Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,42

bedtime story, too. Now will you come out? Or at least give me a time for when you’ll come out.”

Another long silence. “Four.”

It was only a few minutes past three, but at least it was something to look forward to. He murmured a silent thanksgiving.

“Sir Hardshell?”

“Of course, poppet.”

Sir Hardshell was Bea’s pet tortoise and one of Hastings’s potential headaches. No one knew exactly how old it was, except that it had been a resident at Easton Grange since the estate was first built sixty years ago, long before the property’s acquisition by Hastings’s uncle. And before that, Sir Hardshell had served for nearly thirty years as a ship’s mascot on various merchant marine vessels.

Hastings could only pray that Sir Hardshell would live to a legendary age. Bea did not deal well with changes, and there was no change more permanent than death. He made a show of listening to the tortoise’s heart and various other organs. “He sounds old, poppet, ancient. A hundred twenty, at least. You should brace yourself for the possibility that he might not make it through another winter.”

Bea made no reply. He exhaled—at least Sir Hardshell was still alive today. He set the tortoise on the floor to roam the edges of the nursery. “Shall I have some tea and biscuit sent up for you, Bea? And read you a story in the meanwhile?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Papa.”

His insides invariably turned into a warm puddle when she called him Papa. He rang for her tea, sat down again next to the trunk, and closed his eyes for a moment—awash in both exhaustion and gladness—before opening the storybook he’d hand-made for her. “Shall we start with your favorite, the one about Nanette’s birthday?”

The clock struck ten.

Marking at least fifteen minutes of continuous kissing for Fitz and Millie.

Helena hadn’t meant to be a Peeping Jane. Around half past nine, after she’d been talking to her brother and sister-in-law for some time, she’d dozed off. When she’d heard the next quarter hour chime on the clock, she’d forced herself to wake up, not wanting to sleep too much too early and then be wide-awake at night.

Also not wanting to miss Hastings. He’d cabled before he left Kent to let them know he was on his way, and she’d experienced a small flutter of anticipation when she’d learned the news.

But when she’d opened her eyes, she’d witnessed Fitz and Millie engaged in a passionate embrace, Fitz’s hands in his wife’s hair, one of Millie’s hands at her husband’s nape, the other somewhere too low for Helena to see from her supine position.

The polite thing to do, Helena decided, was to close her eyes and let them finish their kiss before making it known that she was once again conscious. But apparently there was no such thing as finishing a kiss, as far as those two were concerned.

She was mortified—the sounds they made could not be unheard and she’d never be able to look either in the eye again. But at the same time, she was…

She would not mind being party to a similarly heated kiss.

How would it feel to grip Hastings’s soft curls? To have his lips against hers? And to hear him emit involuntary noises of desire and relish?

A soft knock came on the door. At last Fitz and Millie pulled apart. There came hushed giggles and whispered words as they tried to make Millie’s hair look less disheveled.

The knock came again, slightly louder.

Again giggles and whispers, followed by Fitz clearing his throat. “Come in.”

The door opened. “I’m sorry,” said Hastings. “Were you already asleep?”

That voice of his—it might not lure unicorns out of their secret forests, but it could conceivably make howlingly bad verses sound like a lost Byronic masterpiece. And the question was quite tactful, giving Fitz and Millie an easy excuse for their delay in answering the door.

“We dozed off a bit just now,” answered Millie.

Helena was astonished at how guileless Millie sounded. This sister-in-law was more complicated than Helena would have guessed solely by looking at her sweet features and self-effacing demeanor.

“You are late,” said Fitz. “Bea was not happy with you, I take it?”

“It took me ages to coax her out of her trunk. How is Helena?”

“Better. She wants to be served a beefsteak tomorrow.”

“I thought she doesn’t like beefsteaks.”

She didn’t?

“We’ll let her find out for herself whether she still feels the same way,” said Fitz. “About beefsteaks…and other things.”

What other things? Helena decided it was time to join the conversation. She made a