Thea was too old for marriage, and Daisy was a forbidden topic in the Hart household. So Dexter’s hopes were pinned on Lilah to marry a title.
Sir Thomas might only be a baronet, but he was the only unmarried, titled man to have shown any inclination toward wanting Dexter as a brother-in-law.
But Lilah found herself wanting another.
She ascended the steps to the townhouse, and the door swung inward to reveal a liveried footman.
“The master awaits you in the drawing room.”
He led her inside into a large room overlooking the street. Fraser stood by the window, his back to her. The light of the setting sun caught in his hair, giving it a warm glow.
“Miss Hart, Your Grace,” the footman said.
“Very good, Stevenson. Now leave us.”
He turned, and her heart fluttered.
A soft smile curved on his mouth as if he understood her body’s desires.
“Miss Hart.”
His voice, a low growl, resonated through her, and she moved toward him.
“Your Grace.”
“I think we can dispense with the formalities, lass.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”
Large fingers curled around her wrist, and he pulled her close.
“I believe you have something to yield to me today,” he whispered.
“Do I?” Her voice came out in a squeak.
“Aye, lass,” he said, “something which you have entrusted to my eyes only. Something intimate.”
His tongue curled over the final word as if savoring the taste of it, and she blushed at the memory of intimacies they’d already shared.
His smile broadened, and he shook his head.
“I mustn’t tease you,” he said, “though I find myself enjoying the effect.”
“Must you be so cruel to one who’s in your power?”
“You have equal power over me, lass. You only need learn how to wield it, and I would be in thrall to you, for all eternity.”
“Now you’re talking nonsense,” she said.
He released her hand, and her skin tightened at the sense of loss.
“You do me an injustice, Miss Hart.”
“Perhaps we should engage in the real business of the afternoon,” she said.
She pulled a sheaf of papers from her reticule and handed them to him. He smiled and placed them on a table.
“Aren’t you going to look at them?” she asked.
“Let me get you a drink first.”
He crossed the floor to a table laden with decanters. He reached for one, poured a small amount of amber liquid into a beveled glass, then handed it to her.
“Shouldn’t you ask me what I want?” she asked.
“Trust me,” he said. “Let me give ye what ye need. Savor the aroma.”
She lifted the glass to her nose and breathed in the sharp spices, which mellowed and sweetened as she filled her lungs.
“It smells like heaven,” she whispered.
“That’s because it’s forbidden,” he said. “It was distilled forty years ago. My grandfather had whisky in his blood. Not only did he turn a blind eye to the moonshine on his estate, he partook of it himself. He set some aside to mature for future generations, knowing that he wouldn’t live to enjoy it. This is the only bottle I have left. I keep it with me as a reminder that sometimes a man must be patient. The years have given it character. A soul.”
“You speak as if it’s a living thing.”
“It is, to me,” he said. “It’s in my veins and in my heart, and is irreplaceable.”
“Then it should be preserved.”
“Hidden away in the dark? What would be the point of that, lass? It’s meant to be relished by those rare souls capable of appreciating it.”
She looked at the glass in her hand. It was as if he’d entrusted her with a piece of his soul. Her fingers trembled, and a large, warm hand closed over hers and steadied her.
“Be still, lass,” he whispered.
Her senses were assaulted by warmth and spices—the aroma of whisky combined with the woody, musky scent of man. She closed her eyes, and her mind floated in the delicious darkness.
“Yield to me,” he whispered. “Feel it. Feel all of it.” His thumb teased her fingers, guiding them across the glass. With her fingertips, she explored the edges of the pattern etched into it. Every ridge, every angle, sliding over the smooth glass as if it were alive. Gently, but firmly, he nudged the rim against her mouth, coaxing her lips open.
“That’s it, lass. Part them for me.”
Heat bloomed in her cheeks. He tipped the glass up, and she flicked her tongue out. The warm, smoky liquid slid into her mouth, and flavor burst on her tongue.
“Good girl.”
Her body tightened at his gentle praise.
“How do I taste?” he whispered.
Soft fingertips caressed her neck, and she swallowed. Liquid fire coated her throat, warming her blood, and igniting the fire in her center. He lowered the glass, and she flicked her tongue out again, chasing the delicious sensation.
“Ah, lass, are ye gaining an appetite for my nectar?”
She gave a squeak of embarrassment as her body strained with need.
“Ye only need say the word, lass, and you could savor the taste each day.”
His words thickened the fog of lust, which swirled in her mind.
“W-would you offer me something so precious?” she whispered.
He plucked the glass from her fingers, then dipped his head and pressed his forehead against hers. His eyes glowed at her, as if stars lived deep inside his soul, and she inhaled the heady, intoxicating scent of whisky on his breath—together with the softer aroma of heather and Highland air.
“Aye, lass, I would.”
His expression bore the desire she had come to recognize. But something else shimmered in his eyes. A burning need.
And love.
“Have I earned my final lesson?” she asked.
Raw hunger pulsed in his eyes. “Are ye certain, lass?”
“Yes.”
“Do you realize that with the final lesson comes the point of no return?”
“I do,” she said. “I can think of no better teacher to…” she hesitated, “…to give myself to.”
“Then, I shall treasure your gift, lass, and prove myself worthy of your trust. Come. My chamber awaits.”
*
As Fraser opened the door, small, delicate fingers tightened their grip on him, and the ache in his groin intensified.
Ye gods, she was the most desirable woman he’d ever known! Not just for her beauty, which shone from within, but her feisty nature, tempered by her caring heart.
The interior of his chamber reflected his tastes, the walls adorned with tapestries and things from home. The huge, canopied bed was covered in a thick woolen blanket bearing the colors of his family’s plaid.
He released her hand and motioned toward the bed. Understanding, she sat, reaching out to caress the plaid covering.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he said. “I’ve brought my home to London. I’ll have the furnishings taken to Clayton House when the work is completed. Even a temporary home must be furnished in comfort, aye?”
Disappointment flickered in her eyes. “Temporary? You intend to leave London?”