scandal.
“Thank goodness you have come to reform me,” he said as he slipped one arm beneath Lady Darlington’s knees and swept her gently up against his chest. In contrast to his towering strength, her mother was but a doll, one which could neither protest such handling nor likely ascend his many-layered stair without it. “Will you follow me, Lady Ophelia?”
There was naught she could say. All she could manage was a small nod as her heart slammed brutally against her ribs. A smile, a genuine smile, tilted her mother’s lips. And for one inescapable moment, Ophelia almost believed that Viscount Andrew Stark truly honored her mother and that he had no designs upon them whatsoever.
As he began the climb without a single struggle, Ophelia hesitated. Did he live alone in this great monstrosity? There had been no mention of others with whom they might contend. Had he no brothers? No sisters? His father was clearly dead, as he’d inherited his title. And his mother?
Where was Viscount Stark’s mother? Asleep in a cold crypt in some great abbey, never to be awakened from her cold, stone bed?
Ophelia shook the gruesome thought aside. She couldn’t bear it. The thought of a mother gone. Such thoughts led her down a dangerous path. It was one she carefully avoided, the contemplation of her own beloved mother’s vanishment from this mortal plane. So she fixed her thoughts on Lord Stark as she followed him up the stair and wondered if he could truly be as generous as he seemed.
CHAPTER SIX
Even the devil longed for love,
did he not?
-Ophelia’s Notebook
Andrew poured two snifters of brandy. He didn’t stint. In fact, one might argue he intended to get her drunk, given the volume of liquor he distributed. But she had that look upon her face that he’d seen on men who’d faced a battle charge and survived, whilst the soldier next to him had been cut down. He crossed his study, lit only by the leaping, ruby flames of the large fire.
Her eyes glowed in the shadows, twin coals burning with emotion. She stood resolute before the chaise lounge. Resolute yet vulnerable and no doubt exhausted. “It was a difficult journey?” he asked softly.
Her pale fingers shook slightly as she took the offered glass. Ophelia stood awkwardly, just barely in the room.
Did she fear it would all disappear? That he would twirl a melodramatic hand and demand her maidenhead now that he had her here?
He would never demand it. Why would any man demand when he could seduce instead? He could have her on the floor or the settee before the fire. Have her dark skirts up about her white thighs in a few moments to expose the part of her body that was so anatomically familiar yet completely secret to him.
As he would bend her back to steal a kiss, her long red hair, spilling from the crown of her head, would fan out around them. Her pink mouth would part in shock when he teased the insides of her thighs.
And she’d be uncertain. At first.
He knew she desired him. From their first meeting, she’d been full of curiosity, and he knew he could seduce her in an unyielding, demanding sort of way.
The devil in him was tempted.
But that was not how it would be between them.
She stood so still that not even the liquid in her glass moved. “You have a most peculiar countenance at this moment,” she whispered. “What are you thinking?”
“You know what I am thinking,” he said, mincing no words, then lifted the brandy to his lips and took a long swallow.
Her emerald eyes flared with comprehension. Most women would run for the door. She arched a fiery brow. “Is that why I am here? To play out what began by the river that day? I hear some men are determined to win wars, not battles.”
“The kiss was lovely. Your body is lovely,” he whispered, meaning every word, determined that she should recognize his sincerity. “The feel of your skin beneath my fingers is lovely.”
Even so, she gave a small snort, but her cheeks blossomed with
“Thank goodness you have come to reform me,” he said as he slipped one arm beneath Lady Darlington’s knees and swept her gently up against his chest. In contrast to his towering strength, her mother was but a doll, one which could neither protest such handling nor likely ascend his many-layered stair without it. “Will you follow me, Lady Ophelia?”
There was naught she could say. All she could manage was a small nod as her heart slammed brutally against her ribs. A smile, a genuine smile, tilted her mother’s lips. And for one inescapable moment, Ophelia almost believed that Viscount Andrew Stark truly honored her mother and that he had no designs upon them whatsoever.
As he began the climb without a single struggle, Ophelia hesitated. Did he live alone in this great monstrosity? There had been no mention of others with whom they might contend. Had he no brothers? No sisters? His father was clearly dead, as he’d inherited his title. And his mother?
Where was Viscount Stark’s mother? Asleep in a cold crypt in some great abbey, never to be awakened from her cold, stone bed?
Ophelia shook the gruesome thought aside. She couldn’t bear it. The thought of a mother gone. Such thoughts led her down a dangerous path. It was one she carefully avoided, the contemplation of her own beloved mother’s vanishment from this mortal plane. So she fixed her thoughts on Lord Stark as she followed him up the stair and wondered if he could truly be as generous as he seemed.
CHAPTER SIX
Even the devil longed for love,
did he not?
-Ophelia’s Notebook
Andrew poured two snifters of brandy. He didn’t stint. In fact, one might argue he intended to get her drunk, given the volume of liquor he distributed. But she had that look upon her face that he’d seen on men who’d faced a battle charge and survived, whilst the soldier next to him had been cut down. He crossed his study, lit only by the leaping, ruby flames of the large fire.
Her eyes glowed in the shadows, twin coals burning with emotion. She stood resolute before the chaise lounge. Resolute yet vulnerable and no doubt exhausted. “It was a difficult journey?” he asked softly.
Her pale fingers shook slightly as she took the offered glass. Ophelia stood awkwardly, just barely in the room.
Did she fear it would all disappear? That he would twirl a melodramatic hand and demand her maidenhead now that he had her here?
He would never demand it. Why would any man demand when he could seduce instead? He could have her on the floor or the settee before the fire. Have her dark skirts up about her white thighs in a few moments to expose the part of her body that was so anatomically familiar yet completely secret to him.
As he would bend her back to steal a kiss, her long red hair, spilling from the crown of her head, would fan out around them. Her pink mouth would part in shock when he teased the insides of her thighs.
And she’d be uncertain. At first.
He knew she desired him. From their first meeting, she’d been full of curiosity, and he knew he could seduce her in an unyielding, demanding sort of way.
The devil in him was tempted.
But that was not how it would be between them.
She stood so still that not even the liquid in her glass moved. “You have a most peculiar countenance at this moment,” she whispered. “What are you thinking?”
“You know what I am thinking,” he said, mincing no words, then lifted the brandy to his lips and took a long swallow.
Her emerald eyes flared with comprehension. Most women would run for the door. She arched a fiery brow. “Is that why I am here? To play out what began by the river that day? I hear some men are determined to win wars, not battles.”
“The kiss was lovely. Your body is lovely,” he whispered, meaning every word, determined that she should recognize his sincerity. “The feel of your skin beneath my fingers is lovely.”
Even so, she gave a small snort, but her cheeks blossomed with
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