Page 53

What had she seen in his eyes?

Was it regret over their kiss?

Relief that she was staying?

Or something else entirely?

* * *

Caldwell strode into his study and settled behind his desk.

He had made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. What devil had possessed him to kiss his housekeeper?

She had seemed to respond—but again, she was not a free woman, as he had assumed at the time. She had already decided to stay on as his housekeeper. Which meant her response could have simply been to preserve her position, to avoid angering the master of the house.

He grimaced.

Of course, she didn’t feel the same way about him. Just earlier today, she had stood before this very desk, looking for all the world like the picture of serenity, while he was unraveling from the inside out—while his cock had been throbbing at the sound of her voice alone.

And when she’d tended to his wounds, her face so close to his, her breath warm on his cheek—he had wanted to pull her into his lap, impale her on his cock, and drive into her with all the force of his need.

The intensity of his desire for her terrified him.

He leaned back in the chair and let his head fall against the cushion, imagining just that. Imagining her.

Honoria.

Riding his cock, every inch of her bare before his eyes. Every breath, every moan, echoing sweetly through the room.

He undid his breeches and took himself in hand, closing his eyes.

It didn’t take much—just the memory of her voice, the flash of her skin, the fantasy of her beneath him, on top of him, skirt bunched around her waist, mouth parted, whispering his name.

His strokes quickened. His breathing turned ragged.

And when he came, it was with her name burning on his lips.

Honoria.

Chapter 17

Jacob.

Only during her most intimate thoughts did Honoria allow herself to use his given name. Jacob. Whispered, imagined, sighed in the dark, when no one could hear her craving.

She lay in bed, fingers curled into the cotton sheets. Her nightshift was twisted around her thighs, one leg bared to the pale moonlight that streamed through the gap in her curtains, the other bent as she slowly traced the path she wished his hands would take. The feel of her nightgown whispered against her skin, a poor substitute for his touch.

What would he think if he saw her now? The prim and proper Miss Hartwell, the woman who cooly stood before his desk, delivering reports every evening, reduced to this trembling creature of need and want.

She imagined his lips on her breasts—hot, claiming, reverent. His tongue circling a taut nipple, his hands spreading over her waist, his breath warm as he kissed lower… lower. She could almost feel the rough calluses on his palms, scraping deliciously against her sensitive skin.

Her breath hitched, catching in her throat.

In her mind, he was over her now, his broad shoulders blocking out the world, parting her thighs with hot, confident hands, fingers slipping through her folds. She arched, eyes fluttering shut as she imagined the slow, teasing pressure of his touch. His fingers inside her, curling just right, his thumb brushing where she throbbed.

She gasped, her hand moving in rhythm to the memory of him murmuring in her ear, telling her how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her.

And then he was inside her.