Leslie Lafoy (21 page)

“Well?”

Mischief danced in the depths of her eyes. “I think that some things should remain mysteries.”

She wouldn’t, he assured himself as she wandered off into the maze. Belle didn’t strike him as the sort of woman who fantasized about leading a secret life as a light-skirt. And piercing was the kind of tawdry thing those sorts of women did. But … He folded his arms across his chest and stared down at his feet. There was something about her … The way she enjoyed risk … God, he just didn’t know for sure what she’d do. And for some reason not knowing made his blood run faster and decidedly warmer.

Expelling a long, hard breath, he shook his head and reminded himself that whether she would or wouldn’t didn’t matter. There was work to be done. And when all the falderal was put away, there were the maps to consider and a mystery to be solved—a mystery, he sternly reminded himself, that actually mattered.

Chapter Eleven

What Alex had sent, Barrett decided as he stood in the doorway and surveyed the newly furnished surroundings, was basically a harem room in a box. Although “boxes” was the more accurate term. Twelve to be exact. Each of them labeled with grease pencil as to their ultimate destination. There hadn’t been any need for Aiden’s wife to indicate her intent. That had been obvious the moment he’d pried open one of the crates marked “domestics” and seen the huge copper bathing tub.

The tub over which Belle had exclaimed in delight and immediately hauled off to the kitchen. The tub in which she was currently soaking. Barrett glanced back over his shoulder and down the stairwell, listening to the soft notes of her song. Smiling, he leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and went back to studying the room he’d put together while Belle had toiled at composing a functional kitchen and preparing a meal for them.

A fire was blazing in the hearth and a stack of splintered crating sat waiting to keep it going through the night. Alex had sent six three-stem silver candelabra and a sufficient number of sandalwood tapers to burn into the next century. He’d lit eighteen of them. The scent was heady and heavenly and the softly flickering light glowed over the silk bedding. Belle’s pallet was white, heavily embroidered with trailing green vines and bright pink flowers of some sort. His was a deep maroon, starkly plain and masculine.

He’d placed the beds on either side of the hearth and then built them a nest in front of it. Bless Alex and her sense of the necessary, he mused, grinning. A huge, thick rug, at least three dozen brightly colored, fringed and tasseled pillows, a low and beautifully carved little table … At the moment it held two place settings of fine china and a pair of crystal goblets. The copper-clad brazier was on the hearth, the silver coffee urn on a little carved barrel off to the side.

He hoped Belle liked the arrangement. Actually, he amended, he hoped that she heard the same seductive whisper he did when looking at it all. He’d be willing to surrender gentlemanly restraint if she asked him to. Hell, he admitted, shaking his head, he’d hand it up if she even looked like she might be about to hint at it. There was something incredibly erotic about a woman who delighted in even the smallest things, who laughed over copper tubs and reveled at the prospect of peeling carrots and potatoes.

He’d spent the better part of the evening marveling at that discovery, alternating between deliberately triggering her joy and resisting the urge to slip his arms around her and see if her delight extended to him. In short, Barrett realized, chuckling darkly and shoving himself squarely onto his feet, he’d spent the last several hours torturing himself.

The rest of the evening would go as it would go, he warned himself as he made his way down the stairs. The rain that had been mist that morning and a light patter against the panes that afternoon was now a full-blown storm. As messages from Mother Nature went, it was plain: Tonight wasn’t meant to be spent in searching his yard for missing map pieces. And as heartfelt suggestions from mere mortals went … The next time he saw Alexandra Terrell she was going to get a hug and a grateful kiss.

Yes, he decided, making his way into the parlor and toward the window seat, if he simply exercised some patience and didn’t overtly press … If he unrolled the maps on the little table and invited Belle to sidle up beside him to study them … They didn’t have anywhere to be before tomorrow night. There weren’t any pressing domestic chores to attend to between now and then, either. They could well afford to spend all of the night twisting silk sheets and the next day in blissful, sated slumber.

He was halfway back to the doorway when Belle stepped into it. He grinned, taking in the heavily laced wrapper cinched around her waist as he made his way to stand in front of her. And her hair … Obviously she’d gathered it up and haphazardly pinned it atop her head just to get it out of her way. Curling strands framed her face and trailed down her back. Never in his life had he seen a style that so begged to be touched, that so bordered between circumspect and wildly wanton. God, she should wear it like that all the time. It was so quintessentially Belle.

“Your timing is impeccable,” she said, smiling up at him in the darkened hall.

“I’ve been told that on a number of occasions.”

She laughed softly and moved past him toward the stairs. “I put fresh water in the tub and the basket of clothing Alex sent for you is behind the dressing screen.”

He offered his thanks as she started up the stairs. Bending down, she smiled at him through the space between the handrail and the stairwall. “Supper’s ready whenever you’re done with your bathing. I’ll be down in the next few minutes to bring it up. I promise not to peek at you.”

He bit off the quip, but there wasn’t anything he could do about reining in the roguish smile that went with it. Laughing, she went on, leaving him standing there, hardening as he envisioned the tub accommodating two. Christ, he growled, making his way toward the kitchen, patience was a vastly overrated virtue. If Belle didn’t have some mercy on him before the night was over, he was going to explode.

*   *   *

Isabella froze in the doorway, vaguely aware that she was gaping. The room had been divided into halves. And the half obviously hers was … well, positively
bridal
.

She moved forward, her mind staggering as it tried to take in the myriad details. New curtains hung at the windows. Dark green damask from the looks of them. Fluffy pillows filled the window seats. And there were rugs everywhere. She stopped at the foot of her bed, slipped off her mules, and curled her toes into the thick pile. Sandalwood candles, silver candelabra, carved tables, bejeweled mirrors … To think that it was possible to have heaven delivered in a crate … Lord, before she left London she was going to have to find Alexandra Terrell and thank her. Profusely.

Barrett, too, she reminded herself, her gaze wandering to the center of the room. He really was the most amazing man. Henri had never made a bed in all the time she’d known him, had never made so much as the slightest effort to make their home more commodious. And if he’d ever once noticed her efforts in that direction, he’d kept the observation to himself. Henri had been very much like her father in that respect: utterly oblivious. Barrett was obviously cut from an entirely different bolt of cloth than any other man she’d ever known. He not only knew how to arrange furnishings, he knew how to do it well. He understood the need for function to be comfortable and pleasing to the eye.

He understood, she realized, grinning, how to go about properly seducing a woman. Oh, yes, that was most definitely what he’d been about. The crackling fire, the piles of pillows, the bottle of wine, uncorked, breathing, waiting to be poured into the crystal glasses. A realization niggled into her awareness and she looked back over her shoulder. Yes, he’d placed every single mirror so that it reflected the bed. Oh, the man was a rake to his very core.

And, as insane as it was, she deeply appreciated his willingness to be open and honest about his intentions. There was no subterfuge with Barrett Stanbridge, no false promises, no devious deceptions. He was what he was without excuses. He wanted what he wanted without apologies. The world would be a far better place if more men were like him.

Her life, she knew, had certainly taken a turn for the better in having crossed the path of his. Even though it was only temporary, it was a respite her soul had needed so very desperately. She was warm and dry. Her stomach was full and she was all but wallowing in luxury. She had a partner who trusted her judgment and who would do everything in his power to keep her safe. What more could a woman want?

Love.

She started and instinctively took a step back. The attempt to escape was pointless, she realized in the same fraction of a heartbeat; the answer had come from within. Rolling her eyes, disgusted with the persistence of fairy-tale hope, she lifted her hems and made her way to the table.

*   *   *

Barrett leaned back in the tub, cocked a brow, and listened to the creaking of the stairs. He was staring blindly up at the ceiling and enjoying yet another impossible fantasy when the glass of wine appeared from over his left shoulder.

“I’m not peeking,” she promised, laughter edging her voice as he took the glass from her.

Ignoring the little whisper of polite convention—and the fact that the water was too soapy to see anything anyway—he grinned and replied, “I wouldn’t mind at all if you did.”

She laughed softly and moved toward the stove behind him, saying, “I like what you’ve done with the room upstairs. It’s lovely.”

