In the Spinster's Bed (3 page)

“I don’t know.”

His frown deepened so his brows almost met over his nose. “Have you looked around to find out?”

“I haven’t had time.”
Because I overslept, caught in a mortifying dream about you.
“As I said, she just appeared this morning.”

“Then let’s look now.” He started toward the house.

She grabbed his arm. “I told you, I’m late opening the library.”

At first she thought he was going to insist, but then he nodded. “Very well. We’ll look later.”

“No!” Later would be worse. She’d be tired. Her will would be weaker.

His eyes widened. Perhaps she
had
been a little too strident. She didn’t want him to think she was panicking, even if she was.

She took a deep breath to collect herself. “I mean, no, thank you. It is very kind of you to offer, but I don’t need your assistance. I’m certain I just left a window open.” There was no other explanation.

“A window? That’s easy enough to check.” William started off toward the house again. He always had been one to attend to a problem immediately.

No. There was nothing he could have done.

“My lord, it’s not supposed to rain today, and I am indeed late. I really must be going.”

His jaw hardened. William could be very mulish when he chose to be. However, the door was locked, so his mulishness would get him nowhere. She started walking briskly toward the library.

William caught up to her. “Very well, but I am coming by later, Belle. I won’t rest until I know you are secure.”

Insufferable! “I assure you, my lord, you do not need to concern yourself.”

“Perhaps not, but I
am
concerning myself.”

Good God, the man was past bearing! “Blast it, William, let it go. I am not a child any longer.”

The man’s lips slid into a knowing grin and his voice deepened. “Believe me, Belle, I did not think of you as a child.”

Heat bloomed in the reckless, needy place low in her belly—and lower—and her cheeks flushed. Oh, God. She could not talk about that time. She could not
think
about it. “Stop. That is all in the past.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the bloody man grin. “So you admit you know me? That you’re really Belle Frost from Dornham?”

She would admit nothing. “You
must
call me Miss Franklin, my lord.”

“I will if you stop ‘my lording’ me. I wish to be known simply as Mr. Wattles.”

She would call him His Majesty if he would only leave her alone. She nodded and walked faster. The sooner she reached the library, the sooner she’d be free of him.

He had no trouble keeping up with her. “So what are you going to name your cat?”

“I’m not going to name her anything. She’s not my cat.”

“No? It looks to me as if she’s adopted you.”

Sadly, it did look that way. The animal was not running off to hunt or climb a tree or do whatever cats did. She was walking in front of them, stopping to look back occasionally as if to be certain they were still following her.

She liked living alone. Her life was precisely how she wanted it—orderly and predictable.

She glanced at William as they reached the lending library. She liked
being
alone as well. She had learned the hard way that letting other people—or creatures—into one’s life was a mistake. At best they were annoying and disruptive. At worst they broke your heart.

She dropped the blasted library key as she took it out of her pocket. It clanged loudly on the stone walk, almost hitting the cat. The animal glared at her.

William scooped it up and slipped it into the lock.

“Thank you, Lord—”

“Mr. Wattles, Belle.” He opened the door for her and then followed her into the library. “You didn’t tell anyone I was Lord William when I was here last month, did you?”

“No. I had no occasion to speak of you at all.” Perhaps he would take that to mean she hadn’t given him a second thought. “I—careful!”

William had almost shut the door on the cat’s tail. He stopped to let the creature slip inside. “Sorry. You really need to give this poor animal a name, Belle. She has clearly thrown her lot in with yours.”

“You name her.” She hung her bonnet on the hook reserved for it. She’d like to tell him that it was inappropriate for them to be alone together in the library, but that was ridiculous. This was a public space, and she was the librarian. Of course she’d find herself alone with a man on occasion. That is, if any of the village men ever came to the library.

She sat down at her desk and began shuffling papers. “And you
must
call me Miss Franklin. People will get a very odd impression of our, er, connection if you do not.”

Damnation, why had she said that? She could feel her cheeks flush—and they heated even more when she saw the knowing look in William’s eyes.

The man plopped himself down in the one comfortable reading chair, and the cat jumped up to sprawl on his lap. He stroked her fur and suddenly grinned. “Poppy.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Your cheeks. They’re red like poppies. That’s what you should name your pet: Poppy. What do you think?”

He wasn’t asking her.

The cat clearly approved. She could hear the silly animal’s purr from where she was sitting several feet away.

William backed out from under the heavy oak table in the Spinster House kitchen. He’d come by after supper to see if Belle had found out where Poppy had got in. She hadn’t, so he’d insisted on having a look himself.

He glanced up to see if his head had cleared the tabletop—and caught Belle admiring his arse.

Lust exploded in his gut.

She’d been so passionate, so fearless as a girl. No hiding in the darkness or under the covers for Belle. She’d wanted to see him naked—and she hadn’t shied away from his eyes either. She’d been beautiful, her skin white and smooth, her breasts and—

If only he still had on his waistcoat and coat, but he’d shed them along with his silly peruke and sham spectacles so he could crawl under the furniture more easily.

