was he’d not been able to bed her.
She’d soon heard of whispers from the servants that Roger had whores enter through the kitchen door. Rumors abounded that the women were skilled at dominating Roger, inflicting pain upon him. That he’d paid to be whipped with his own riding crop.
Bella had been shocked, for Roger had always seemed to thrive on enforcing his power over her, whether by isolating her on the estate grounds or coming to her bedchamber. If only she had known of his sick deviancy, she would have gladly offered to whip him for free.
Harriet reached out and took Bella’s hands in hers. “What I’m saying, luv, is that there is nothing wrong with you as a woman. I always worried your husband’s sickness and belittling had wounded you more than any physical abuse. Despite the circumstances that brought the duke here, I’m glad he kissed you. A little attention from a handsome man like Blackwood proves my point. Not all men are like Roger.”
“What about our fight over the manor?” Bella said.
“One kiss doesn’t mean you’re handing it over to him,” Harriet said.
Bella kept her features deceptively composed. “I do not trust him.” I do not trust myself with him, she thought. Any more attention from James could put her future plans at perilous risk.
James sat at the head of the table in the formal dining room as the footman delivered the first course. The new cook, the servant Bella had hired, had prepared a delicious turtle soup.
Even after Coates had handed him the note from Bella, James had decided to remain and dine at the manor rather than at the Twin Rams Inn. He needed to stake his claim, both with the servants and the striking woman upstairs.
Which led James to thinking about Bella Sinclair for the hundredth time that evening. He wondered what she was eating, and if she was dressed in the same pristine nightgown that covered every inch of her body down to her pretty feet that she had worn the first time he had seen her.
Was she sitting in bed enjoying the same soup or eating cold roast beef instead? And why did he give a damn what she was consuming? Except the thought of her in bed doing anything made him feel hot and heavy all over again.
One kiss. One kiss and he felt like a randy schoolboy with his hand caught beneath a girl’s skirt.
He dropped the spoon and it slid into the soup. This wouldn’t do. He’d have to get out despite his intentions. He threw his napkin on the table and rose. He would go to the Twin Rams, where strong spirits, a lively conversation with Anthony and Brent, and maybe the coy smile of a willing barmaid could distract his mind from the woman who slept under his roof.
Sleep eluded Bella that night. Her blood soared with unbidden memories, and her mind relived the velvet warmth of James’s kiss. The gentle persuasiveness of his lips had been as unexpected as her lustful response. She raised her fingertips to her own lips and imagined his perfect, firm mouth exploring hers.
It was well past midnight and her bedcovers were a tangled mess from her fitful tossing and turning. In the quiet solitude of her room, her thoughts ran free. She was helpless to stop herself from pondering the scandalous. What would it feel like to have him kiss more of her skin?
She fantasized about just that—his lips urgent and exploratory, searing her neck, her shoulders. He would leisurely lavish attention on her breasts, her nipples firming instantly under his touch. His touch arousing, but never painful. His tongue would lick a path down her ribs to her stomach, his hands roving lower still, to the pulsing ache between her thighs.
A moan slipped through her lips. She sat up and pushed the twisted covers aside. Scrambling to her feet, she flung the window open wide and inhaled deeply, hoping the cool night air would quench her overheated skin.
What had overcome her? James Devlin had come to Wyndmoor Manor and in a day he had succeeded in driving all logic and caution from her head. She was twenty-four years old, a widow of a seven-year marriage, and she had never truly experienced passion. For the first time, she suffered the dull ache of desire at the thought of a man.
But why in heaven’s name did it have to be for this man? She was a nuisance to him, and he had clearly stated his intentions toward her.
I always win in the courtroom.
She gripped the windowsill, her body suddenly engulfed in weariness and despair. Her eyes burned dryly from sleeplessness. She needed to sleep for whatever hours were left of the night. She needed to be prepared to face him tomorrow.
Harriet had always fixed her a cup of warm milk laced with brandy when she had difficulty sleeping after Roger had left her room. Bella’s hand reached for the bell pull, but she hesitated.
She didn’t want to wake the old woman. There was no longer the risk that she would run into Roger walking the halls at night. The first and last time that had occurred, Roger had flown into a jealous rage and had accused her of meeting a lover. He had locked her in her room for a week. Even Harriet was prohibited from attending to her. Bella had almost gone mad, and she had never again ventured out at night without Harriet beside her.
But life was different now. Harriet had overheard Blackwood tell his manservant that he was going out after dinner to the Twin Rams to meet his friends and would not return until late. Bella could go downstairs, fix herself a cup of warm milk, and even wander the halls if she chose. She could relive the first night she had slept in the house, oblivious of Blackwood’s impending claim.
Lifting a bedside candle, she opened the door. She was at the top of the stairs when a trill of feminine laughter echoed off the marble vestibule. Then came a distinct male laugh that Bella knew belonged to Blackwood.
She froze, like a bird that had flown into a stone wall.
How dare he!
She had just lain restless, burning with her first taste of desire because of his kiss, and he was returning to her house from a night of drinking and carousing with a woman.
Bella rushed down the stairs to see Blackwood hand his hat and a woman’s cloak to Coates, who, in turn, nodded when he spotted Bella clutching the balustrade, then discreetly disappeared.
The woman’s hand rested on Blackwood’s sleeve, her golden hair swept up in an elegant coiffure, her blue eyes exotically slanted like those of a Persian cat. She was stunning, and Bella suspected she was an expensive Cyprian that only a duke could afford.
Bella’s spine stiffened. If Blackwood thought he could bring this type of woman into the house he was gravely mistaken.
Blackwood and his ladybird looked to her. “Bella,” he drawled. “I hadn’t suspected you were a night owl.”
She lifted her chin and boldly met his eyes. “Get out. I don’t care that you are a duke or a barrister or if you were first to record the deed. I won’t stand by and permit you to bring women here. Go back to the Twin Rams and rent a room,” she ordered in a voice that brooked no argument.
To her dismay, a chuckle rumbled from his throat. “I warned you about sharing a residence with a bachelor. It’s not too late to reconsider,” he said.
Bella’s breaths came in ragged gasps. “Don’t you dare mock me, Your Grace.”
Amusement lurked in his eyes. “Don’t tell me that we’re back to rigid formality again.”
