The danger.
Neither she nor, she was perfectly sure, he, knew where they were headed, not with the physical attraction that flared between them, not with their “arrangement.” Whether the latter would work was anyone’s guess; neither of them was used to that type of working partnership, and neither was patient, or undemanding. They both had their share of arrogance, of being accustomed to leading, to being in charge.
As for the former…that was a total unknown.
It had been a very long time since anything had claimed her attention as it did, as he did when she was in his arms.
She didn’t know what she thought, had yet to form any view on the activity, on what she was doing, what she wanted. The unvarnished truth was that when in his arms, she didn’t—couldn’t seem to—think at all.
Such a situation should have disturbed her; she certainly thought it should, yet it didn’t. As she swung up the manor drive, no hint of trepidation bloomed, no vestige of even caution dimmed her anticipation. She was eager to see him again, keen to see where next they would stray, to observe how she affected him, to experience again how he affected her.
Shocking.
She was twenty-nine; she didn’t give a damn.
Life had long ago passed her by. As long as neither he nor she were hurt by their exchanges, where was the harm?
Confident, assured, she reached the manor’s door and rang the bell.
Howlett opened the door and beamed.
Clarice smiled back, and spotted Warnefleet—Jack—in the hall, hovering behind his butler.
Almost as if he’d been waiting for the bell to peal.
Howlett stepped back and she entered. Her expression perfectly gauged—calm, serene, with just a hint of warmth—she advanced and gave Jack her hand, very aware that as he bowed over it his gaze slid down…then slowly rose as he straightened.
He smiled, devilish appreciation in his hazel eyes. “You look ravishing. I believe Mrs. Connimore is assembling a small feast…”
He broke off, his gaze going to the door. She turned, too, as the sound of carriage wheels rattling up the drive reached them.
“I wonder who that is…?” Jack inwardly frowned. Retaining Clarice’s hand, drawing her with him, he stepped to the side of the hall, to where he could see past Howlett, once again opening the door.
The sight that met his eyes momentarily flummoxed him; a plain black carriage, clearly from some posting house, drew up in the forecourt.
Boadicea, also peering past Howlett, put his thoughts into words. “Perhaps they’re lost?”
The carriage door opened, and a young gentleman stepped down. Of average height and average build, with a pleasant face and pale brown hair, he held his hat in his hands and looked about curiously, then he saw Howlett and made for the door.
“Can I help you, sir?” Howlett intoned.
“I hope so,” the gentleman replied. “I’m looking for Lord Warnefleet.”
Jack stepped forward; her hand locked in his, Boadicea moved with him. “I’m Warnefleet.”
“Oh!” The gentleman looked up, a certain wariness in his open face. “I…ah, I’m Percy Warnefleet. You sent for me.”
Jack suddenly realized who the gentleman was.
Smiling a trifle nervously, Percy confirmed it. “I believe I’m your heir.”
Chapter 6
“What the devil are you about?”
Jack sat behind his desk and watched Boadicea march back and forth. Her arms were folded beneath her sumptuous breasts; her expression, however, was a warning. So much for softening her up with sweetmeats and wine.
They hadn’t even progressed to luncheon yet; after the introductions—inevitably stilted—he’d had Howlett show Percy upstairs to unpack and refresh himself before joining them in the dining room.