Leslie Lafoy (12 page)

“You know what Drayton always says. When in doubt, don’t.”

“Yes, I know,” she allowed, suddenly very tired of having to think so hard. “But doesn’t it strike you as being a terribly cautious and stodgy way to go through life?”

“No. But if you don’t find that perspective useful as you mull your grand decision, you might want to consider the old saying ‘curiosity killed the cat.’”

Lord save her from timid, overly rational people. “In the first place, I’m not a cat,” she countered brightly, laying aside her napkin and gaining her feet. “And in the second place, it doesn’t always kill them or there would be dead cats on every rooftop and hanging from the limbs of every tree.”

Fiona looked horrified for a second and then rallied to say, “True. But sometimes it leaves them crippled or scarred for life.”

“And sometimes they get away with it,” Simone asserted with a wink as she snagged an apple from the tray and stepped away from the table.

“When was the last time you
didn’t
get caught?” Fiona didn’t give her a chance to reply before adding, “You always get caught, Simone. You enjoy getting caught. That’s nine-tenths of the reason you misbehave.”

“No,” she corrected, pausing and turning back. “I don’t
always
get caught. And the thrill of having Drayton chew me up one side and down the other isn’t quite the motivation you think it is.”

Fiona tilted her head and considered her with somber green eyes. “Then what’s the attraction in it?”

With a grin, Simone answered, “Boredom is a terrible,
terrible
thing.”

Fiona clearly wasn’t amused. “Please don’t do anything that will overly and forever embarrass Caroline and Drayton. They’ve been so good to us.”

“I won’t,” Simone promised. “Of course, it would be much—”

“No,” Fiona interrupted, her curls bouncing as she shook her head. “I’m not going to help you.”

How she’d known … “You’re spooky sometimes.”

“I’m not spooky,” Fiona laughingly shot back. “You’re predictable. And let’s be honest, Simone. No amount of help from me is going to make the least little bit of difference to how it goes in the end, anyway. You’ll be caught, Drayton will bellow for an hour and threaten to send you to Ryland Castle in chains, you’ll shrug and walk away, Caroline will plead in your behalf, and—”

“Drayton will relent,” Simone finished blithely as she headed back toward the door. “And that will be that until I do something else outrageous and everyone goes through the same thing again. You have to admit that I keep life interesting around here.”

“That you do.”

“And I make you look positively angelic in comparison. You should thank me for that.”

“I
am
angelic.”

“If a bit eccentric.”

“By some standards, yes,” Fiona allowed. “But still … My behavior isn’t giving anyone gray hairs or keeping them awake at night with worry.”

On the threshold, Simone paused again to look back, smile, and say, “Ever the Good Sister.”

“You don’t have to be the Bad Sister,” Fiona countered softly, almost sadly. “Everyone would still be able to tell us apart.”

Timid. Overly rational. And now maudlin. “But I’m so very good at being bad,” she said on a laugh. “And when we come right down to it, it’s my only true talent.”

She walked away before Fiona could ever-so-predictably argue otherwise. Bad? She wasn’t bad. Now if someone were to suggest that she was a bit wild … Yes, she’d have to admit that was true. But it certainly wasn’t by conscious choice. She never hurt people deliberately. She didn’t sit around putting concerted effort into thinking of ways to shock or offend people. It simply happened. Rather like the sun rising in the east every morning.

Well, except for Tristan Townsend,
she allowed as she climbed the stairs. She hadn’t exactly planned the escalation of their relationship, but she had deliberately put herself in his path to see what would happen. The decision had produced results that weren’t entirely surprising. Results, she had to admit, that she’d done nothing to stem.

Since she hadn’t made any promises, she doubted that he’d be waiting in the garden at midnight tonight, so it wasn’t as though she had to make a decision immediately. But she had told Emmy that she’d sit for the portrait again tomorrow morning, and, given what she knew about Tristan so far, it was a sure bet he’d be there, too, waiting to see if she was brave enough to accept his dare.

She’d never in her life backed down from a challenge of any sort. She’d never
purred
for any man, either, and she didn’t intend to begin doing so on mere command. Hopefully, between now and tomorrow morning she’d figure out how to balance her inclinations. Yes, she needed to find a middle ground, as it were, that her pride wouldn’t mind sharing with Tristan. For just an hour or two. Maybe three if it all felt as good as that long, delicious nibble had.

