“Mr. Arundel,” Belle said, her voice gentle now. “Release me. You’re not well.”
“Clara.” His voice was anguished, and his grip unrelenting. His eyes opened slowly, and though they were unfocused, they settled on her. She waited for him to realize she was not this Clara and release her, but instead his gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth. He lingered there, lingered so long her mouth went dry and she felt the need to wet her lips. At this gesture, he gave a low chuckle that sent a shiver up her back. It was not a shiver of fear but of desire. Belle had never had a beaux, but she had felt the stirrings of longing before. Years ago a young man had begun to come into the shop every week. He had been attending Cambridge but in London for the summer. She’d waited all week for him to come in and buy his tea. Sometimes she didn’t even wait on him, leaving Maggie to do it. He always smiled at Maggie appreciatively, and Belle had pretended, when she was alone, he had looked at her that way.
The shiver she’d felt now, with Arundel, was that same feeling she had when she’d see the young gentleman at the door of the shop. But this time it was not an unattainable desire. This time a fevered man—but still a man—lay in her bed and held her close. She wanted him, and he wanted her too. It was the middle of the night and, she realized now, as his gaze dropped to her neck, that she wore only her shift. If her father should find them together...
Belle watched as Arundel’s eyes traveled lower and his lips parted with pleasure. She looked down, following his gaze, and gasped when she saw the neck of her shift was loose enough to give him a view of her breasts. Not that she thought he could see much in the dim light, but clearly he saw something as evidenced by the low timbre of his voice when he spoke. “Come here,” he said.
Heat flooded Belle at the low note of yearning in his tone. Warmth spread from her cheeks down to her neck, her breasts, and then seemed to coil like a lazy serpent in her belly.
“Mr. Arundel,” Belle said, making a last attempt to rouse him from whatever dream his fevered mind had conjured. “You must release me.” Her voice was low and husky, and she did not even recognize it as hers. He didn’t release her, and she hardly blamed him. She didn’t sound at all like a woman who wanted to be set free.
Then to her surprise, he did release one wrist. Before she could pull back, though, he reached for her waist, his hot hand all but searing her through the thin fabric of her shift. With a gentle pressure, he pulled her closer, so close she could smell the scent of tea on his breath.
“Belle,” he murmured. His use of her name shocked her enough, but then his hand slid from her waist up her ribs to cup her small breast through the thin linen of the shift. She gasped, and he took that opportunity to catch her lower lip between his teeth.
The bite was gentle, not even a bite at all, just a tug to keep her mouth near his. It worked. Belle froze, and then she did something she never thought she would do. When Arundel released her lip and opened the hand on her breast, clearly giving her the option to refuse him, Belle leaned closer and pressed her lips to his. She didn’t know why she did it. Perhaps because her unsated desire finally got the best of her. Perhaps because though Arundel was fevered and clearly not in his right mind, he was a handsome man who made her head spin. Perhaps because she was a spinster and didn’t want to cross into becoming a thornback—the term society liked to use to refer to women approaching thirty—without kissing at least one man who truly desired her.
She hadn’t considered he would kiss her back. She pressed her lips to his, unsure what to do next, and then shocked when his mouth moved beneath hers. He returned her slight pressure and gave it back to her, moving his lips to brush them along hers. At the same time, his hand returned to her breast, his thumb finding her nipple, hard now and straining, and caressed it with that same lazy stroke.
Belle felt as though she might combust from the heat engulfing her now. Every part of her was too hot. No wonder people disrobed when they went to bed together. She was unbearably warm and undeniably aware of the tingling between her legs. She wanted to press her hand there, to ease that tension.
A crack of thunder some miles away finally broke through the stupor that had come over her. Lightning flashed, again distant, but close enough that she could see Arundel’s face. His eyes were bright with fever, and not at all focused. He probably wouldn’t even remember this in the morning. Whereas she—she would remember it the rest of her life. But it was probably best if this kiss was all there was to remember.
Belle pulled back, forcing her body away from his touch and his heat. Everything in her resisted. She wanted to move closer, to crawl into the bed beside him and press bare flesh against him. But she was supposed to be nursing him. She was supposed to be caring for him, and instead she was taking advantage—or at least allowing him to take liberties.
“Wait,” he said, but this time she was firm and managed to extricate her wrist from his grasp.
“Rest now, Mr. Arundel,” she said as she straightened and pulled her shift higher to preserve her modesty. “Close your eyes.”
He obeyed, and a moment later was breathing deeply. Asleep, she thought as she dipped the cloth in cold water and laid it on his fever brow again. In the morning, he’d think all that happened a dream—if he remembered at all. It seemed somehow fitting that her first kiss should be from a man at death’s door who wouldn’t even remember it. Or if he did, he’d think he’d been dreaming about another woman. Clara—whoever she was—had meant something to Arundel.
Except...
Had she imagined it or had Arundel said her name at one point? Hadn’t he said Belle before he cupped her breast and nipped her lip? So had he known he was touching her or had he just been muttering and she thought he’d said her name? Maybe she’d wanted to hear her name.
No, she had certainly heard it. But she wanted his use of her name to mean something, and that was where she must be careful. It meant nothing. Their kiss meant nothing. He was injured and delirious and she shouldn’t have allowed it to happen.
Except she wasn’t sorry at all. She’d never forget their encounter.
And wasn’t that pathetic?
Still, a pockmarked shopgirl must have something to keep her warm at night.
Thinking of warmth, she stoked the fire in the hearth in an attempt to keep it from going out then returned to the parlor, which had a similarly banked fire. She wished she or her father had thought to bring in more wood this morning. It might be dry enough by now to burn. As it was, she must shiver on the couch in only her shift and threadbare wrap.
She heard her father’s quiet snores coming from his dark room and was glad someone was resting. She should be sleeping herself. She was exhausted but had pushed herself so long and so hard that her mind wouldn’t quiet. Who was this Lady Keating she had sent a missive to? Was she a Royal Saboteur? How would she lend Arundel assistance? Clearly, from what Arundel had had her write in the letter, he wasn’t actually acquainted with the lady and only knew her by reputation.
It fascinated Belle that women could be agents for the Crown. She didn’t know why she hadn’t ever thought such a thing possible before. The idea was ingenious. No one would ever suspect a woman, most especially not a man. Belle had learned long ago when dealing with her men customers to allow them to think her suggestions or recommendations came from her father. It was easier if her male patrons believed her father sought out exotic teas and bought them from the exporters at St. Katharine Docks.