Lovely? Barrett sighed and took a sip of the wine. “That isn’t precisely the feeling I was hoping to elicit.”

“How about breathtaking?”

She was toying with him. He could hear the amusement in her voice. “That’s closer,” he allowed, leaning back and grinning up at the tin ceiling.

“Cozy?”

“That sounds like a little old lady’s parlor.”

“Heavenly.”

“It makes you think of harps and cherubs and hovering saints?”

“Lord, no. It’s not at all wholesome.”

His grin broadened another degree. “Good.”

“It’s a bit decadent. In a refined sort of way.”

There wasn’t anything the least bit refined about his decadent motives, but he knew that admitting it outright wouldn’t help his cause. “Refined decadence,” he said instead, “is the British way of life.”

“It’s sultry too,” she ventured, the amusement gone, replaced by softly enticing notes that strummed wildly over his senses. “And inviting.”

“Inviting what?” he asked as casually as he could, his heart hammering. “Have you any ideas on that?”

“Quite a few, actually.” He was fumbling to catch his wine glass when she added, “I’m going to take dinner upstairs. I’ll put it in the brazier to keep it warm so there’s no need for you to hurry your bath. Take your time and enjoy it.”

Every impulse urged him to bolt to his feet and dash after her. Dignity suggested, rather dryly, that unbridled enthusiasm was all well and good, but didn’t amount to anything positive if his wet feet went out from under him. A naked, soggy, winded mass skidding face first over the floor wasn’t all that seductive. And the possibility of splinters in certain portions of his anatomy … God, he didn’t even want to contemplate it. Asking her to help remove them would most decidedly ruin any sort of romantic aura the room created. No, running after her, while keenly tempting, was a very bad idea.

His hand shaking as he brought the rim of his glass to his lips, Barrett willed himself to stay right where he was, to find whatever it took to proceed with a bit of decorum. He wasn’t a boy anymore, he reminded himself; this wasn’t his first foray into the sheets. There was absolutely no reason to be breathless with anticipation. Absolutely none. Or nervous, either. He’d taken women to bed God only knew how many times. This wasn’t going to be any different from all the trysts that had gone before and all that would follow it. He’d make her gasp in delight, sate them both, and then ever so kindly but firmly go along his blithe and merry way.

The trick was going to be keeping all of that in the forefront of his brain until Belle made it perfectly clear that she’d reached the end of her patience. He sipped again and leaned back in the tub, resolved to letting her set the pace, determined to soak away the ridiculous tension vibrating through every fiber of his body.

*   *   *

Either she had an infinite reserve of patience, he silently grumbled, rolling out the maps on their after-dinner table, or she was trying to see just how deep his own well was. Whatever the case, push was about to encounter shove. Let her wiggle up beside him to study the map and try to ignore him.

Which she happily proceeded to do, much to his frustration. Kneeling beside him, she propped her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her hands as she poured her attention onto the map. He tried to concentrate on the lines spreading across the vellum sheet, but it was exceedingly difficult to focus on them for any length of time. The warmth of her body beside his seemed to pull him off balance and the curves accentuated by the wrapper were far more captivating than any the mapmaker had drawn. He gave studying it a try, though. Albeit a short and not necessarily wholehearted one.

“I don’t see anything that looks even remotely like the lines on Lafitte’s map. Do you?”

She straightened and sighed. “There’s another way,” she said softly and then, without further explanation, rose to her feet. “I’ll be right back,” she declared as she stepped over the pillows and headed in the direction of her bed.

He sat back on his heels and watched her take a pair of tapers from the box. She scooped her stiletto up from the night table and neatly severed the wick, separating the pair into singles. Tossing the knife and one of the candles into the coverlet, she headed back to him, the candle and her nightgown fisted in her hands.

“Don’t scoff, Barrett,” she said, dropping down beside him again.

He didn’t say anything. Largely because he was too busy wondering what she was about to think of anything particularly pithy. She held the candle up over the map, the wick pinched between her thumb and finger, then slowly moved it along, keeping a scant distance between the end of the candle and the vellum. Her gaze focused intently on the candle, she seemed to be holding her breath.