Captain Durant's Countess - By Maggie Robinson Page 0,9
within him. Her mouth was soft and yielding, allowing his very thorough exploration.
Reyn held her closer, his fingers busy with the line of fabric-covered buttons at her back, her bountiful soft breasts snug against his shirt. He brushed up past boned linen to the scoop of warm skin above her chemise, hoping the lush kiss might distract her into wantonness.
The touch of his fingers to her flesh alerted her to his intention, causing her tongue to stop mid-tangle. Reyn opened his eyes to see hers, dark as coffee. They blinked, and he felt her pull away.
He was still mostly a gentleman, so he released her, stepping back and banging his bad knee against the chair.
“W-what are you doing, Captain Durant?” She wiped the wet from her swollen lips.
He shrugged. “I’m sorry for that, too, if you didn’t like it.”
She said nothing.
He was not so full of himself to believe his kisses could leave someone speechless, but it had been a damned good kiss once the woman relaxed into it. He wondered if she still kissed her husband. . . or anyone else. Somehow he doubted it.
“Did it . . . does it mean you’ve changed your mind about coming to Kelby Hall?”
He should tell her no. What kind of man would he be to father a child and then walk away? The whole idea was insupportable. Reyn had no particular yearning for marriage and fatherhood, but that didn’t mean he was completely without honor, no matter what Lady Kelby said. What was the lesser of two evils—taking unearned money or abandoning a child? He opened his mouth and then shut it.
Lady Kelby stood proud, her chin raised despite the wobble of her bonnet. She would lose it soon, and good riddance. But her eyes betrayed her. They were damp again with desperation. Whether she was desperate for him to say yes or no, he wasn’t quite sure.
Reyn was certain she had not been in favor of her husband’s scheme, no matter how devilish David Kelby was. Saving books and silly statues was not enough for her to commit adultery with a complete stranger. Lady Kelby did not seem to be the sort to break any of the commandments.
“Let me do up your buttons.”
“You have not answered me.” She turned her back in acquiescence.
“I haven’t.” Reyn was never much of a thinker, but he felt obligated to make some sense of his scattered thoughts. He concentrated on each gray button, covering up inches of snow-white skin and linen. Would he want to release her from the confines of an equally ugly dress in the future? He just didn’t know. He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently.
“Give me a day to think this over again. Where are you staying?”
“Mivart’s Hotel on Brook Street.”
“I assume your husband is not with you.”
She shook her head and the hideous hat collapsed to her shoulder. “He does not know I’m here.”
“Here in London? Or here?”
Lady Kelby struggled to untie the double knot on her gray organdy ribbon. Her hands still shook, and Reyn felt it necessary to assist her. He was good with his hands, liked to keep them busy, even if it meant he played lady’s maid.
She stood solemnly still as he made quick work of the difficulty and drew the hat away. “He knows I am in London. I told him I had some shopping to do.”
Good. She needed new clothes. Lady Kelby looked like she was in mourning already.
“So he doesn’t know you came to find me?”
“He did not send me. I’m not sure he would approve.”
“I should say not. It’s very shocking that you are here,” Reyn replied. “Have you a chaperone lurking somewhere downstairs?”
“I sent my maid back to the hotel once I found out where you were. Bad enough one of us had to enter this place,” Maris said tartly, taking back her hat from him and pinning it back on with a wickedly sharp hatpin.
Reyn picked up his yellow silk waistcoat. He was in need of a shopping trip himself. Now that he was no longer constrained by a uniform, his taste in civilian clothing had yet to be discovered. He feared the waistcoat was undoubtedly a mistake. “You were foolish to come, and I don’t believe you are usually a foolish woman.”
“I wrote,” she reminded him. “That seemed to do no good.”
He was not about to explain the trouble he had reading her handwriting. It was probably perfectly formed, but it had given him