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Her laugh carried a trace of bitterness, like a piece of the darkest chocolate melting on his tongue. “It was a calmer life, I can imagine.”
“True.” He kissed her lips softly, infusing as much care as he could manage. But he had little experience with kisses that spoke of the vertiginous sensation of falling in love.
Because what else could this be? Passion and desire, but care and affection as well; a visceral need to stay by her side. Perhaps it was madness, but he’d lived four decades without this feeling, and he’d be damned if he went another moment without it.
“You should come with me,” he said, hoping he’d kept some of the desperation from his tone. “Yorkshire is lovely this time of year.”
She hummed and dragged her nails across his scalp. He wanted to purr. “I’ve never been.”
That sounded promising enough to send his heart skittering. “You’d love Claremont Abbey. The history alone would keep you entertained for days.”
“I’d need to hear all the ghost stories.” She was smiling, her eyes dancing.
“No ghosts, I’m afraid, but I have gardens, horses, and a lake with ducks and geese.” He could imagine her there, growing poisons in the garden and locking him in the wine cellar. The home would be brilliant and full of life again, not a tomb he’d built around himself. “Do you like geese?”
“You told me they bite.”
He nibbled on the tip of her finger, and she laughed, swatting him away. “You only need to feed them a few grapes and they’ll adore you forever.” Like I’ll adore you forever. “The walls won’t crumble into the sea, I can promise that.”
She blinked, shifted her head to put space between them. “What do you mean by that?”
He stroked her hair, but she stiffened under his touch. “I only meant that it’s not safe here, at least not now. The turret alone—”
“The turret is stable.” She slid from beneath him and sat against the headboard, pulling the sheet over her breasts. “I was there this morning.”
She said this with far too much nonchalance for his liking, and he wanted to examine every inch of her for injuries, cursing himself for sleeping through her escapades. “This building is falling apart. It’s tried to kill us both several times since I’ve been here.”
Her eyes flashed. “Maybe you’re the issue, not the house.”
His jaw clenched, and he inhaled through his teeth to control his frustration. He wouldn’t find a moment’s peace for the remainder of his days if she stayed here for another hour, and he wasn’t about to uproot himself to become a fixture in this purportedly haunted house—
His gut twisted. How had he forgotten his purpose so easily? He’d come there to destroy her, to ruin her family’s reputation. And since he’d arrived, he’d done nothing but watch as the house destroyed itself and fallen in love with the proprietress.
“Promise me,” he said once he had himself under control, “promise you won’t do anything to hurt yourself.”
She smiled her reassurance, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I promise.”
CHAPTER 22
Bridget had never been fond of preparing herself for the day—she spent enough time in the Madame Bridgette costume to be inordinately concerned about her own appearance—but that morning, she brushed her hair until it fell in shiny waves over her shoulders. She chose an everyday frock with a daring neckline in a shade of green that complemented her eyes.
Because, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she had someone important to impress as herself.
“Hello,” Valebrook purred when he met her in the corridor outside her bedchamber. He took a lock of her unbound hair and let it slide through his fingers.
She couldn’t fight her grin. “No jacket today?”
“And no necktie.”
She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “A single night of my influence undid all your propriety.”
He lifted her chin with his finger, forcing her gaze to meet his. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
She was preparing her retort when the main door to the manor opened with a protesting creak.
“Bridget?” Mrs. Keenan called.
His eyes widened, and she rushed down the stairs.
