind her.
“You have lovely hair.”Riotous, wild, glowing.
All that passion restrained, for so many years.What had Jenny said?She was having a rough go.She’d had a rough go for too long.He would take care of her now.
He plied the brush lightly, again and again, lifting the thick mane from her stiff back, stopping to work the tangles free with his fingers, gently loosening knots.
Slowly, her breath evened out and the high color drained from her neck.Her shoulders turned creamy again under the lace of her gown, her breasts probably also—by God, he wanted another look at her breasts, unbound by stays and bodices.
Her sigh, when it came, sent his heart pounding higher.She’d signaled resignation, not pleasure, but he’d soon enough change that.