Chapter 7

Tristan waved off formality and Lucinda’s footman and made his way through the house toward the greenhouse on his own. Bless his sister’s heart, she couldn’t paint a picket fence, but her artistic illusions gave him the perfect opportunity to be with Simone. An opportunity he had every intention of taking as far as he could, for as long as he could.

And, he added as he slipped into the glass-enclosed jungle, whenever and wherever and however he could, too. God Almighty, when Simone smiled in that slow, easy, knowing way of hers, his blood went hot and his mind’s eye served up a decadent feast of carnal delights. Pure, wondrous, never-ending … Yes, Simone Turnbridge … in a split skirt. If Em hadn’t been there—

“Good morning, Tristan!” his sister called as though on cue.

He softly cleared his throat and dragged his mind back to the reality of the moment. “Good morning, ladies,” he offered, joining them at the tea cart.

“And to you, Tristan,” Simone said serenely while handing him a cup of steaming coffee. “Are you ready to paint?”

He could be. If they were alone. And both naked. And to think he’d spent his entire life thinking of finger painting as a child’s pastime. How very shortsighted—and unimaginative—he’d been.

“Tristan?”

He blinked and looked back and forth between his sister and Simone, uncertain of which of them had called his attention back to the mundane and boringly circumspect.

“Simone asked if you were ready to paint on her portrait.”

Judging by the bright, mischievous light dancing in Simone’s dark eyes, she knew full good and well that he didn’t give a damn about the picture Em was working on. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d say that her mind was racing along the very same course as his. “I’m ready whenever you are,” he supplied, boldly holding her gaze.

“Then let’s be on with it, shall we?” Emmaline suggested cheerily, cluelessly. “Unless, of course, there’s some reason you’d prefer to wait until Lord Noland arrives.”

Noland. Oh yes
. Tristan took a quick sip of his coffee and watched Simone take a slow one. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Em,” he managed to say as Simone leisurely trailed the tip of her tongue along the rim of the china cup.

“What sort of bad news?”

Simone took pity on him, putting down her cup and gazing off toward the chaise she’d occupied during yesterday’s sitting. Tristan dragged in a deep breath, willed his brain to forget about what she might be thinking they could do on it, and turned to face his sister squarely.

“Lord Noland sent word around before I left the house. He regrets that he has other obligations today and won’t be able to join us for the painting session. He asked me to convey his deepest regrets and to assure you that he’ll personally beg your forgiveness the very next time he sees you.”

Em rolled her eyes. “I hope you’ll tell him that begging really isn’t necessary.”

“Yes, but it would be nice if you’d humor him. He so enjoys playing the ever gallant gentleman.”

His sister snorted and put down her coffee cup, saying dryly, “I don’t think he’s playing at it, Tristan. And yes,” she added, walking over to the easel, “I’ll be nice to him. He is your friend.” She stopped and looked around, her pale brows knitted. After a second, she sighed and shook her head. Heading for the door, she explained, “I forgot that I wore my paint smock upstairs yesterday afternoon. I swear, if my head weren’t attached … I think I remember where I left it. I’ll be right back.”

“Is it just me,” Simone asked quietly from behind him, “or do you think she deliberately left that smock elsewhere?”

He turned and set aside his own coffee cup, asking, “Does it matter?”

“Only in how long she’s likely to be looking for it.”

Simone’s smile was an invitation if he’d ever seen one. “I suggest,” he said quietly, closing the distance between them to wrap his arms around her waist, “that we not waste a single second of it.”

She twined her arms around his neck. “I agree,” she whispered, her breasts brushing against his shirtfront. “What do you have in mind?”

He bent his head and trailed a line of light kisses to her ear. “If you were wearing a regular skirt,” he whispered against it, “I’d lift it and make love to you standing right where we are.”

She made a little humming sound, shivered, and then ever-so-lusciously arched her back to press her breasts harder into his chest. He slid his hands down over the dark velvet to cup her and draw her fully against the length of him. “But since you aren’t and we don’t have the time to remove it, we’ll have to think of something else.”

