The Notorious Countess. Liz Tyner

she snuggled close again and he reached down, tilting her chin up so he could see her lips. Luscious red, full, shaped with promise for a man’s gaze.

      A promise they delivered on. No other woman had kissed him with the innocent abandon she had.

      This woman was worth waiting for. But he didn’t want to wait. He’d waited a damn lifetime and a half. He could wait—later. The last hooks fell away at his fingertips and this time when she stumbled, he fell with her on to the bed, cushioning their fall with his hands. They were half on the bed, half off.

      Putting a knee on the bed, he slid her to its centre, looking into the most the angelic form he’d ever seen.

      She half-sat. Her hand stopped just before she reached her lips. She moistened her fingertip with her tongue. Then rubbed her finger at the fullest part of her bottom lip. Placing a kiss on her finger, she blew it in his direction.

      She reached down, slowly, bringing her dress up the length of her legs. The creamy whiteness contrasted with the room. She lifted her skirt higher, and higher, and he could not move. She stopped, just before unveiling herself completely, and he was frozen, awake but dreaming.

      Her knees moved apart, the fabric of her gown sliding down, covering the valley between her legs. ‘I want to be the first thing you think of when you wake tomorrow.’

      He regained the use of his voice. ‘I can assure you, you will be the first and only woman I think of tomorrow.’

      He reached for the cravat at the same time as he heard a muted irate voice, and footsteps outside the door. And he was too far from the candles to snuff them.

      ‘—and then she threw me out bodily and told me she would send my things to Mother’s, but I want my clothing now—’ The screeching voice stopped and a strange woman stepped inside, followed by a man he knew.

      The pair became immobile. The architect took up the entire doorway.

      ‘Pardon me,’ Andrew said, giving a light bow.

      ‘Oh, my,’ the woman with the lamp said, then she smiled and looked up at the man beside her. She turned her eyes back to the bed. ‘For shame.’ She snickered.

      ‘Tilly. Leave.’ The man’s voice sliced the air into slivers.

      Andrew looked to the bed. Tilly didn’t move. The woman with the lamp, however, put her hand on the door facing. ‘I guess you may as well send my things. I don’t need them as badly as I thought. I need to have a few words with Mother. And she thinks I’m— Ha!’ She waved. ‘Farewell.’

      She flounced out.

      Andrew looked on the bed at Tilly and saw that her skirts had managed to slip down to demurely cover her knees, and she reached up to push the shoulder of her dress correct, but it didn’t stay.

      ‘Wilson,’ he inserted, moving a step towards the bed, shielding Tilly’s body from view. ‘I understand your wish for decorum in your household and I regret the display, but I do believe Tilly’s mistress is away and she is not needed, and we were just leaving.’

      ‘Get. Away. From. Her.’ Wilson’s fists clenched and his eyes had a cold stare.

      The woman pushed herself up and she stared at the architect. ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ she asked.

      Andrew looked to the bed. A companion should not speak so to the master of the house. ‘Tilly?’

      Andrew dodged the fist. Heard the woman scream ‘No’ behind him, and then next thing he knew, she’d thrown herself between them.

      Just as deftly Andrew moved her aside. He stood ready to flatten the other man.

      ‘Will,’ she snapped out from behind Andrew. ‘You shouldn’t be in Tilly’s room.’

      ‘My house!’ Wilson growled. ‘Lord Andrew, I do not know how you convinced my sister to dress in such attire to satisfy some strange craving you might have. I would never have thought you leaned that direction.’

      Hell, Andrew thought as another realisation erupted inside him. He had erred. Just like his father. But he was not wed and he would not disgrace Tilly. ‘This woman and I,’ Andrew said, ‘are extremely fond of each other and are considering marriage.’

      ‘As if I’d let you marry her—’ Wilson exploded.

      ‘She’s old enough to decide for herself,’ Andrew said, his fists ready. ‘She’s on the shelf.’

      ‘She’s a widow,’ Wilson said.

      Andrew lowered his hands and looked at her. Wilson had called her his sister. A widow. He’d heard of her. Thoughts pounded in his ears. This woman was not Tilly. ‘Beatrice the—?’

      ‘I would not continue that sentence,’ the woman on the bed told him, standing and smoothing down her skirt. Her mouth had a feral twist. ‘Else you will see what a beast I can truly be.’

      * * *

      The only sound since Andrew and Wilson entered the library had been the pouring and sloshing of liquid. The room couldn’t have been much wider than the length of two carriages, yet Andrew wagered his brother’s ducal town house lacked the same refinement. The filigree pattern of the gold had been subtly recreated in the weave of the curtains. Even the door panels had matching designs. Only the painting by the sconces jarred the room’s decor—an odd scene of a woodland frenzy with a growling bear, a badger-type animal and a dragon poised for combat.

      The cabinet set back into the wall where the decanters rested wasn’t only to store things, but to display beautiful glass. Andrew stood at one edge of it, the architect at the other.

      Andrew waited for Beatrice to join them. Wilson had insisted she change from what he’d referred to as her costume.

      Beatrice the Beast. He’d nearly pounced on Beatrice the Beast. Not surprising, really. He’d let down his guard.

      ‘A marriage will be forthcoming,’ Andrew said. ‘I will not tarnish a gentlewoman’s reputation. It is unforgivable.’

      ‘I suppose she could do worse.’ Wilson broke the silence. ‘She has, in fact. Riverton. Thought an earl would do better by her than he did. Sad he died so. First, he waited too long after the wedding. When he did fall ill, he didn’t suffer enough. The bumble berry didn’t even appreciate good design when he saw it. If not for the generous marriage settlement on Beatrice and the provisions in his will... Still, I didn’t see how much of a scoundrel he’d become or I’d never have let him near Beatrice. Would have cracked him like a chestnut.’ He thumped his glass on to the wood and stared at Andrew. Wilson’s eyes reflected the sheen of brandy.

      Andrew quirked his lips. ‘I certainly hope for Beatrice’s sake you could tackle something larger than a chestnut.’

      ‘I’m sure I could.’

      Andrew moved, reaching for the decanter to pour more brandy into Wilson’s glass. He let his brandied breath reach the architect’s face. ‘If you need any help defending your sister, let me know. I will certainly be able to crack any chestnuts.’

      Wilson’s brows acknowledged the statement. ‘Only reason I agreed to draw plans for you,’ Wilson said, ‘was because you appreciate a good design.’ His brows snapped together. ‘Look how you’ve repaid me. I created a masterpiece for you and you—’

      ‘I made an error, but I will correct it. I thought she was—someone else.’ He paused. ‘She is a fascinating woman.’ Andrew put the glass to his lips, let the brandy rest in his mouth, and then swallowed. ‘Even with the cap, she does burst into a person’s notice.’

      ‘You’re the first man I know of she’s shown any interest in since Riverton courted her, wed her and finally did the one decent thing of his life and died. Beatrice has such a sense of honour that she made me swear not to kill him.’ He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘My trusting sister. If I were