Alaric caught her hand, pulling her against his body. She gave a little shriek. “You’re wet!”
His drenched shirt meant that he felt every bit of her bosom.
“You may not kiss me,” she commanded in a low voice. But her eyes were shining.
“I want you,” he said, low-voiced. “Damn it, Willa, these breeches are as protective as wet paper. My front is likely a crime in some part of the country.”
“You must return to the castle,” she said, stepping backward. Obviously she knew what he was talking about. She had felt it.
“That cat resembles you, Parth,” Lavinia announced behind them.
Alaric wove his fingers through Willa’s and turned. “Scrappy, lame, angry …”
The cat had stopped twisting and was hanging from Parth’s hands, making a good show of looking submissive.
Unless you caught the maddened look in its eye. It was merely biding its time.
Lavinia sauntered over. “I’ll fetch your coat, Alaric,” she cooed. “We wouldn’t want you to take a chill.”
Parth snatched up his coat and bundled the cat so only its furious head was visible. “You were so touched when Alaric bought that baby skunk for Willa,” he said to Lavinia, a smile just touching the edges of his hard mouth. “Sweetpea’s soft fur, dark eyes, and affectionate ways are a perfect match for her new owner.”
Lavinia’s smile cooled.
“I’ll bring this creature back to the castle for you,” Parth said cheerfully. “My present.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Lavinia was rarely spitting angry, but she was now. “That man is arrogant, impossible, and just plain rude,” she said, striding up and down Willa’s bedchamber, too cross to sit.
Willa was curled in an armchair, snuggling Sweetpea. Parth Sterling had made good on his promise—or threat?—to make a present of the rescued cat; the beast had hurled himself through the door opening onto Willa’s balcony, and had flattened against the stone balustrade outside. Occasionally he let out a low curse in cat language, meant to discourage anyone from encroaching on his territory.
“Are you laughing?” Lavinia demanded, swinging about.
“No!” Willa said. “That screeching noise is your cat.”
“My cat! My cat! I don’t want a bloody cat,” Lavinia wailed. “I don’t even like animals. You’re the one who wants a cat. I’m giving him to you.”
“I have Sweetpea,” Willa said, alarmed. “I don’t need a cat.”
“Sterling is the most gratuitously rude man I have ever met. Ever.” Out on the balcony, the tomcat continued to hiss, throwing in a little yowl now and then for variety. Lavinia continued to do the same, in English.
“Parth will be gone by the time you return from Manchester,” Willa said consolingly, during a pause. “He’s not a man of leisure.”
Lavinia’s face brightened. “Oh! I’d forgotten Mother and I leave for Manchester tomorrow! Are you certain you don’t wish to join us, Willa?”
“I can’t leave Sweetpea,” Willa said, “and your mother would not enjoy her as a traveling companion. It’s only a few days, and Lady Knowe will be an excellent chaperone.”
“I shall miss you, but perhaps it’s just as well; you should keep an eye on Prudence,” Lavinia said. “I wouldn’t put it past her to contrive a situation in which Alaric supposedly compromises her.”
“Prism has already thought of that. The location of Alaric’s bedchamber is a closely guarded secret.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m of the opinion that a frank conversation with her might solve the problem, but Alaric doesn’t agree.”
Alaric didn’t believe that he needed anyone to champion him, but Willa disagreed. He never showed his feelings when women besieged him, but he hated it. Prudence represented the worst kind of devotee.
Lavinia shook her head. “She’s not like one of his typical admirers. I’m afraid of her.”
“That’s absurd,” Willa said, laughing. “She’s merely another woman in love with Lord Wilde, albeit more zealous than most.”
Willa had the distinct impression that Alaric was keeping Prudence in the castle because it allowed him to continue to claim her as his fiancée. It was a heady thought—a duke’s son wanted her that much.
“Are you sure you won’t come to Manchester?”
“I really can’t.”
“Perhaps I can convince Diana to join us. We have more than enough room in the carriage.”
“If she were to agree, it would be to escape the company of Lord Roland,” Willa said wryly.
“For now, I’m going to take a nap.” Lavinia stretched her arms toward the ceiling. “Why, why do I allow that ill-tempered fellow to vex me so?” She poked her head onto the balcony, which provoked an ear-piercing yowl, and withdrew it quickly. “I was merely jesting about giving you the mongrel cat. I’ll ask to have a groom take it to the stables.”
Willa frowned. The poor animal was so terrified that she hated to think of him being manhandled immediately. “Leave him there for the time being,” she said. “He used Sweetpea’s box, which I thought was quite intelligent. And he devoured the chicken I gave him.”
“Naturally he ate the chicken. I can see every one of his ribs. Don’t grow fond of that ugly creature, because I forbid you to keep it. I don’t want any memories of Appalling Parth.”
“I won’t,” Willa promised. She stood up and put Sweetpea into her basket by the fireplace. “A nap sounds lovely; I believe I’ll take one as well.”
“Do you need me to help with your riding habit before I go?” Lavinia asked. “My maid took a half-holiday, as did yours.”
Since the house party was supposedly exploring King Arthur’s tomb, the butler had given the personal servants a holiday.
Willa shook her head. “Everything fastens in front, including my corset. You?”
“As well.” Another pitiable screech came from the balcony. “I think I’ll name that animal Parth,” Lavinia said thoughtfully.
“Parth is an overly refined name for that particular cat,” Willa said, joining her in the balcony doorway.
The tomcat had wedged himself into the corner of the marble balustrade. His fur had dried in mangy patches. “How about Hannibal?” Willa asked.
“Wasn’t Hannibal a military commander?” Lavinia asked. “This cat looks nothing like a soldier.”
“I don’t agree; he’s clearly a fighter!”
After the door closed behind Lavinia, Willa stripped to her chemise and collapsed on the cool linen sheets with a sigh. A peppery-sweet scent drifted into the bedroom from the balcony. Mignonette, perhaps, or roses.
She closed her eyes and thought about Alaric, emerging like Poseidon from the river, his thin shirt clinging to the sleek muscles of his abdomen. She’d never realized how much fun it would be to be naughty.
Sinful, even.
She stretched, thinking perhaps … but it was daytime. She didn’t want to pull covers over herself, since the afternoon was hot and sultry.
Instead she curled up on her side, imagining that Alaric had followed her up the stairs. Imaginary Alaric entered her room and peeled off his shirt, tossing it to the side, a roguish smile on his face.
Would he say something? Quote poetry? Perhaps poetry that talked of exploration—say, John Donne’s “Oh, my America, my newfound land”?
No.
In Willa’s estimation—she was a virgin, but she’d made a study of men—Alaric would give her a heavy-lidded look and not bother with speech.
Her imagination first placed his hands on her back; now it willed them to her front. Her breasts were smaller than Lavinia’s, but they were nicely shaped, and in her imagination they fit neatly into his cupped hands. By the time her daydream became a little fuzzy, Alaric had lost his riding breeches. She wasn’t entirely sure what he would look like unclothed, so she drifted off to sleep thinking it over.
She and Lavinia had studied the male anatomy, having found a couple of risqué books in Lord Gray’s library. But they had decided the depictions of male anatomy contained therein had to be exaggerated.
But … in light of Alaric’s wet breeches?
Perhaps not.
WHEN HIS KNOCK remained unanswered after several long moments, Alaric pushed open the door of Willa’s bedchamber. It wasn’t as if Sweetpea could answer, and a handkerchief full of roly-polies could scarcely be left in the hallway.
Willa was likely in the drawing room, or in the garden with Lavinia—
No.
She was curled on top of her bed, asleep. She’d unpinned her hair; dusky curls spread over the pillow. Dark eyelashes lay on her cheeks, a pink stain on her cheekbones, and her beautiful mouth was curved in a very slight smile. She was wearing a scrap of fabric that had drawn up tight around her thighs.
He froze, gaping at her with the handkerchief of roly-polies in one hand and the open door in the other. When his gentleman’s training reasserted itself, he looked away, his eyes traveling slowly around her room as he weighed whether to quietly retreat or to give Sweetpea an afternoon snack. He’d gone to the trouble of finding the things, after all. It’d be a shame to deny Sweetpea.