struggling and failing to contain a yawn. At her astounded look—she couldn’t recall Geoff ever staying in of an evening—he gave her a weary smile. “I’m bloody knackered. I burned the midnight oil this past week.”
“I’ll call up a bath and a meal for you,” Benna said.
“Call up enough food for both of us.”
Benna turned around and stared.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” she lied.
Geoffrey condescending to eat with his scrawny servant? Unheard of!
Well, well, he was exhausted if he was going to sit across a table from her.
While circumstances sometimes forced them to share their board, never had Geoff actually invited Benna to sit down at a table with him.
There was a time, even as little as nine or ten months ago, when Benna would have been overjoyed by his offer.
Now she was only suspicious of his motives.
Chapter Twelve
Cornwall
1817
Present Day
Jago had the oddest feeling that he was hovering outside his body, watching himself.
He was kissing his stable master.
Actually, he was frozen with shock and his stable master was doing a bloody good job of kissing him, even without his participation.
Her tongue took advantage of his gaping mouth and slick heat teased between his lips, exploring his teeth, gums, and even the roof of his mouth.
Her hands slid around his neck, the skin on her fingers work-roughened and calloused, but her lips so very, very soft and warm.
His own hands twitched to touch her, to hold her.
Jago, this is madness. Madness.
It was the voice of reason, usually his guiding light—especially in sexual matters. Tonight it was as faint as the rain gently pattering against the parlor window.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, as he would later feel—it was just loud enough.
Jago steeled himself to pull away from her—the activity as arduous as stopping a runaway carriage—but then she made a noise, a barely perceptible, wholly feminine, whimper of pleasure, and gently bit his lower lip.
The groan that tore out of his chest at her erotic gesture startled a jolt out of her, which was enough to bring him back to his senses.
Jago jerked away and pushed to his feet, staggering back a step before staring down at her.
Her pale turquoise eyes were dark, almost navy, and her parted lips looked far fuller than usual.
Jago saw the exact moment that she came back to herself and realized what she’d done. Her tanned cheeks turned the dull, dark red of a brick. She raised her hands to her hot face, the gesture oddly girlish.
“Oh, no. I’m so—”
Jago shook his head. “Don’t.” She recoiled at the sharp word and Jago grimaced. “I only meant you needn’t bother with an apology—it hardly matters.”
Well done, Jago. Do you think you could bungle the moment any more thoroughly?
He tried again. “I think it might be better if we spoke about this issue later—when we both have cooler heads. After we return to Lenshurst.”
“You mean you don’t wish me to leave?”
“No, no, that’s not, er, necessary.” He shoved a hand through his hair and gave it a good tug, hoping the pain would focus his scattered wits.
“Thank you, sir.”
She stood and Jago realized, for the first time, that he barely needed to look down an inch to meet her eyes.
“I’ve got your breeches and coat in my room, sir. Should I bring them to your room once I’ve cared for them?”
Visions of her handling his clothing—putting garments on his body—or, God help him, taking clothing off his body—assaulted him like a hail of erotic arrows.
His cock, which had just begun to soften, sprang back to life.
“Er, no.” He cleared his throat, trying to get the fist-sized obstruction out of it. “I think we should both just go to bed.”
Her brows rose.
“In our respective rooms.” Christ.
Jago turned away before he said anything else stupid. “Have a servant run the clothing down to my room in the morning,” he said over his shoulder, heading for the brandy. “I shall want the coach ready to leave at noon.”
“Very good, my lord. Good night, sir.”
Jago grunted something suitable and she left without making a sound.
He expelled a gusty lungful of air and sank into the chair she’d just vacated. “Bloody hell,” he murmured. “Bloody hell.”
***
Benna blamed Lord Trebolton’s intoxicating scent for making her behave so boldly.
Or perhaps living with me for so long has just turned you into a randy tart.
That, too, was a possibility.
The earl smelled of shaving soap and a hint of brandy mingled with the heat of his body and the wool of his coat and it had been … irresistible.
Yes, that was the word: