Twelve Nights as His Mistress by Elisa Braden

Author:Elisa Braden
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Elisa Braden
Published: 2016-12-01T18:00:00+00:00

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CHAPTER SEVEN

“If you are opposed to such ‘manipulations,’ I recommend giving me what I want. A mother’s desire to intervene is directly proportionate to the incompetence of one’s offspring.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, regarding the source of false and pernicious rumors about a certain widow.

He found her in the stables, of all places, rearranging the harnesses on their pegs according to size. Stopping just inside the entrance, he waited and watched. She bent to gather two buckets, one of which had toppled onto its side and rolled several feet away. It was returned neatly to a spot precisely in the center of a row of hanging bridles. On either side, she placed a smaller bucket.

She had explained it once, how putting everything in its proper place calmed and soothed her mind. Even her peculiar habit of unintentional rhyming, she had confessed, was a manifestation of her need for symmetry.

The oddity made him smile every time.

He let his eyes explore. Devour. Wisps of blonde hair floated away from their confines, brushing her cheeks and flirting with light from the stable window. The tip of her nose was red, her breath white, her cloak brown. She moved gracefully, efficiently, pausing here and there to examine her work.

“Is it color or length?” he asked, moving slowly, deliberately deeper into the dim interior.

Her back stiffened, her fingers fluttering at her sides. She wore no gloves. “Length,” she answered without turning. She tugged one bridle a fraction of an inch before finally facing him. “What are you doing here, Charlie?”

She was the only one who had ever called him Charlie. To his mother, he was Charles or “boy.” To his friends, he was Wallingham. But during their first kiss, Julia had panted and melted and turned him inside out before groaning, “Oh, Charlie. Again, my darling.” Perhaps it had been the best rhyme she could muster in the moment, or perhaps she liked the sound of it, but she had spoken his name the same way ever since. He craved hearing it upon her lips with a consuming need.

Now, he moved toward her, answering, “You know.”

Those sherry eyes sheened and gleamed unexpectedly before squeezing closed.

His heart twisted. He rushed forward, wrapping her in his arms.

She whimpered, her forehead dropping against his shoulder. “I cannot bear this.” Her desperate whisper knifed his gut.

Clutching her tighter, he cradled her precious head against him and laid his lips beside her ear. “I’ll do anything to stop you hurting, Julia. Anything.”

“You must let me go,” she sobbed.

“Except that.”

She gave a wet chuckle and wrapped her arms around his waist, fisting the wool at his back. “Driving me mad,” she growled, the feminine ferocity causing him to grin like a fool. “You are driving me mad.”

He nuzzled and nibbled her neck, loving the feel of her arms, the rosy scent of her skin. “Only because you deny us both what we need.”

She shoved away from him, backing up with one arm extended like a shield. Wet streaks gleamed upon her face.

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