Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) (6 page)

“Is that the house?” she asked, seeing it through his window as the carriage wound up the drive.

“Yes.”

She had a delighted grin as she clambered over him to press her nose to the glass. “How charming. Is it yours?”

He resisted the desire to squeeze the rounded bottom so tantalizingly close. “For the week.” He was glad she approved. He had ridden over a few days before to make sure it was to his liking before signing the lease. It somehow managed to be something between a cottage and manor house, appealing with its whitewash and bright trim. Large enough to not feel hemmed in, but small enough to be cozy. He was sure it had seen its fair share of romantic assignations. It looked as though it would show best surrounded by flowers, in spring or the height of summer. The evenings were already cooling and shortly it would be autumn in earnest. Not that it mattered. They were here for the week. An expensive, but he liked to think very worthwhile, entertainment.

* * *

Imogen had crawled over Robert's lap and he was barely touching her. She could sense his desire for her. He had a surprising sense of formality for a man who had tupped her on his desk and arranged a week of sensual abandon. The carriage bounced through a rut and she took that opportunity to fall into his lap with a squeak. As she expected, his arms came around her and secured her to his chest. She wriggled around until she was sitting on his lap rather than sprawled across it. His narrowed gaze meant he knew precisely what she was doing, but once she smiled up at him he pulled her close for a kiss. Ah yes, this was why she had come. The singular focus of Robert Bittlesworth's attentions. How he made her shiver when he nipped her bottom lip, then sucked it between his own. He was more addictive than sweets, her private opium. She knew that eventually she would grow tired of him, but at this juncture he was fresh, novel, and exciting. Downright delicious, really. She was far from ready to release him when he pulled away.

When she growled her displeasure he set his forehead to hers. “Don't you want to see your home for the sennight?”

“Parts of it, certainly,” she purred.

“What a wicked little thing you are.”

She snapped her teeth at him, feinting a bite at his lips. “Only because you like it.”

He chuckled and set her beside him on the seat. “You know me already.”

The carriage rolled to a stop and he exited. He held his hand out for her to descend.

The house was quite lovely. The walls had climbing ivies and the surrounding plantings were lush, if fading, as summer was almost over. It was, simply, a splendid place to idle. Distinctly English, as was in keeping with her companion.

“Would you like a tour of the downstairs, or do you need to repair to your room to refresh?”

“A tour first, I think. Would hate to take a wrong turn later and lock myself in the pantry.”

He held out his elbow to her. “Right this way.”

* * *

Miss Grant appeared to be an easy companion, politely interested in the tour of the house and description of the grounds. He had some trepidation about being in close quarters with her for so long, but perhaps it would be tolerable. If she had tendencies toward clingy behavior, hysteria, or shrewishness, it had yet to show itself. And if she did, well, that was why he brought his stallion Typhaon. He could explore the area; perhaps make a few new contacts in the local public houses. In fact, he might as well do that anyway, regardless of her demeanor. Just because he wasn't specifically working on something didn't mean he had to eschew productivity. It was so rare for contacts to pan out as valuable resources that it would be a shame to waste the opportunity.

Once he had shown her upstairs to her rooms and secured her promise to return to the dining room in an hour for a late luncheon, he retired to his own suite. He had given her a light, airy set of rooms that looked out over the side garden, a rolling hill, and the lake beyond. His rooms, by contrast, were paneled in a wood that was darkened from age. His view was of the back lawn, and he knew which window let out over a patch of grass, rather than the flagstones that stretched across most of the back of the house. He knew how many steps it was to the stables from that window and that he could make the walk blinded, including finding the precise stall that Typhaon would be kept in. He knew these things much the same way that he knew how to tie a cravat or spell his name. It was second nature to be careful, to prepare, to expect the worst.

