“Are you certain?” she asked against his chest. She wasn’t crying. Not crying, though his shirt and vest were now moist. “Because if the Chipping Way curse applies to us, then I think I might jump in the Thames right now and let myself sink into that dirty water. I want a husband who loves me, who thinks I’m special. I’ll never have that with you. You don’t even like yourself.”
He sighed. “I think I had better go.”
She nodded, but remained leaning against him, loving the gentleness of his arms around her. “Yes, please do. You have a full pouch of work upstairs. I won’t detain you. I’ll close these doors once you leave so my piano exercises won’t disturb you.”
“No. I mean I had better go. Leave this house. I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He eased her out of his arms. “Will you be all right?”
She nodded. “Most certainly.”
“Very well, I’ll... in a moment.” He sighed. “Hell, I can’t leave you like this.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “How? Knowing that you have the power to melt my bones with your kisses? I should have known better than to challenge a rakehell at a sport in which he excels. You wouldn’t be much of a rakehell if you couldn’t kiss the slippers off a girl. It doesn’t change anything between us. You don’t wish to marry. And I don’t wish to marry you. Nobody’s hurt.”
He cast her an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll have my valet pack my things, what little was brought here. I’ll be gone within the hour.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “A wise plan. Oh, and Happy Christmas, Ian.”
He arched an eyebrow. “It’s a little early yet.”
“But Uncle George and I will be leaving for Coniston in a few days, as soon as his other important patient is on the mend. I doubt you and I will see each other until next year, so I thought to wish you happy holidays, even if it is a little early.”
He cast her an appealing, but guarded, smile. “Happy Christmas to you, Daffy.” He tweaked her nose, and then leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, a soft, lingering touch of his lips that was so poignantly tender it brought an ache to her heart. She realized this might be the last time they’d ever touch. Apparently, he realized it as well and wanted her last memories of him to be gentle. “I wish you every happiness,” he whispered.
***
Ian didn’t let out the breath he’d been holding until he reached the safety of Dillie’s room. His valet looked up in surprise as Ian shut the door and then fell heavily against it with a groan. “Pack up my belongings at once, Ashcroft. We’re leaving right away.”
“Your Grace, you don’t look at all well.” The poor man appeared quite alarmed.
“Didn’t say I was, but I have Miss Farthingale’s reputation to consider. I’ve been here almost a week and word is bound to get out if I remain in her care any longer.” Of course, the real problem was his raging desire for the girl. He’d kept it under control for two damn years, and then lost all reason and kissed her again in the music room.
He was an experienced scoundrel and ought to have been wiser, but no. He was still an idiot when it came to Dillie. Nothing had changed. She still turned his blood molten. His heart still slammed against his chest whenever she smiled. Her lips were still as soft and sweet as summer peaches.
Lord, he loved peaches.
Damn the girl. Damn her pure and innocent heart.
“Send a messenger to Miss Giraud. Let her know I’ll be visiting her this evening.”
Ashcroft’s eyes narrowed and his lips became pinched. “Is that wise, Your Grace? Your wounds aren’t fully healed.”
“No, it isn’t wise. I don’t care.” He needed the scent of a heavy French perfume and the naked warmth of an experienced lover to clear Dillie from his thoughts. Dillie’s first kiss had been spectacular, slamming him to the ground with its innocent power. But this second kiss had sent him soaring into the heavens, lifting him into the clouds higher than he’d ever been before, and then slammed him even harder to the ground.
Every muscle in his body was still taut and twitching with desire. Every damn one. Especially the one between his legs. It was granite hard and painfully throbbing.
Someone had to ease that pain. Chantal Giraud was paid to do just that.
CHAPTER 3
London, England
March 1819
“DAISY, SHE’S SO PRECIOUS,” Dillie said, laughing as she wrapped her ten-month-old niece in her arms and inhaled her sweet baby scent. “I missed you, Ivy. You’ve grown so big.” She hadn’t seen her sister Daisy or her little niece in months, not since Christmas at Coniston Hall, the Farthingales’ country residence.