Page 78 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
He tried to return to his notes, but he was acutely aware of her, of each of her movements, of her soft sighs, the faint scratch of her pencil, its falling into silence. Discreetly he would peer over to see her looking in his direction, gnawing on her lower lip. Sometimes it appeared she was carrying on a conversation with herself, in her mind, and he found himself yearning to know the thoughts that visited her.
The cat that was supposed to keep her company had made itself a berth on a lower shelf. Not such a friendly creature after all, although he’d never favored cats. Dogs were more to his liking, even when they were big and clumsy and toppled him over. He hadn’t planned to dump Phee into the trough. Only carry her over, pretend his intentions were sinister, have her shriek for him to stop, and at the last moment set her feet on the ground. Instead, Rose had ensured he got what he wanted—Phee’s laughter wafting around him. It didn’t matter that he’d been soaked and made to look the fool. Her eyes had sparkled, her smile bright. He thought he could fall in love with this woman. Only what a disaster that would be.
Scraping back his chair, he stood.
“Are you finished?” she asked.
He hadn’t even begun, but suddenly he wanted this time with her. He walked over to the table in the corner, poured whiskey into two glasses, wandered over to where she sat, and handed her one before taking the chair opposite hers.
“Careful,” he warned. “It can burn going down if you’re not used to it.”
She brought it to her nose, inhaled deeply, took a small swallow, smiled the smile he was coming to love. “It’s very familiar. I’ve had it before. Was I wicked once, do you think?”
Where she was concerned he didn’t know what to think any longer. “Perhaps.”
She took a sip of the whiskey, licked her lips in a manner that made his throat go dry.
“Did you get your thoughts organized?” she asked.
They were more scattered than ever. “You were too distracting.”
“I wasn’t talking.”
“You were fidgeting.”
With a sigh, she rolled her eyes. “I kept thinking of things to tell you, but I knew you wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“Tell me now.”
“I shouldn’t bother you with it.”
Nothing about her was a bother. When had that happened? So slowly, so irrevocably. “I’d like to know what you’re drawing.”
“All right then. I’ve been designing your front parlor.”
Leaning back, he stretched out his legs. “My parlor?”
She nodded with enthusiasm, but he was beginning to realize she did everything with enthusiasm. “I don’t know why but when I walk into one of the empty rooms, I can envision how it should look. So I thought if I sketched it out that it might help you when it came time to furnish the room.”
“What should my parlor look like?”
“At first, I thought it should be bright—yellow or lavender—but that’s not you. It needs to be dark, yet elegant. Black and gold, I think. Here, I’ll show you.” Setting aside her glass on the table beside the chair, she rose, walked over to him, leaned in, and held her pad in front of him.
The front parlor she’d sketched was a remarkable likeness to the room in his residence. But it had furniture, a large mirror above the mantel, designs over the wall. She was explaining things but he was only catching fragments—black velvet, edged in wood, black and gold paper on the walls—because most of his attention was focused on her breast pressed against his shoulder. Soft and pliant. She wasn’t wearing a corset. Only thin material guarded her flesh from his touch, and he could dispense with it easily enough. If he reached up, cupped her breast, she would feel the heat of the fire that she built within him so easily. She was a temptress who didn’t know she possessed the power to turn him into a mindless dolt.
When she was near, he couldn’t concentrate on anything save her: her fragrance, alabaster skin, flaxen hair. He wanted to unravel her braid, comb his fingers through the long strands. She didn’t need a silver-handled brush. His fingers would suffice. Over and over. A hundred strokes. A thousand if she wished it.
Sometimes when he let his guard down, he would have flashes of images of the night he’d undressed her, when he had strived to be a gentleman. But the scoundrel within him had looked. He knew her long legs and narrow hips. He knew the flatness of her stomach. Or he thought he did. He’d been quick about removing her clothes, had taken no liberties, but he knew she was comprised of glorious satin.
“Drake?” Her tone was terse, impatient. He lifted his gaze to her face, so near his, her brow deeply furrowed. “What do you think?”
That I should like to carry you up to my bed again, only this time I would take long moments, hours, to undress you.
Clearing his throat, he directed his attention back to the drawing. “It’s very nice.”
Scoffing, she stepped away, and his tormented pleasure came to an end. Thank God. He’d come close to doing something they would no doubt both regret.
“You’re only saying that to be kind. I’ve bored you with my prattling.” She returned to the large plush chair that had been made for a man’s comfort, and brought up her feet, tucking them beneath her. Curled as she was, she reminded him of a cat, with her oval green eyes, exotic in the way they captured the flames from the fire and glittered.
