Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (22 page)

She looked away, diverted by her hands, and this time his patience wasn't rewarded. She didn't offer to share anything about her mother, or herself, and Rowan sensed it was better to retreat and give her more time. Even after she'd literally bared herself to him, Miss Gayle Renshaw was still a creature apart and practically unknown to him. With a sigh, he turned to a more immediate matter.

“Very well.” He held out the package of condoms. “I know it's an unromantic topic but a necessary one. If you would . . . here is a tin of them. I don't want you to think that I'm assuming anything or taking for granted your consent to any future encounters, but—better that you have them, Gayle. Please, put them in your bedside drawer or anywhere you can discreetly access them without Florence or Mrs. Evans coming across them.”

“I will.” She took the tin, shyly at first, but then lifted her chin, a woman determined to be practical. “You're clever to think of it, and I'm grateful. You're just being considerate of my . . . of our position.”

“I meant what I said. I won't see you hurt from this, Gayle.”

“Can you . . . help me dress?”

Without covering himself, he shifted to the edge of the bed and began retrieving her clothes for her, kneeling to gather her stockings and taking a few extra seconds to locate her missing shoes. As she watched him, Gayle was surprised to realize that she felt more awkward about him helping to put her together than she did about him taking her clothes off.

He stood, surveying the pile on the bed, and shook his head. “I'm no ladies' maid, but let's just see if we can't think in reverse and accomplish this thing.”

“I'm . . . Perhaps I just need help with the hooks to—”

“Nonsense! A gentleman is always on hand to help, and I'm not going to forgo this chance to assist you.” He held up a stocking, and then knelt by the bed to put it on, his hands sliding up her legs and lingering at her thigh to retie the satin ribbon that held it up.

“Rowan! I . . . I need to dress. Can you at least put your own shirt on first?”

He nodded and slipped his own white shirt on to partially shield his body from her appreciative looks. “And so you shall. I promise to behave.”

She had to bite her lip to keep from protesting when that was exactly what he did. No matter how distracted she became or how delicious the light teasing touches of the backs of his fingers proved against her ribcage, legs, and breasts, Dr. Rowan West was a man of his word. Her drawers and chemise were restored, her corset rehooked, and then came the layers of petticoats and her hooped farthingale.

The fire in his eyes smoldered as he performed an abigail's duties. Rowan brushed out her skirt and lifted it up over her head, sliding it down, caressing her arms as he did and encircling her waist with his hands as he fastened the hooks at the back.

“Almost done,” he said, dipping his mouth down to nuzzle her neck and kiss her there, finding the most sensitive spot above her shoulder blades at the base of her neck. His tongue laved her skin and she shivered, her skin pebbling wherever his fingers trailed.

“Rowan . . .”

He retrieved her shirt where he'd thrown it over a chair, helping her into the lacy white thing, its sleeves marred a bit with Florence's blood, and reworked the carved buttons, starting at her waist.

Finally, he placed the lace shawl over her shoulders and used it to playfully hold her captive for one more kiss.

She pushed away from him breathlessly, the color in her cheeks betraying her passion. “This is . . . ridiculous, Rowan. I'm ridiculous.”

“Hardly.” He smiled but stepped back to try to respectfully give her the freedom to compose herself. “But consider yourself officially in charge of the health of the house, Miss Renshaw, for I swear, the next time Theo accidentally shuts his hand in the carriage door or someone twists an ankle, I'm going to have trouble controlling myself.”

She playfully punched him in the shoulder. “You're a wicked thing, Dr. West!”

The clock in the downstairs hall chimed five times and Rowan winced. “The house will be up soon. Carter comes early with coffee and a tray, Gayle.”

“I'll leave now. I'd rather not wait and meet him on the stairs.”

It was time to let her go.

Chapter
17

He'd left her to her work for most of the day, but finally by midafternoon, Rowan had demonstrated all the self-control and patience a man could muster under the circumstances. He grumbled to himself as he climbed the stairs, convinced that in a more sane world he'd have gotten to spend the day in bed with the irresistible Miss Renshaw after she'd breathlessly agreed to marry him, and he wouldn't be reduced to feeling like a man forced to nibble at the edges of happiness.

He opened the door to the familiar sight of Gayle perched on one of the stools sitting up to the long worktable closest to the windows. She had several texts fanned out around her as she balanced on her elbows, chewing on the tip of her pen. She was deep in thought, and Rowan's breath caught in his throat at how lovely she was with her dark hair pulled back in a simple chignon, a few tendrils escaping to trail down her long white neck to draw the eye toward her ample cleavage. She was wearing her blue day dress in her usual effort to look professional and plain, but the effect was ruined by the dress's fashionable tailoring, expensive jet buttons, and the unmistakable elegance of the model.

“I see that you are dressed, Miss Renshaw.”

She looked up with a smile that almost made him drop the offering he'd brought. “I told you that I have trouble concentrating without at least three layers!”

“I still say it's theory until you test it properly.”

“Are you suggesting I attempt to study . . .
without clothes
?”

The distracting turn of their conversation almost derailed him from his mission as the delightful prospect of Miss Gayle Renshaw wearing nothing but a copy of
The Lancet
sent his heart racing. “I'm going to keep my suggestions to myself, for the moment. But before I forget why I came up here, or change my mind—I wanted to give you something.”

“Oh.” She pushed away from the table to stand and face him, her expression suddenly more wary and less playful. “Unless it is an assignment, Dr. West, I'm not sure it's appropriate to—”

“Damn it, Gayle! Let a man finish one thing without debate! Agreed?” Rowan snapped.

“Agreed.” She crossed her arms and waited. “Well?”

The sight of her tapping her foot was comical, and Rowan's flash of temper evaporated.
God, I'm enjoying every minute of her company—even when she's trying to drive me to bedlam. But now let's hope the truce holds.
“Do you know how Charlotte Hamilton died?”

Gayle nodded. “A fever, I thought. But after moving to Standish Crossing and listening to Aunt Jane, I wasn't as sure.”

“Here, Miss Renshaw. It's my case study of Charlotte's death, for you. I wanted to understand what had happened, so I created this. It's just a few notes I made about the fever that took her life—from the facts I'd pieced together once I'd returned from India. You might see something that others have missed or just confirm the worst.” He held out the slim packet of paper. “I trust your judgment, Gayle.”

She took it from him, slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. Rowan wasn't sure how to feel as he walked the fragile line between personal honor and promises to the dead. It was a gamble to give her his notes. They were incomplete, because he'd broken off the work after going to Standish Crossing and learning the truth. But he hoped there was enough that she might see the inconsistencies and choose to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Use that keen mind, Gayle, and figure it out—and then perhaps you can see your way clear to loving me.

“Thank you, Rowan.” She set it aside, her cheeks turning pink. “I'll be sure to look at it when . . . I can concentrate.”

“But you have on at least four layers, from what I can see. Would you like me to leave you alone so that you can read it in private?” The offer was sincere, even if he longed to stay. “Unless you'd like me to stay and interpret some of the harder-to-read scribbles.”

She took a step closer, her fingers outstretched to trace the outline of his lapel. “This is a terrible problem, Dr. West.”

“What? My coat?” He held as still as he could, anticipation unfurling inside of him at the flirtatious movement of her hand.

“You're . . . proving to be a terrible distraction. I don't think I could read a children's primer with you in the vicinity.”

He captured her hand with his and pressed her fingers inside his coat and up against the measured pace of his heart. “That
is
a problem, Miss Renshaw. But I think I have the solution.”

“Yes?” She tipped her head back to look up at him, her lips parting slightly.

“We must dispense with this passion so that you may concentrate.” He reached up to begin lazily working the knot of his silk tie.

“Here?” she asked in alarm. “W-we can't . . . here!”

“How can you be so playful and direct spread across my bed and here, so shy?”

“I am not shy! But you—” She lost her train of thought as he pulled his shirt open and took a step closer. “Rowan, I don't want you to treat me differently. I'm worried that you'll see me as a woman to
spread naked on your bed
and not as a serious student. I'm not abandoning my apprenticeship to . . . play about!”

“I don't want you to abandon your studies.”

“Good.”

“But neither am I going to let you ignore what's happening between us, Gayle.” He took one of her hands to draw it over his skin, pushing her hand down over the hard muscles of his stomach, his breath whistling through his teeth as his flesh thickened and tightened in response. “I'm drawn like a moth to flame. How is it that I cannot seem to stop myself from wanting to touch you? And taste you?”

“We should stop. Someone might come up. . . . Mrs. Evans is forever sending up trays.”

“You're right. We should stop.” He eliminated the space between them, pulling her into his arms. Her head tipped back and he could see the mischievous light in her eyes as she enjoyed the forbidden nature of the game. He made quick work of the buttons of her dress to expose her neck and worked his way lower with the professional speed necessary to outpace her objections. “Perhaps an anatomy lesson is in order, Miss Renshaw.”

“I love . . . anatomy.”

“Very well.” His tongue flicked out to send a lightning storm across her skin. “And what muscle is this?” He teased the triangle between her collarbone and the firm rise of her breast.

“P-pectoralis minor . . .” She arched against him, and he had to hide his smile.

“And what muscle am I using to do this?” Rowan licked the curve of her body, his tongue trying to pleasure her into undoing a few more buttons and participating in the game.

“Oh . . . the tongue . . . is several . . . lingualis inferior, superior . . . oh, Rowan!” She groaned, surrendering to the electric fire his touch evoked and read his mind by undoing the next two critical buttons so that he could access her breasts. Her nipples pushed up from the top of her corset, puckered and tipped as if begging for attention.

“And what is this?” Rowan deliberately ignored the pert peaks for a few seconds to torment her and settled his mouth against the outside of her throat. “Miss Renshaw?”

“I can't . . . remember.”

“A penalty, then. My apprentice must pay a penalty.” He shifted to put his mouth just over her breast, caressing her only with his breath, blowing against the taut skin until he could see her trembling with need.

“Rowan!”

He pulled her nipple into his mouth, encircling the sensitive tip and suckling her until she was bucking and writhing against him. He released her only when he suspected she was on the brink of crying out. “Come, Miss Renshaw. Let's on with this lesson. What is this?”