Captain Durant's Countess - By Maggie Robinson Page 0,44

one in particular.”

“My father was the earl’s secretary. My mother was a vicar’s daughter. I’m no one in particular either.” She took a deep breath. “I did not come here to discuss genealogy, Captain Durant. I didn’t come here to discuss anything.”

He took another swallow of wine. “Shall we take a vow of silence then?”

“I think that’s an excellent idea.” It would be far less embarrassing than making idle conversation through this thing.

“Very well. But you will tell me if you do not like something, won’t you? Don’t just lie there and endure.”

Maris shrugged. That was precisely her plan.

She followed him across the carpet to his bedroom door. The fire was roaring in there as well, the bedcovers turned down, though just a single candle burned. Maris blew it out without thinking. She much preferred the gray gloom of this room to the sitting room, though she was not anxious to unbelt her robe yet.

Reynold Durant did that for her. He slid the garment from her shoulders, his thumbs stroking her arms before he tossed it on a chair.

“Get into bed, my dear. I’ll get ready in the dressing room.”

Maris told herself she was not disappointed that he would not strip before her. It was too dark to see clearly anyhow, and that was the point, wasn’t it? The dark was welcome.

Necessary.

She climbed into the captain’s bed. A waft of bluing and lavender rose up, as it would from all the sheets at Kelby Hall. She pulled the coverlet up to her chin and willed herself to stop shaking. A warming pan had recently been run over the mattress. The captain’s doing? She knew he was trying to make her feel comfortable, hopeless a cause as that was.

Maris shut her eyes and began to count, not out of impatience, but as something to do to divert her overactive mind. The brass clock over the mantle struck one, causing her to jump a foot. She started over, reaching two hundred thirty-six before she heard the click of the latch on the dressing room door.

The mattress was not as firm as it could be, sagging at the captain’s weight. As a good hostess, she should have tested the bed out herself. She’d never envisioned lying in it, just on the tufted chaise in the attic. But here she was.

Captain Durant was here too, and he was naked. No dressing gown for him. His hair was a bit rumpled and he smelled of tooth powder and sandalwood. Had she brushed her own teeth? She couldn’t remember. He lifted the blanket from her, tugging a bit before she released her grip on it.

“Maris.”

She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Then she remembered she wasn’t going to say anything.

His kiss made speech a moot point. Again, he was gentle. Tender. His moves were not abrupt or startling. He touched her with the barest contact and kept his body away from hers.

He was close enough to touch, though she wouldn’t. Maris felt the heat of him, was aware of every lazy lick of his fingers and tongue. He seemed to be spelling something on her lawn-covered shoulder, but she couldn’t make out the letters. She concentrated on the faint whorls as if they were a sort of code.

She expected the stroking and kissing to stop soon enough. The captain was in no apparent hurry for the main event, however. The inventory. The reckoning of her body. She hoped he permitted her to keep her night rail on. She was not ready to be inspected, dim firelight or not.

The kissing really was very nice. Nearly relaxing. Maris tried to give in to it, to accept its claim on her, but she was thinking too hard to do so.

What was he thinking about? Could a man rise to any occasion?

Maris had been taught their appetites were insatiable. Duchess or dairy maid, it made no difference. Their male equipment knew no impediment, no class distinction. All cats were gray in the dark. She had discovered Captain Durant in the midst of perversion in a heightened state of excitement. Would this gray darkness be enough to rouse him?

Good heavens. Why was she worrying about him? He was being well compensated for the night and all the other days that would follow.

His fingers stopped their spiraling. Belatedly, Maris realized his mouth was still on hers, but his tongue had stopped dancing as well.

He drew back. “I can practically hear the gears grinding in your head. This won’t work if you