My One and Only Earl (Forever Yours #12) - Stacy Reid Page 0,48

would see James married and fulfilling another duty of getting his heir. He could feel the flames eating away at his well-laid plans. Poppy had ruffled the calm waters of his existence, casting him into a state of unwelcomed restlessness and constant longing.

Worse, James did not understand fully what he felt for her.

I cannot afford such sentiments, nor do I hunger for them.

He pushed from behind his desk, walked over to the sideboard and poured brandy into a glass. James then downed the contents in one long, burning swallow. “What if I have fallen in love?” he muttered, thinking on her softly spoken words the last time he held her in his arms.

I am going to miss you, Poppy, I already do.

Pressing his palm against the cool windowpane, James hung his head. “Damn it all to hell, am I not already there?”

James constantly wished to lift the burdens from her shoulders and see Poppy smile. Was that love?

Her lively sense of humor and quick wit were rather endearing. He hungered to kiss her always and even shamelessly to do more. His dreams of her could be explicitly carnal in nature, and even when he berated himself in the mornings, the very next night, the same dream would recur. Poppy splayed naked before him on silken sheets, her curves on wanton display and those beautiful eyes dark with need. And he would touch and kiss her all over until she was wild and sobbing for him.

There were times when around her James felt like the basest of creatures. She was all softness. Every delectable inch of her. And her mouth, the taste of her should be outlawed and banished. The woman was pure temptation. It had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed to not succumb to the artless temptation in her gaze and kiss and ravish her without thoughts of consequences.

Other times he simply wanted to sit with her and listen to the softness of her voice, the laughter lurking there while she told him an anecdote. Or he just wanted to ride with her or sit and have a conversation. Should he cast his worries on her, James knew she would listen and offer insight. Her kindness was dependable.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, James glanced at the pile of paperwork on his desk. He had been working since morning, tallying the returns from several investments. Over twenty-five thousand pounds would come to him at the end of the month, and with a few strokes of his pen, it had all gone into the estate, creditors, and some toward Poppy’s dowry.

A quick glance at his watch showed it was barely ten p.m. He had promised Daphne to attend some ball tonight, but James was not in the mood. Yet a promise was a promise. And for the first time, he wished Henry had found another means to save their estate.

James did not want to marry Miss Winters when she came of age. Even if she came with another one hundred thousand pounds and already promised to be an uncommon beauty. Whom he wanted was Miss Poppy Ashford, and he could not have her.

Swallowing down another drink, James set the glass down with a clink. He would ring his valet and make himself presentable for the ball. He was certain Poppy would be there, and he would do his damnedest to stay away from her. Or dance with her one last time.

No, bloody hell no. That was what he had said two nights ago, and he had taken that final dance. James had done his duty there. He had seen the bucks staring at her the last time he danced with her, practically salivating and tripping over themselves to ask her to the dancefloor. It always astonished him how damn stupid his own sex could be, as if he would ever need someone else to show him that Poppy was a rare and beautiful treasure only because someone else paid her attention.

Hurrying from his study and down the long hallway, James skidded to a halt in the doorway at the veiled lady his butler had only just allowed entry.

“Who should I inform His Lordship has called?” his butler asked, glaring at her veil.

There was no doubt she had badgered the man to gain admittance. James would recognize that slight sensual shape anywhere, and the way she walked—confident and as if she were always in a hurry, proclaimed his mysterious visitor to be Miss Poppy Ashford. A quick glance did not