“I’m gathering proof to find the true culprits who are cheating the estate of funds. And I looked over the will last night. I see no holes except, of course, the obvious one.”
“My virginity.” Her eyes flared—the statement like a dare. “You did say I could speak candidly. I guess I’m not as refined as the clients you likely work with.”
“You, my lady, are perfect.” He smiled. She made it easy, and he buried his conscience further down, as deep as a game of chess. He leaned into the desk, reading the ledger upside-down—the one she’d been pawing through when he walked in. It looked as achingly tedious as the rest. And there it was. Right there, at the top of the page, the reason he’d come to Tradewind manor. The reason he’d lied to a perfectly trusting widow. And the reason he kept on lying because if he successfully finalized the transaction, the funds would amply provide for Lady Danderly.
That was the lie he told himself. It had nothing to do with how much he’d come to enjoy her company, her frankness, her honest sincerity. These were traits he had never associated with women before, having had parents who all but divorced each other. They had lived in separate households, each keeping lovers, each using him to their advantage. And he’d endured it all by growing a thick skin. Early on, he’d purposely failed his tutors, first to spite his father and then to pose a financial threat to his mother, since she’d never have another legitimate son. Lord only knew how many illegitimate siblings Cade had.
At one point, his father accused him of being a bastard. That, of course, was not true, but when one needed ammunition, he was generally the powder for the keg.
Cade considered the ledger. The date was correct, but the record looked more like a conversation or notes. No numbers. There had to be more. He shut the ledger. “I’ll take a closer look at these later. You need a break.”
He eyed the books behind her head, more importantly, the book of erotic stories. The text may have been lost on anyone else, but Cade would recognize it for the binding alone. A deep crimson-red leather with a blossoming flower in raised gold filigree. He had a wicked idea. For fun, of course. “Did your husband read much? He has an extensive library here. Perhaps you’d like to take some time for an entertaining read.”
“That would be a treat, wouldn’t it? But I fear most of Henry’s books are related to running the property. Tenants, farming, business, that sort of thing.”
“Are you sure? I thought I saw a novel or two in there.”
“Really?” She craned her neck to see the books behind her, then swiveled the chair about, bringing her head around like a ballerina spotting a pirouette. She stood to examine the books more closely. Her dress fell from her left shoulder, and she absently returned the short, puffed sleeve.
He could think of little more than pulling the chemise aside and taking in the scent of her bare shoulder like a fine wine. He blamed his train of thought on the little ruse. “Right there,” he said, pointing to a dozen books away from the one he wished her to find. “I believe that one looks like a novel.”
“This one?” She slid a worn, leather-bound book halfway out of its bookish cave. “No, decidedly not a novel.” She pressed it back into place.
“And that book? Did your husband read that one?”
She paused to glance over her shoulder. Ah, but she was a daring little minx. He could see it in her eyes. If the right man invited her to play, and she accepted? The fellow would be a lucky gent indeed. Her gaze followed the direction of his pointed finger, and he took the opportunity to round the desk.
She tilted her head, examining the spines and titles while exposing the long creamy column of her neck. The devil on his shoulder was definitely in the lead as he created a place in his mind where he could taste the hollow at the base of her throat.
Biting her lip, she ran her fingers over the uneven bindings, which only made his breeches feel tight. He gave a surreptitious tug at the fabric, loosening the fit around his groin.
“Agriculture: A Guide to Moonlight and the Importance of Size and Glow,” she read.
“Interesting title.” He cleared his throat and contemplated size as he shifted his feet, changing his stance again. “Continue, please.”
He folded his arms, wrinkling his forehead with divine interest as the pad of her fingers thumped along, making tiny thwacking noises against the hardbound books. She stopped on the crimson binding, sliding down the smooth spine, then rubbed her thumb over the gold-raised filigree. His cock jumped this time, and he couldn’t stop the thought that paraded before his eyes like she’d been touching him in all his hard glory.
“That’s the one.” He barely got the words out. He took a step closer to her. Close enough to smell the honeysuckle in her hair.
She pulled the book easily from the case. “An Ode to the Pleasure Gardens: Essays and Rhyme.” She looked at him, all innocence. “A book about Vauxhall? Why would Henry put this here? I never heard him speak of the place.”
“Why indeed.” He slipped it from her nimble fingers. “I don’t believe it’s a tome on the pleasure gardens, precisely. Although I’ve little doubt, it’s been a favorite read for lovers who’ve lost their way.” He fanned through it.
She eyed him with suspicion and a curious tilt to her mouth. She held out her hand, palm up. “Let’s just see.”
With a meager attempt at guarding a wolfish grin, he shut the book, then turned it toward her atop the back of his hand, bowing like a valet offering a choice of cravat or fob. With her eyes arrested on his, she took the well-worn tome.
She broke it open, holding the weight of it in one hand and turning the pages with the other. “For my precious blushing orchid. Your nectar is life to me.” She turned another page, standing so close to him that the top of her head nearly bumped his chin.
He couldn’t resist reading over her shoulder, the one he wanted to kiss. The thought made his mouth water.
“Isn’t that sweet?” she asked looking up at him.
“Indeed, it is.” His meaning was lost on her, but he feared not for long. The first essay was all about gardens.
She read on. “The garden before me was ripe and pleasing to the eye—a tribute to the gardener, a masterpiece of honey and dew which I took wholly upon myself beginning with my tongue. That the woman to whom it belonged was more beautiful than a wood nymph might ever hope to be could not be overlooked. To say I was hard as the chiseled marble of a Greek god was to say I took myself in hand for my lover to watch.” She stopped reading, and her brow twisted with confusion that only an innocent could convince. She licked the tip of her finger, prepping to flip another page. Her mouth moved over the words silently, her eyes growing round with each word. Then she read aloud. “My fingers sunk deep into wet oblivion, and my cock danced.” She gasped. “Oh, heavens. What am I reading? And aloud, I might add?”
With his index finger set in the crease of the open book, Cade clasped the underside with the other three fingers and thumb, then slipped the book easily from her hands. He turned to the title page. “I believe this is a book of essays and rhyme for lovers. In other words, my dear, erotica.” He snapped the book closed with a sharp crack as if it were the period at the end of the conversation. Except he hoped it wasn’t.