Lady Bess by Claudy Conn Page B

m’rules.”
    She studied him a moment and then teased naughtily, “Can’t.”
    “And why can’t you?” He bit the bait.
    “Don’t know what they are, and, oh, I am starving as well. Robby, do pass the bread before you eat it all.”
    * * *
    Lady Bess stood back and quietly reviewed the scene. The fire in the library was at full burn, crackling and giving a warmth she could feel even where she stood near the panoramic window over the front lawn.
    Her heart fluttered even more than it had all day, even more than on the ride home when the earl had flirted outrageously with her one moment and then with Donna the next, as though to show her that he could flirt with anyone he chose and that it meant nothing. If he dallied with her, that was all it was, dalliance.
    She understood what he was doing. He didn’t wish to hurt her. He wanted her to see that flirting was just something he did. He was a rake and wanted her to understand that. Perhaps a part of her thought so, but a larger part of her did not.
    He had perhaps behaved like a libertine, but she had seen some of his mind, and he did not think like one.
    Was she more than just a diversion to him? She wasn’t sure, but he did care; to some extent he did care. Something in his eyes, in the way his mouth curved when he looked her way, made her think he was more than just a wayward rogue and that she was more to him than just another flirt.
    He had a servant bring in a punch bowl and a great number of ingredients into the library. Robby was hovering about it, determined to get it started and drink his fair share. Donna was wagging a finger at her husband when the earl suddenly took over.
    He stepped forward, waving his hand. “Stand aside, children. Ye doona know a thing aboot the fine art of making punch, but I, now I do.”
    His Scottish accent beat a trail to Bess’s heart, and a shiver went through her. She loved his voice, his accent, his manner of speech.
    “But don’t forget the nutmeg,” stuck in Robby. “I like nutmeg.”
    “Nutmeg,” Donna said, shaking her head, “will ruin it.”
    Bess turned away from them. Her jumbled thoughts were lined with emotions she didn’t want to face. Suddenly, all she wanted was to be alone with the earl. It was more than coincidence that he had walked into her life now when she was so ready to be loved. All the times he had come to Searington, so near, and yet they had never met till now.
    It was fate. She was sure of it.
    She had always broken rules, and she was being completely immodest by allowing herself to want him the way that she did. She wanted to feel his arms around her. She wanted to feel his lips press against her lips, part them, and why a woman should be thought a tart for wanting the man of her dreams was more than she could fathom. Men wanted, needed, took. Why shouldn’t a woman’s needs be fulfilled?
    And if that made her a tart, so be it; she just didn’t care. She was ever honest with herself and simply saw no sense in denying that she wanted him lustily with or without the benefit of marriage.
    She knew in that pivotal moment that she would let him take her to his bed and satisfy her as only he could. She wanted that. She wanted to taste him and know him in every sense. Faith, when had she descended into such wantonness? She couldn’t remember ever feeling this way.
    Bess knew she was hopelessly in love with the Earl of Dunkirk, but she wasn’t sure if he was capable of loving someone as inexperienced in the fine art of lovemaking as she was. She just wasn’t his type. Sally Sonhurst was his type.
    The touch of the earl’s hand on her shoulder made her spin around, and she felt the blush rush into her cheeks as she nearly collapsed into his arms. She managed to control herself, and then his voice saved her from herself as his tone caressed and he murmured, “What is it, lass? Ye look, disturbed, and it has me fair baffled. I thought ye had a lovely day?”
    She smiled at him and asked,