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“We are old friends.”
“How friendly are the two of you?”
“Apollo.” She tugged lightly at his hair. “Never say you are jealous of the Duke of Kingham.”
“I am not jealous of the Duke of Kingham,” he repeated. “I’m younger than he is, for one thing. Not to mention that I’m far more handsome…”
“And quite modest,” she added teasingly. “But you know he is wildly in love with his new wife, of course, and he and I have only ever been friends, nothing more. I was a faithful wife to Corbett.”
Naturally, she had been. He didn’t doubt that. It was simply who Phee was.
He kissed her forehead. “You needn’t explain yourself to me, love. I merely found myself wondering why you decided to take on the role of hostess for this house party. It hardly seems like the sort of fête you would enjoy.”
She stiffened, and he sensed it was an answer she had no wish to give. Perhaps he had made a misstep.
But then she replied, her voice husky and teasing. “I have found some enjoyment, have I not?”
“I should hope you have, love.”
He kissed her to make amends for prying where she so obviously didn’t wish for him to do so. Her lips were silken and warm, and they molded to his in a perfect fit. He couldn’t get enough of her mouth. Couldn’t get enough of her. Persuading her to change her mind was a necessity, as imperative as breathing.
He would find a way. There was simply no other choice.
Which reminded him—he had to convince her of something else first.
Reluctantly, Apollo raised his head, caressing her cheek. “Spend the day with me. You won’t regret it, I vow.”
Her brows drew together. “But my duties. I cannot simply spend the day with you, as much as I would love to.”
Apollo experienced a sudden burst of inspiration. “Would it change your mind if I found someone to replace you for the day?”
“Who will you find?” She stiffened again, her eyes narrowing. “Not Mrs. Gilpin. She has already left Wingfield Hall for her next engagement.”
He knew Helene was gone; she’d attempted to bid him farewell, and when he had refused, she had left him a letter instead. Apollo had pitched it into the fire without bothering to read it first, that chapter of his life forever closed.
“Not Mrs. Gilpin,” he agreed easily. “My good chum Mal, Duke of Wrighton. I’ve no doubt he would be excellent at leading the afternoon and evening entertainments.”
He hadn’t talked to Mal yet, but Apollo would. He’d just have to do his best to keep his friend from discovering the truth. Anything to have this uninterrupted time with Phee before they returned to London. He wanted her all to himself. No guests. No obligations, no silly games, and no hiding. Above all, no masks. The only time he could drink in her beauty was when they were alone in his bedroom. Otherwise, she insisted upon obscuring her identity.
“Wrighton would wish to take on the role of host?” she asked, her tone suggesting she was contemplating the notion.
“He will.” Apollo kissed a path along her jaw, not stopping until he reached her ear. “And then I will have you all to myself. I’ll lick you until you scream.”
Her breath left her in a whoosh. “Oh heavens, you do say such wicked things.”
He caressed her hip and then lower, his fingers dipping between her legs to find her soaked. “And it makes you so very wet when I do, doesn’t it, sweet Phee?”
He teased her bud, which was soft as hot silk beneath his touch.
Her hips danced and she inhaled sharply. “You are a very wicked man.”
He licked the whorl of her ear. “Do you object?”
She shivered. “At a wicked house party, I do feel as if such a trait could be necessary. But I should go before the sun rises any higher.”
He hated when she left.
In fact, he hated all the time that existed between when he watched her slip out his door and when he saw her again. The hours were a thief, robbing him of her laughter, her smiles, her freckles, her moans, her sighs.
