Page 29 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

At last she reached the drawing room but found it dark. No sign of the man. Frowning, Charlotte peered into the blackness of the hallway. “Mr. Garrett?”

Silence. What was the rake playing at now? Perhaps she had been correct in thinking this summons was a ploy to get her alone. He might even have thought she’d come to him in her nightgown. More fool him.

She darted out into the hall, bent on returning to her room. Mr. Garrett could go hang. About to mount the stairs, she paused, a light beneath the library door catching her attention. Had the dratted man changed rooms? Even if not, Fisk should have extinguished the sconces long ere this. She whirled around and strode to the door, reaching for the handle, then stopped. There had been voices in the library earlier. Had those guests gone? Would she humiliate herself by walking in on a passionate scene?

She took a deep breath, pressed her ear against the oak panel, and listened.

Nothing. Drat it. Her shoulders slumped. She would have to take a chance. With a fervor born of desperation, she grasped the handle, shoved it down, and threw open the door.

* * *

Nash knocked back the last of the brandy in his glass and set it down on the sideboard. He should have left hours ago, but the company at Lyttlefield Park had been stimulating in a variety of ways. Lady Cavendish had been his dinner companion and they had enjoyed a surprisingly spirited conversation. About Lord Byron’s flight from England, of all things, and had discovered a common interest in his poetry. She had turned out to be a remarkably agreeable dinner partner and more of his distrust of her had eased.

The gentlemen of the party were also a pleasant lot; he’d been acquainted with two of them already. He’d recognized Garrett, curse him, from their encounter at Almack’s. The earl had been right; Lady Cavendish played a dangerous game, flirting with scandal in the form of this rakehell. She’d declared to him at dinner, sotto voce, that she had not invited the scoundrel. Something about Lord Fernley and a misunderstanding.

Nash shook his head. Good thing she’d invited him to this party. He could keep an eye on her and Garrett while he wooed the lovely lady right out from under the rake’s nose.

Should he indulge in another brandy? Strange he felt no compulsion to shove off home. Of course, he and Brack had fallen into a great discussion about Egypt, which they both had happened to visit. That had led them, eventually, out of the drawing room and in search of the answer to a question about the Great Library in Alexandria. Having settled the point, they had quite abandoned the ladies and fallen to talk of their cattle and the coming hunting season. The clock striking two had roused them from conversation and, after a final snifter, Brack had gone off to bed.

Nash had lingered, however, sipping his brandy in the soothing darkness. The house had settled into a peaceful quiet. Restful, in fact. He was loath to disturb it by opening the door and seeking a servant to fetch his carriage. Too bad he hadn’t taken Lady Cavendish up on her offer of accommodation here. Now, dash it all, he couldn’t just bed down on the sofa. With a sigh, he turned from the sideboard and started toward the door. He was reaching for the handle when the door burst open.

He staggered backward as a pale vision strode toward him. Gorgeously disarrayed, hair flying around her like a battle maiden of old, Lady Cavendish presented a formidable sight to behold. His mouth dropped open as the full effect of her dishabille struck him like a kick from an ornery horse.

Her pale gown hung close to her body, outlining delicious curves, delineating shapely legs. Her shawl had slipped from her shoulders, exposing her chemise and a lot of very tempting skin. His gaze strayed lower, to the neckline of her low-cut gown, gaping away, showing off her voluptuous breasts. And her feet . . . were bare. Despite the shadowy light, his gaze riveted to the small white toes and his groin ached with wanting.

“Oh, dear.” Her face paled to the hue of the moonlight streaming in the window. Recognition of him stopped her in midstride. She trod on her shawl, wavered for a long moment, then pitched forward, the candle flying from her hand.

Here we go again.

Nash grabbed her, his arms going around her as they had that evening at Almack’s. Once more each contour of her body pressed against him intimately, every inch of them seeming to touch. Her head landed on his shoulder and the sweet, exotic scent of tuberoses filled his head. Erotic beyond belief. His already aroused member stiffened as if by magic.

Dear Lord, she had to feel his prodding presence. Yet she offered no resistance whatsoever. He expected her to recoil, to scream, to slap his face at the very least. Instead, she simply lay against him, panting. He relaxed his hold on her slightly, expecting her to ease away from him. To his astonishment, she nestled against him, as if at home there.

What the devil did she mean by this behavior? Had she known he was still in the house and been seeking him out? Their earlier encounter suggested her more enthusiastic about him than he had believed, despite her abrupt departure from the veranda. But women had played hard to get with him before—at least for a short while. Dressed in her current attire, she might very well be in search of a rendezvous. He’d still heard no protest about being in his arms.

Nash shifted her onto one arm. With his other hand, he brought her head up, her pale visage now inches from his. She searched his face, no fear in hers, only a question. He answered it the only way he could.

Lowering his head to hers, he took the lips offered to him, sweet and smooth and soft. Her body trembled, but she didn’t struggle. He pressed harder, demanding surrender as a fire quickened in his veins. Slipping first one, then the other hand behind her head, he angled her mouth to his best advantage. A slight turn of her head and their lips melded.

Emboldened, he opened his mouth and ran his tongue back and forth across the seam of hers. A low whimper emerged. When it turned into a guttural moan, he pressed more insistently against those soft lips. They opened like the petals of a rose in the morning sun, and he slipped between them, the silken gateway to paradise.

Nash repressed a groan of need. At this moment he’d like nothing better than to lay her down on the thick carpet and sink his all into her. Too soon, too impetuous. Best move with caution lest he frighten his prize.

Instead, he contented himself with a slow, thorough exploration of her mouth. He reveled in the sensuous feel of her—silky and smooth. The taste of her almost drove him wild, like a sweet liqueur of which he could not get enough.

When she slid her arms up and around his neck, pulling him to her, he thought he would explode with desire. Every inch of him tingled with the need to touch her skin, enfold himself around her, possess her completely in every way. No other woman had ever moved him this deeply. Scary as hell, yet satisfying beyond belief.

Still, he must move with caution. Despite her sweet responses, he couldn’t assume she wished to pursue an even deeper intimacy tonight. Best give her the opportunity to make her intentions known.

Nash began to ease away from her when he became aware they were not alone.

Damnation! At the worst . . . well, almost worst possible moment. Instinctively, he spun them around so she stood behind him, her identity shielded slightly at least. Too bad she was not a young miss. The earl could have them leg-shackled before the ink dried on the special license. Still, it would be enjoyable to spend some time wooing Lady Cavendish.

Nash swung back around, frowning at the intruder, who should have been abed by now anyway.

“My pardon, my lord. My lady. But if you desired more privacy I would have suggested you close the door.” The dark figure’s voice held a wry tone—respect tinged with knowing laughter.

Before Nash could upbraid the man for his impertinence, the lady poked her head around his side. A sharp, indrawn breath.