papers and stalking around his desk without thought. “I will be damned if I allow you to conduct any of the items on your list with Huntingdon or Quenington, or anyone else for that matter.”
His feisty Jo returned.
Her eyes glinted. “If you allow me?”
Wrong choice of words, old boy.
He grimaced. “You know what I mean to say, Josie.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do not attempt to distract me by using yet another sobriquet for me, Mr. Decker.”
He reached her and then clamped his hands on her waist. “And do not call me mister, damn it. Call me Decker or call me nothing at all.”
Her gaze had dipped to his lips. Something in the air changed around them, becoming heady, thick, poignant. His cock swelled to rigorous attention, lust roaring through him. But it was more than desire. It was…
“You do not have any sovereignty over me,” Jo said then, breaking into his musings.
His grip on her tightened. How he envied the layers between them—he was jealous of her corset for the way it wrapped around her, envious of her chemise, nestled next to her skin. He wanted that same connection with her, that intimacy, to absorb her, bask in her heat, in her proximity.
Fuck. What was wrong with him?
“Do you want other men to complete your list with you?” he demanded.
Her long, dark lashes swept over her eyes, stealing from him those twin windows into her thoughts for a breath. When her lashes lifted, her countenance was grim. “No, I do not, and that is the trouble.”
Relief more profound than he wanted to acknowledge washed over him. “In that case, I fail to see the trouble. You want me to complete your list with you. I am here. You are here. Mayhap we ought to cross off another number right now.”
“It is the midst of the day, your Scotsman likely has his ear pressed to the door, and my lady’s maid is awaiting me in the carriage,” she said, quite dashing his fantasies of fucking her on his desk.
Yes, he knew those fantasies were just that. Fantasies. But a man could dream, could he not?
“My enthusiasm has not waned.” He lowered his forehead to hers. If she were not enshrouded in so many damned layers, she would know firsthand how hard he was for her, how ready, even now. “I was merely giving you time. You told me you were concerned about feigning another illness so soon, that it would have been suspicious to your brother.”
Indeed, she had in the last missive she had sent him. But her admission had not been his sole reason for avoiding her. Of course not. He had hoped some distance and time would lessen the effect she had upon him. He had hoped he would break free of whatever spell she had cast.
Thus far?
Bloody unsuccessful.
Her face softened, and he noted for the first time that she possessed a smattering of freckles on the dainty bridge of her nose. How had he failed to miss them? Now, they riveted him, fascinated him.
“I have been thinking, Decker,” she said.
Grievous words, those, especially coming from a female he wanted to bed. What he wanted usually required more action, less thought.
His hands coasted up her lower back, drawing her more firmly against him. “What are you thinking about, bijou?”
“About you,” she said.
Excellent.
She was all he had been thinking about as well. Not that he would admit it.
“Not a damned thing wrong with that,” he said, pleased.
“Do you know that yesterday, I was visiting an orphanage with my sister and my sister-in-law, and I saw the most interesting thing?” she asked.
Damn.
He suspected he knew what she had seen.
But he feigned ignorance anyway. “An orphanage, you say? Did you see children? Wretched little creatures.”
In truth, children both perplexed and terrified him. Thanks to his estrangement with his mother, he had not seen his younger half sister, Lila, in years. But he felt quite keenly for the plight of little beggars who, unlike himself, had not the fortune to at least be born the bastard of an inordinately wealthy earl.
“No, Decker,” Jo told him, her gaze searching his. “I saw a piano. One of your pianos. The newest model, the piano of which there are only a handful in existence. The proprietress of the orphanage said it had been recently donated, along with cases of books for the children and tutors to aide them in learning to read. Do you know which publisher printed those books?”
His.
Caught.
“Before you begin to think me a saint,