* * *

Imogen was a bit flummoxed. She had expected to be swept into a torrid love affair. Instead, Robert had shown her around her temporary home with a cool, detached air that finally had her seeing him as a future viscount. Because surely a
viscount
would assiduously see to his guests’ needs while never appearing to worry about a thing. Surely a
viscount
would schedule a late luncheon and discuss the comparable merits of apple and rhubarb in tarts. If she had known that she would be traveling with a
viscount
she might not have come on this expedition at all.

She was tempted to dress scandalously. In her chemise? In nothing at all? She wanted her lover returned to her. The barely controlled man who seemed insatiable. The longer he made her wait, the more wicked she felt. The more she wanted to punish him. She drew her kid gloves through her hand and considered. What would be the proper punishment for an inattentive lover? Obviously, withdrawing her attentions would hardly be noticed and she would need to be more aggressive. They had spent so little time together that she'd had little chance to see how he reacted to various ploys, but perhaps testing him would prove entertaining.

She opened her valise and considered her options.

Chapter Eleven

Robert stopped short in the doorway to the drawing room. His guest was lounging on a settee in an embroidered red silk... robe? Dress? Her bare feet were tucked up beside her on the cushion and she was reading a book. After a moment she looked up and, seeing him, rose gracefully from her seat.

“Time for luncheon?” she asked innocently. She looked, however, far, far from innocent. Robert had spent a fair portion of his life around women who used seduction for a living. Women who used their wiles for everything from personal gain to eliciting secrets of international import. None of them, however, had ever rendered him as completely and effortlessly undone as Miss Grant. He watched her as she set the book aside, admiring the curve of her arm, the line of the silk as it hugged along her hip, her breast. She glanced up at him from under her lashes and he knew she was aware of precisely what she was doing. Usually a woman hoping to manipulate him left him cold. Somehow it only served to fuel his desire for her, knowing that she was engaging him in a battle of wills. A battle of control over their affair. Would he give in to her blatant sexuality? Give over to the animal desire to take her, now, on whatever surface was available? If he did, he knew that she would consider it a battle won. If she was more than she seemed, such as an American agent, then ceding any victory to her was more dangerous than a mere sting to his pride. He knew how such things worked. You gained whatever advantages you could until your opponent had accepted your superiority, until they were yours to control. Robert had done it often enough himself to know the principles, to recognize the danger. But much like a moth flirting with a flame, the danger looked very, very attractive. A man in his position could assume that he was too clever, too aware, to ever be trapped in such a way. But he had himself trapped far too many clever, aware people to think he was immune. As she walked closer to him, hips shifting subtly under the clinging silk, he wondered if it would all be worth it. To drown in her power, yield to her. She bit her lip as she smiled at him, and as much as he wanted to lick and soothe that lip, to run his hands over her silk-covered form, he knew it wasn't in him to surrender. But oh, if he were going to, it would be to her. His siren.

“Are you no longer hungry?” she asked.

“Famished,” he assured her, holding out an arm. 

Her gaze changed from wanton to curious. “Have I displeased you?”

“Far from it. I was only regretting not wearing a silk robe to luncheon as well.”

She laughed. “You can borrow one of mine, if you like.”

“I can only assume the rest are as bright as the wardrobe I've seen so far. I'll continue to use my own, but thank you for the offer.”

“Let me guess, it's black.”

He held out her chair for her. “Of course.”

It was tempting to move further away from her for his state of mind, but he sat near her at the round table. As she settled, he felt the fabric of her robe brush against his knee. Such a pleasurable flirtation, and something of a surprise that he could be so attracted to a woman he had already bedded.

* * *

As he explained their various dishes and fed her samples, Imogen realized that her companion had a rather absorbing interest in food. Not so absorbing, however, that he didn't brush his hand over her cheek, her shoulder as they spoke. His control, his capacity to toy and flirt, was going to make her scream. Most men would have taken one look at her in red silk and skipped luncheon in favor of sex in the drawing room. Not Robert Bittlesworth. It felt like she was engaged in some struggle of wills with him, but she didn't know exactly how or why. Clearly, he preferred to be in control. Well, so did she. Not that she would have worried much about it if he hadn't made it a point of contention. But the more determined he seemed to dictate precisely when and where things would occur, the more she wanted to subvert him.

