There was a time when she’d dreamed of him kissing her, when she’d have practically paid him to do it (not that he’d need or take the money). She never imagined that he would even want to kiss her, let alone do it.
And it had been good, oh so very good to have that hard, sexy mouth with its mysterious scar on hers. He tasted like… like… well, he tasted like all man and like sex, touching her tongue to his, feeling his tongue in her mouth, the only thought on her mind was having his mouth on her body, everywhere on her body. He barely had to try before he broke through her struggle and she was clinging to him and kissing him back like a wanton.
His body was so warm and hard and…
She shook her head to clear it. She would not, could not think of Douglas. She had to get a hold of herself. She could not live the next more than a decade panting after the Lord of the Manor. It was humiliating and she wouldn’t allow it to happen, not ever again.
The scratching was fraying her nerves and when she could take it no more, she threw the covers back and stalked to Douglas’s study to get a whisky to soothe her tension and hopefully put herself to sleep. She’d get drunk if she had to, sleep on the sofa in the study to avoid the infernal, constant scratching. She threw her lilac, cashmere robe on over her pyjamas and headed out of her room.
The draperies were open in the study and moonlight lit the room. The moon was so huge and bright, she didn’t bother with the lights, walked directly to the drinks cabinet and picked up the decanter she’d seen Douglas using. She was reaching for a glass when she heard a deep, baritone voice.
“Can’t sleep?”
She jumped, whirled and almost dropped the decanter.
“Douglas!” Julia cried in surprise.
He was sitting in the armchair that faced away from the door, towards the window. He was lounging with feet up on the table in front of him like he had no cares in the world. As if he didn’t have three children he was supposed to be looking after. As if he didn’t have a harridan of a mother who was making everyone’s life at Sommersgate a living hell and had been for years. As if none of this touched him.
Something about this made her both angry and on edge.
She could see the glint of a glass in his hand.
“Julia,” he replied calmly in greeting.
“You’re home,” she noted unnecessarily, feeling foolish.
She should be shouting at him because he’d abandoned her to the fate worse than death that was Monique. But something made her stop.
Something made her nervous.
He didn’t reply, just looked up at her, his face partially in shadow, partially lit by the moonlight and the effect was decidedly ominous.
“What are you doing, sitting in the dark?” she asked.
“Thinking,” he answered shortly.
She stood there mutely, holding the decanter and waiting for him to say more.
He didn’t.
She twisted, put the decanter down and turned back. In that time, he had silently risen from his chair and her faint feeling of dread intensified as ominous turned menacing.
What was he up to now?
She wanted to escape but curiosity got the better of her.
And curiosity killed the cat, Patricia always used to say.
“Thinking about what?” she asked.
He walked forward a couple of steps, stopped a foot away and leaned into her.
She inhaled sharply with alarm but he only reached around her, grabbed the decanter she had just set down and refreshed his drink.
He leaned back in to replace it and she said belatedly, “Let me get out of your way.”
“Thinking,” his deep voice rumbled, rooting her to the spot as he paused to take a sip from his glass, “about a woman who would give up everything to come and look after three children. Children who lived thousands of miles away from her and who, upon reflection, she barely knew. Why would someone do that?”