“Are you going to stay down there all night?”

Did Belle sound a little breathless? Perhaps she was feeling a bit lustful herself. He’d be happy—delighted—to take care of that for her.

His cock swelled even more, and his bollocks ached.

“Well, did you find the hole?”

He’d like to find her—

No. He
had
to think about something else, but his randy mind was stuck in a burning quicksand of lust and sinking fast.

And then the bloody cat landed on his arse, her sharp claws digging deep.

“What the—!” He jerked upright and slammed the back of his head into the tabletop. “Fu—oww!”

He collapsed onto the floor, not sure whether to grab his head or his arse.

He decided on his head.

“Oh, oh, are—” Belle had to gasp to get some air, she was laughing so hard. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better.”

“I’m sure Poppy didn’t mean to hurt you. She was just jumping down from the table and your, ah . . . That is, your, um . . .”

He looked up at her.

She gestured at his hindquarters. “You were in the way.”

“So I gather.”

The blasted cat came over to stare at him before sitting down and turning her attention to her right paw. He had the distinct impression she’d known exactly where his lascivious thoughts had been headed when she’d pounced upon his posterior.

“
Did
you find a hole down there?”

“No.” He backed up farther until he was quite, quite sure he was free of the table and then stood. “Nothing.”

Belle crossed her arms. “You’ve looked in all the rooms now and have found exactly that—nothing. Give up, William, and go—” She frowned. “Where
are
you staying?”

When had Belle grown so stiff? The spirit he remembered being so much a part of her was gone, leaving behind this cold, frowning, governess-y person. He expected her to whack his knuckles with a ruler at any moment.

“I’ve taken Mr. Luntley’s place. I’ll be the music teacher until he returns.”

Belle’s eyes widened. “You? A music teacher?”

“Yes.” He grinned. “Would you like me to teach you to play that harpsichord I saw in the other room?”

Belle’s brows snapped down. “No, thank you. You were just leaving, remember?”

“I was?” He shook his head—and smiled inwardly when he saw Belle’s jaw clench. “No, I don’t believe I was. I haven’t checked the rooms upstairs yet.”

“Good God, William, Poppy is a cat, not a bird. The rooms upstairs are a full story aboveground.”

“There’s a large tree outside. She might have climbed it. Is that what you did, Poppy?”

Poppy had moved on to cleaning her left paw.

“
Should
I check the rooms upstairs?”

The animal looked at him, but whether with disdain or approval, he couldn’t say.

“I can’t believe you’re talking to a cat.”

He couldn’t believe it either.

The cat yawned then, stretched, and walked out of the kitchen.

“Where’s she going?” Belle followed Poppy—and he followed Belle. “She
is
going upstairs.” Excitement laced Belle’s voice. “Come on, let’s follow her.” She grabbed her skirts and hurried after the cat.

He admired her shapely ankles.

She started up the stairs, and then paused to look down at him. He could see her calves now and the curve of her knees in the shadow of her skirts.

Mmm. He remembered so clearly the shape of her thighs and her arse and her beautiful—

He’d love to see how closely she resembled his memories.

“What are you waiting for? You’re the one who wanted to come up here.” She pulled her skirts even higher as she bounded up the last few steps.

He’d gotten a glimpse of her thighs. He’d like to have more than a glimpse. No, he
needed
to have more. An odd compulsion gripped him.

Well, perhaps not so odd. It had been months since he’d had any bed play.

He ran up the stairs in time to see Belle vanish into one of the rooms.

“Did you find—oh.” He was in Belle’s bedchamber. She must have left in a hurry this morning. Her bed was unmade, the bedclothes mussed as if they were still warm from her body, and a drawer was partly open, giving him a glimpse of silk stockings and other frilly things.

Did she have any frilly things on under that dull dress with its high neck? He’d like to lay her down on that splendidly large and messy bed and slowly, carefully, reverently peel back each layer until he found out.

He looked around in an effort to distract himself and saw a full-length painting of a girl dressed in old-fashioned clothing. “Who’s that?”

Belle glanced at the picture. “Isabelle Dorring, the original Spinster House spinster.” She gestured at the bed. “And that’s where the evil duke seduced her.”

“Ah.” He watched her face flush as she realized what she’d said.

He moved so the bedpost was between them. Hopefully that wood was thick enough to hide the pillar in his breeches.

Thank God Belle had turned to look down at Poppy, who was curled up on a chair. She must not be as affected by the situation as he was because she was able to find her voice. It was a bit strained, but her words had nothing to do with seduction.

“It looks as if Poppy isn’t going to tell us how she got in. We’ll have to find the opening without her help.”

He grunted. Noah and his ark-load of animals could run, slither, and crawl through the house right now and he wouldn’t care.

What was the matter with him? He wasn’t a boy. He’d learned to control his animal instincts long ago. They hadn’t troubled him in years.

Except now, with Belle. Now they were howling through him, urging him to tear that ugly dress off her and bury himself deep in her body.

If it was, it should be haunted by some frigid old maid with her nose permanently wrinkled in disapproval and her legs tightly crossed. Hell, Miss Isabelle Dorring should turn in that gilded frame, point her finger at his cock, and make it shrivel up to nothing. It most definitely should not be throbbing and growing until he was afraid it was going to explode. This was the
Spinster
House, after all.

“Why are you standing there like a clodpoll? Come over and help me search.” Belle had bent down to examine the floor by the exterior wall, providing him with an extremely enticing view of her cloth-covered derrière.

It would look even better naked.

He crossed the room without consciously willing his feet to move. He was reaching to touch her when she straightened and turned.

“Oh!” Her bodice brushed over his linen shirt, sending desire lancing through him to lodge in his most obvious—his
painfully
obvious—organ.

“I didn’t hear you come up.” Her voice was slightly breathless.

He wanted very, very badly to wrap his arms around her, pull her against him, and kiss her until neither of them could think.

He shifted his hips back instead. If she didn’t welcome his advances—and he was afraid she wouldn’t—she would likely apply her knee swiftly to his groin. He winced at the thought, but lust kept him rooted where he was. He drew in a deep breath—and smelled the light citrus scent she wore.

She’d worn the same scent as a girl. During their weeks together, she’d taken to putting a little behind her ears and between her breasts—and sometimes even at the top of her thighs, in the crease by her mons.

He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman in his life. He
needed
her.

She tried to step back, but he had her trapped between the window and his body.

She cleared her throat and frowned. “Are you going to look around for the opening or not?”

“Not.” The word came out as a croak.

At least he was not going to look for that opening. The opening he wished to find was hidden beneath her skirts.

“Then why did you come up here?”

“To see how Poppy got in.” He glanced down at the cat. It appeared to have fallen asleep. “But now I want to find out something more important.”

“Wh-what?”

She looked wary but not angry. That would probably change. She would likely knee him in just a few seconds, but at least the resulting pain would cure him of this madness.

He could no more not touch Belle now than he could keep the tide from coming in or the sun from rising.

“This.” He slid his arms around her, watching her face. He’d swear he saw a reflection of his desire in her eyes. “I have to find out if you taste as wonderful as you did twenty years ago.” He bent his head, pausing just above her mouth.

She did not pull away. No, she tilted her head. He felt her breath flutter across his lips.

He groaned and closed the last distance between them.

 

 

Infidelity is expected among the
ton
. And I want this. I want this
so
much.

Belle closed her eyes as William’s mouth touched hers. His lips were firm and dry. Gentle. His arms cradled her.

She felt as if she’d finally come home.

She sighed, letting herself relax into him. His erection pressed insistently against her belly.

It had been twenty years since he’d loved her—twenty years of drought—but her body remembered him as if it had been just yesterday. Her woman’s part throbbed, hot and wet and anxious to welcome him back.

Yes, but she was older now, surely too old for such . . . problems.

A breath of worry whispered through her.
Sometimes older women conceive.

The worry was followed by a wash of sorrow.
Yes. Sometimes. Not often. And not me.

She’d been nine when she’d heard her parents arguing late at night. They probably thought she was asleep and wouldn’t understand their words if she did hear them.

She
hadn’t
understood until she was seventeen and with William.

“I wanted a son. It was your duty to give me a son.”
The sharp sound of her father’s hand slapping her mother’s face still reverberated in her ears.
“I’ve plowed you for fifteen bloody years, and all you’ve managed to give me is one useless girl.”

“I tried. You know I tried.”
Her mother’s voice had wavered with defiance and fear.
“But I’m too old to have children now.”

She’d pulled her blankets over her head and then pressed her hands to her ears so she’d not hear the grunting and moans and other odd noises that came from her parents’ room.

Her mother had been only thirty-five.
Two years younger than I am now.

Silly! I shouldn’t be sad I can’t conceive. I should be happy. I
am
happy.

Oh! William’s lips moved from her forehead to her cheek.
Why am I thinking about the past when the present is so wonderful?

Mmm. Was he going to kiss the sensitive spot just below her ear? She tilted her head to encourage him.

“Why have you taken to hiding your hair under a cap, Belle?” His words whispered over her skin as his fingers found her pins and plucked them out. “You’ve made yourself look like a sour old spinster.”

“I
am
an old spinster.” And perhaps she was sour, too. She’d admit she didn’t have much joy in her life.

Ahh. But it was a joy to feel her hair tumble down her back and then William’s fingers comb through it. Was this how Poppy felt when someone stroked her?

Belle certainly felt like purring and rubbing herself against William’s hard body.

“You’re younger than I am.” His tongue traced the rim of her ear.