His hand rested on the back of her neck, idly playing with the hairs that weren't caught up in her bun. “Would you care for a dessert?”

“I thought I was dessert.”

She felt his hand tighten briefly, and then he pulled her into his lap. The kiss was brutal. Passionate. Glorious. When he pushed the dishes away to set her on the table she thought that she would punish him later. It was far too easy to enjoy him now.

* * *

Robert jolted awake. He was lying on his stomach, one arm flung over a warm bump that proved to be Miss Grant's hip. Her room was awash in the warm orange glow of an autumn early evening. He had certainly awakened in far worse circumstances. The only question in his mind was why he had fallen asleep in the first place. Yes, the vigorous rounds of lovemaking were certainly a contributor, but he had at times taken three women a night at Madame Blythe's and had never fallen asleep in the aftermath. Now he had fallen asleep twice on his guest, and damn it all if he didn't feel like he needed a full night's rest on the heels of it. Perhaps he was coming down with an ague? That might explain it. For now, he slowly and quietly withdrew from her bed and gathered his things.

“You're leaving?” she asked sleepily, stretching and pulling the sheet up to her shoulders.

“Beg pardon, didn't mean to wake you.” They both spoke softly, as though the silence of the house and fading light required a reverence.

“Always so polite.”

Her accusation tickled him. “I didn't think I was all that polite earlier.”

“True. You didn't ask 'Do you
mind
if I give you earth-shattering pleasure?' I'm scandalized by your rudeness.”

That quickly, he wanted to be inside her again. Wanted to feel her hips shifting under his own, to hear the catch in her breath as she found her pleasure. But certainly she needed her rest? “I prefer to sleep in my room,” he said, his voice rough. “However, you can join me there whenever you like.”

She slid off the bed. “I thought you'd never ask.” Donning another of her silk robes, this one in a brilliant aqua that matched her eyes, she walked past him and led the way to his suite.

Chapter Twelve

This wasn't the first time that Imogen had spent time alone with a gentleman, and she had been prepared for the passion. What took her by surprise was the coziness of their arrangement. From the very first morning they had taken to reading in the drawing room after breakfast. In the evenings they would play games, most often cards. They spent their nights in Robert's room. She moved her clothing into his armoire on the second day and he hadn't said a word in resistance. 

Throughout their days, sparked by a look or a comment, they would make love. Sometimes it was still as brutal and passionate as their first coupling, then other times it bordered on sweet.

It was, in short, the most enjoyable interlude she could remember.

* * *

Robert glanced over the top of the book he was reading. Imogen, seated across from him, was chewing on her bottom lip while reading her novel. He knew that meant she was thinking. What, he wondered, could be in a novel that required such deep and serious thought? The purpose of fiction was a distraction from serious thinking, in his estimation. His lover was a bit like a novel. They had been here for four days now and he had yet to leave the house other than to stroll with her. Each day he told himself that he would ride into the village that evening and check on the local gossip, but he had not done it. Looking across at her now, feeling the content lassitude of their idle, he had to admit he probably wouldn't.

She looked up and noticed his gaze. “What?”

He closed his book and tapped it against his knee. “It will be a terrible inconvenience if you are an American agent. Or any kind of agent, really.”

She laughed in surprise. “Where on earth did that come from?”

“You've traveled widely for many years, lately very independently.”

“Yes, well, I like to travel. It’s something I’ve done all my life.”

“Precisely why you would be so attractive to your government.” He paused and watched her. If she was feigning her surprise she was indeed a very good actress. “I only point this out,” he said, “because I like you well enough to warn you. Whatever you hope to learn from me, it is fruitless.”