head. The notion gave him enormous pleasure. It might be six years too late, but if he managed to get under her skin even a fraction of how she’d gotten under his at one time, he would consider the day a vast success.
“What if she’s still wearing nightclothes, milord?” Molly whispered.
“I shall keep my eyes closed.” He hoisted the tray. “Teapot?”
“Well, I’ve never seen the like and won’t again, to be sure, a great lord carrying a breakfast tray,” Mrs. Whittle exclaimed, but she gestured for Molly to set the pot on the tray. She beamed. “You’re as fine a gentleman as I’ve ever seen, milord.”
“Merely fortunate to have been raised by a woman as competent and generous as you.”
“Oh, now none of your flattery. Those eggs are getting cold.”
He went up the stairs with a light step, his heartbeat quickening upon every riser. This was
not
the behavior his mother had raised him to, volunteering to carry breakfast to a married woman. Keeping Peyton Stark’s company was undoing all the lessons in gentlemanliness he had learned as a child.
When Calista Holland opened the bedchamber door and her glittering smile nearly knocked him against the opposite wall, he knew that even Peyton’s bad influence had nothing on him compared to this woman’s unguarded pleasure.
“Lord Dare! Whatever are you doing with my breakfast? I assume this is my breakfast.”
“Yes. The innkeeper is shorthanded on account of—”
“Yes, yes, I know. The flood and the closed roads and the inn full of stranded guests and what have you. Come in, then, and set it down here.”
“I don’t think I should—”
“Then what are you doing bringing it up here in the first place unless you wished to see me? Don’t be such a prig. Do you think a cat would prefer steak or kippers? Or bacon? I ordered the bacon for myself, but I don’t suppose it cares what it eats.”
A cat the color of the deluge outside sat on its haunches in the center of the room, staring at the tray in his hands. Its ribs poked out prominently.
“I suspect the kippers will meet with success. Truth be told, though, I’m rather more of a dog person.”
“I might have suspected that, but only lately, of course. Not before,” she said cryptically. “I’m not fond of any animals. But this one is clearly starving.”
“So you have invited it to share your breakfast?”
“Well, I certainly cannot eat all of that by myself, can I? You look like one of the king’s guardsmen standing there so unbending. Do set that down, will you?”
“Forgive me. I think I may be a bit bemused by your temper this morning. It does not entirely resemble last night’s.”
She set her hands on her delectably curved hips. “Well it wouldn’t, would it?”
He placed the tray beside a statue of a woman sculpted in the Greek fashion.
“This is an impressive piece,” he commented, to have something to say, to give him an excuse to linger.
Reprobate
. “Remarkable how she seems to smile without smiling.”
“She does
not
smile. She only stares.” She crouched before the cat and proffered a kipper with her bare fingers. She was dressed in a simple gown of unremarkable color that now cinched around her gorgeously rounded behind and sent the temperature in the chamber up twenty degrees. “Come now,” she said to the cat, “don’t be foolishly shy. I have gotten these expressly for you and if you do not eat them I shall have to feed them to that great big man there, and I don’t know if he likes kippers either.”
“I do, as a matter of fact.”
“So does this one, it seems. You cannot have them after all, my lord.” A smile pulled at the corners of her intoxicating lips as the cat nibbled at the fish right from her fingers. It was a simple, small smile, but it lit her eyes and sallow cheeks.
He had to turn away to find distraction.
“The statue does smile,” he forced out. “Just look at her.”
“Thank you, but I have already seen enough
“What if she’s still wearing nightclothes, milord?” Molly whispered.
“I shall keep my eyes closed.” He hoisted the tray. “Teapot?”
“Well, I’ve never seen the like and won’t again, to be sure, a great lord carrying a breakfast tray,” Mrs. Whittle exclaimed, but she gestured for Molly to set the pot on the tray. She beamed. “You’re as fine a gentleman as I’ve ever seen, milord.”
“Merely fortunate to have been raised by a woman as competent and generous as you.”
“Oh, now none of your flattery. Those eggs are getting cold.”
He went up the stairs with a light step, his heartbeat quickening upon every riser. This was
not
the behavior his mother had raised him to, volunteering to carry breakfast to a married woman. Keeping Peyton Stark’s company was undoing all the lessons in gentlemanliness he had learned as a child.
When Calista Holland opened the bedchamber door and her glittering smile nearly knocked him against the opposite wall, he knew that even Peyton’s bad influence had nothing on him compared to this woman’s unguarded pleasure.
“Lord Dare! Whatever are you doing with my breakfast? I assume this is my breakfast.”
“Yes. The innkeeper is shorthanded on account of—”
“Yes, yes, I know. The flood and the closed roads and the inn full of stranded guests and what have you. Come in, then, and set it down here.”
“I don’t think I should—”
“Then what are you doing bringing it up here in the first place unless you wished to see me? Don’t be such a prig. Do you think a cat would prefer steak or kippers? Or bacon? I ordered the bacon for myself, but I don’t suppose it cares what it eats.”
A cat the color of the deluge outside sat on its haunches in the center of the room, staring at the tray in his hands. Its ribs poked out prominently.
“I suspect the kippers will meet with success. Truth be told, though, I’m rather more of a dog person.”
“I might have suspected that, but only lately, of course. Not before,” she said cryptically. “I’m not fond of any animals. But this one is clearly starving.”
“So you have invited it to share your breakfast?”
“Well, I certainly cannot eat all of that by myself, can I? You look like one of the king’s guardsmen standing there so unbending. Do set that down, will you?”
“Forgive me. I think I may be a bit bemused by your temper this morning. It does not entirely resemble last night’s.”
She set her hands on her delectably curved hips. “Well it wouldn’t, would it?”
He placed the tray beside a statue of a woman sculpted in the Greek fashion.
“This is an impressive piece,” he commented, to have something to say, to give him an excuse to linger.
Reprobate
. “Remarkable how she seems to smile without smiling.”
“She does
not
smile. She only stares.” She crouched before the cat and proffered a kipper with her bare fingers. She was dressed in a simple gown of unremarkable color that now cinched around her gorgeously rounded behind and sent the temperature in the chamber up twenty degrees. “Come now,” she said to the cat, “don’t be foolishly shy. I have gotten these expressly for you and if you do not eat them I shall have to feed them to that great big man there, and I don’t know if he likes kippers either.”
“I do, as a matter of fact.”
“So does this one, it seems. You cannot have them after all, my lord.” A smile pulled at the corners of her intoxicating lips as the cat nibbled at the fish right from her fingers. It was a simple, small smile, but it lit her eyes and sallow cheeks.
He had to turn away to find distraction.
“The statue does smile,” he forced out. “Just look at her.”
“Thank you, but I have already seen enough
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