He did not move, except to concentrate on untwisting the bills. He ran his eyes over the words and numbers so he would not think about shiny ribbons and satiny skin.
“I shall retire, my lord,” she said. “I am terribly tired.”
“Too tired to tell me how much of my money you spent today?”
She tossed her head. “I’m sure I have no idea. The best countesses never count money.”
“But the best earls always do.”
He waved the sheaf of bills meaningfully, earning a thrilling glare.
“How utterly detestable to ask a question to which one already knows the answer.” Her chin came up. “I shan’t stand for it. Because you did that, I refuse to reply. No, do not argue. You have brought this upon yourself.”
She whirled about and marched for the stairs. Her exaggerated hauteur magnified the sway in her hips. Rafe sauntered after her, watching the fine cotton of her gown swirl around her legs and ankles. Her fabulously, famously fascinating ankles.
“Five dozen silver buttons,” Rafe said to her back, as she started up the stairs, the movement of her gown around her rear even more fascinating than those ankles. “Why would you need sixty buttons?”
“It is cheaper to buy them in bulk, as any good merchant’s daughter knows,” she retorted. “One would think he would be grateful, but no, I get nothing but complaints.”
Rafe fought a smile as he climbed the stairs after her. “One jeweled music box,” he read.
“All the best countesses have jeweled music boxes.”
“And do all the best countesses take snuff? You bought a hand-painted enamel snuffbox inlaid with pearls.”
She sniffed. “That was a gift for you, but you’ve upset me so thoroughly, I shan’t give it to you now.”
Maintaining her haughty air, she started up the next flight of stairs to the bedrooms. Rafe followed, enjoying himself far too much to stop.
“One pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses,” Rafe read out.
“What else would a countess take to the theatre? Oh!” She whirled about so abruptly that Rafe stopped only a few steps down, looking up into her bright blue eyes. “Let’s go to the theatre!”
She looked so earnest and excited that Rafe almost agreed. But of course they couldn’t go to the theatre. They’d both taken enough risks today. Had she forgotten? He could not tell if she genuinely forgot things, or if it was a ploy to distract him.
“No,” he said.
With a sigh, she resumed walking. “I suppose you don’t like the theatre.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, vexingly stung at her disappointment and annoyed that he cared enough to defend himself. “But being around you is theatre enough.”
In the doorway to her dressing room, she turned back. “You like the theatre?”
“A dozen lace handkerchiefs.”
“You cannot announce something astounding like that and not elaborate. It’s insufferable. Do you really like the theatre?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Theatre is so frivolous and you…” She frowned, studying his face. “You never really smile.”
“I smile.” He realized his brows were drawn together so deeply he could see them. He smoothed them out. “Very well,” he said, resuming the game. “Let’s go to the theatre. Tonight.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “Well, we can’t go tonight.” She spun and traipsed into her sitting room, with its small heap of parcels by one wall. Rafe followed her. Not quite proper, given they weren’t actually married, but to hell with it. No one would know. For now, they were sheltered by the fiction of their marriage.
“Why not go to the theatre?” he asked.
“Because I don’t have any jewels. London would be horrified to see a countess with no jewels. ‘By George,’ they would say, ‘it must be true he’s a devil, because only a devil would not buy his wife jewels.’ No,” she added firmly, shaking her head. “I simply cannot have them speaking of you like that.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“I am an excellent wife.”
“You are not. You’re not even a good wife. As a wife, you are of little use to me at all.”
Thea’s eyes flickered down to his chest and a faint blush colored her cheeks. He guessed she had understood his meaning. It was wrong to tease her in this way, but he could not bring himself to stop. Not yet. In a moment, he would stop.
She looked back up, nibbling at her lip. She took a step backward. Rafe took a step forward. She brushed her knuckles over her jaw, glanced down at his chest, and away.
Again he stepped forward. Again she stepped back.
“Do you know why men marry women?” he asked.
“Because they’re not allowed to marry their horses?”
Her gaze flickered to his lips, and he realized he was half smiling. “Because among women’s many delightful attributes, they have—”
“The ability to embroider buttons,” she finished, too loudly.
“That too,” he agreed.
Another step forward, another step back, and her shoulders were against the wall. Her gaze roamed over his face, then dropped to his mouth, then lower to his chest. Her skirts brushed against his legs: She was twisting her fingers in them. Her cheeks were a little pink.
“Am I frightening you, Countess?”
“No,” she squeaked. “Though you act like you are hunting me.”
“Ah, but man is a hunter.”
She snorted derisively. “If man is a hunter, why does he sit around expecting other people to serve him? ‘By George,’ he says, ‘I could hunt the cow myself, but instead I’ll send the wife for roast beef.’”
Rafe leaned one forearm on the wall by her head, catching her sweet strawberry scent. He kept his other hand, with its clutch of bills, behind his back, so he would not test the softness of her skin, or catch a curl of her hair. She tilted back her head and made no attempt to flee.
“I promise never to send you for roast beef. But surely I can expect a kiss. What use is a wife whom I don’t take to bed?”
“It might be nice to wait until we know each other better.”
“I don’t need to know you better to locate your pertinent parts.”
Ah, poorly done, Rafe. Now he was imagining her pertinent parts. Imagining all of her. How animated she would be, how curious, enthusiastic, fun. Her expressive face… So help him but he would love to pleasure her just to watch her face.
But he must not. He had promised she would be safe, and she would be. This was a whole new game, and one not even he was ready to play.
So he closed his eyes and contented himself with breathing her in, her scent summoning images of long, lazy summer afternoons. He was aware of every inch of her: her breasts above the ribbon, the curve of her waist below. Aware of her hips, her thighs, her feet.
Aware of her breathing. Her breath hitching. Her skirts rustling.
She was escaping. He kept his eyes closed. He must let her go.
Then soft, warm lips pressed against his.
Just pressed. Unmoving, but unmistakable. A light promise of a kiss.
Every part of Rafe was as still as stone, but for his suddenly pounding heart and the hunger stirring in his loins and the sweet sensations dancing through his gut. He dared not move, for fear of frightening her away, and he needed time, a millennium, to savor the sensation of her lips on his. Time stretched and Rafe became as big as the selva, yet as tiny as this moment: this tiny, sacred moment of two pairs of lips pressed together.