“For instance?” she asked on a ragged breath as he slowly moved his hips against hers.

“I’m willing to consider anything you might have in mind. Except,” he added, moving against her again, “kissing you. Bruised lips are difficult to ignore and impossible to explain away.”

“So is crushed velvet.”

She had a point. To a point. Tristan eased back, sweeping the nap down over her backside as he released her. Her hands slid down his chest and then fell away as she took a half step back and skimmed smooth the fabric over her abdomen.

“But where it’s crushed from riding,” he said, catching her hands and drawing her toward the chaise.

“It’s crushed and no one thinks anything of it,” she finished as he dropped down onto the edge of the cushion. To his delight, she placed her hands on his shoulders and straddled his lap. Not as closely as he would have liked, but …

“Linen is another matter entirely, too,” he pointed out. He lightly cupped her breasts and dragged the pads of his thumbs over the hardened peaks. “It wrinkles at the first look. After that, it’s very forgiving.”

“Speaking of forgiving,” she said, holding his gaze and threading her fingers through the hair at his nape. “You weren’t waiting in the garden all night for me, were you?”

He shook his head and shifted one hand to deftly open a pair of buttons on her blouse. “You didn’t accept my invitation. And a gentleman never presumes a lady’s consent.”

“Of course not,” she agreed, her voice low and soft, her gaze dark with desire. “He just keeps pressing ever so deliciously until he gets it.”

“Deliciously? That implies that you’re enjoying my advances.”

She smiled slowly and reached between them to open a third button on her shirtfront, asking, “Has there ever been a woman who didn’t enjoy your touch?”

He slipped his hand inside her shirt and beneath the silk of her chemise, his breath catching at the feel of soft hot satin in the palm of his hand. “There are no other women in the world.”

She laughed softly and tugged at his hair. “Liar.”

Caught, he grinned at her. “All right, there are other women. I just don’t give a damn about any of them.”

“At this particular moment, anyway.”

“There haven’t been any others since I met you.”

“Two whole days?”

“And two nights, too,” he countered, catching a peak between his fingers and gently squeezing. “Nights matter more than days, you know.”

“The strain must be unbearable,” she allowed on a held breath. Shifting on his lap, she asked with a faltering nonchalance, “How on earth have you endured it?”

He squeezed and then slowly pulled, answering, “The hope of being with you is the only thing that sustains me.”

Smiling, she closed her eyes, arched her back. “Do women generally gobble up this sort of pablum?”

“You’d be absolutely amazed.”

“I am.” Letting her head drift back, she grinned blindly up at the ceiling. “On so many delightful levels.”

If she thought he was good with his hands … He leaned forward and slowly trailed his tongue up the valley between her breasts. “God,” she moaned, squirming on his lap. “We need to stop.”

“True. In another minute or two, I’m going to turn and put you on this chaise on your back.”

She shifted again, bringing her head back to center and opening her eyes. She arched a dark brow and twined his hair tightly around her fingers. “You wouldn’t.”

“Yes, I would,” he assured her, pulling on her peak again. As her breath caught, he smiled and taunted softly, “And you would enjoy it, wouldn’t you?”

“Tristan, be sensible.”

He continued the delightful torture, saying, “Only if you promise to meet me tonight.”

“You’re a rogue.”

“To your complete and utter delight. Promise? I won’t stop unless you promise.” He grinned at her and cocked a brow as he squeezed her tender peak. “Emmy could be back at any moment.”

With a quiet chuckle, she caught his wrist and met his gaze. “I promise to try. Would that be good enough?”

“Good enough,” he declared happily, releasing his prize and sliding his hand out of her blouse. Placing his hands on her waist, he steadied her as she found her feet and stepped back. Rising himself, he noted the shaking of her fingers as she tried to button her blouse. Without a word, he eased her hands aside and undertook the task himself. And when it was done, he leaned down and feathered a kiss over her lips.

“Yes, a true rogue,” she said, smiling and following him back to the tea cart.

“A gentleman rogue,” he corrected, handing her her coffee cup. “It makes a difference, you know.”

“Oh? How’s that?”