“’Tis a waste of me abilities.”
She released her hold on him. “I so agree. It’s a shame you have to spend your time doing something that is more suited to a woman.” A wink. A lift of her shoulder. “Let me handle this for you, so you can attend to more important matters. Like your book.”
“Perkins won’t like it.”
“I’m not going to tell him. And Bishop certainly won’t mind. His attention is no doubt on his lover. What does he care who brings up the tray as long as it’s brought?”
He furrowed his brow. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. I so hate seeing you not being fully appreciated. As I’m new to the household, a chore so inconsequential really should fall to me, not to a strapping, competent lad like yourself.”
With his chest puffing out at her latest bit of fawning, she was surprised his waistcoat buttons didn’t suddenly pop off. “Right you are. The task is simple enough. Just knock on the door, take it in, and leave.”
Excitement thrummed through her as he transferred the tray. It had been far too easy to get him to relinquish the chore, but since her arrival he’d struck her as the sort willing to do as little as possible and based upon what Sarah had shared that morning, she’d hoped he’d prove to be a fool for flattery.
She headed up the stairs, clearing her mind of everything but the image of Mrs. Parker in the photograph. A narrow face. Sharp chin. Black hair, according to her husband, as well as brown eyes. Her nose tipped slightly on the end, as though as a child, she’d kept it pressed against a toyshop window, longing for what was inside. Although perhaps Daisy was merely recalling her own childhood, of wishing for things that always seemed beyond reach. Before she could travel that path, she refocused on tonight’s goal.
She arrived at the landing where that morning she’d laid the linens, linens that were now spread out over his bed. Where presently the couple might be cavorting. She carried on down the hall and rapped on the door.
“Come.”
That deep, resounding voice sent what felt like little bubbles of pleasure cascading through her. Taking a deep breath, she regained her focus.
Shifting the tray slightly, she used her smallest finger to turn the latch. It put a painful strain on her hand. The things servants endured. She’d never take staff for granted again. The door finally clicked. She pushed it open and stepped into the room.
Lounging on a settee, he wore only boots, trousers, and shirtsleeves, the buttons undone to the middle of his chest, the parted linen revealing flesh and a scattering of dark, springy hair. She was so surprised by the sight of him practically naked that she nearly didn’t notice the woman he was easing off his lap. When he was free of the lady, he shot to his feet. “Where’s Tom?”
“Oh . . . uh.” She’d never seen so much of a man bared before. Her fingers wanted to touch, to glide from the dip at his throat all the way down to the secured button. Perhaps give it its freedom and travel farther. He seemed more muscled and toned than Tom, and she had an inclination to put her theory to the test and squeeze his upper arms. Unfortunately, she feared she wouldn’t be able to stop there, but would want to explore the entire landscape of him. “He was indisposed, had something important to attend to. Where shall I place the tray?”
Her voice sounded like it was coming from a great distance, each word a struggle to push out. It didn’t even sound like her. It was more of a rasp, as though she’d gone her entire life without swallowing a single drop of water.
“I’ll take it.” He strode over. He had such long strides. Had she noticed that before? He placed his hands—large hands, strong with thick, blunt-tipped fingers, the nails evenly trimmed—on the tray and gave a little tug. “Release it.”
“Right.”
His lips twisted slightly as though he knew she was flummoxed and he found her reaction amusing. He walked over to a small, low oblong table near the wall, set down the tray, picked up a strawberry, and dipped it into the chocolate glaze. Holding it over his cupped hand, he walked—no, it wasn’t a walk, it was a prowl, slow and leisurely like a predator on the hunt—to the woman and offered it to her, touching the tip of it to her red lips. Gazing at him adoringly, she took a bite. The smile he bestowed upon her was filled with wicked promises. Then he tossed the last bit of strawberry into his own roguishly luscious mouth. Should a man’s lips be so full and tempting? After chewing and swallowing, he licked from his palm the chocolate that had dripped onto it.
Daisy had a strong urge to stop him, to lick it for him. Whatever was wrong with her? She never had these sorts of scandalous thoughts. But then she’d never been in a bedchamber with a half-clad gent before.
That indecently attired man, his eyes smoldering, directed his attention to her like a fine-honed blade. “That’ll be all. Close the door on your way out.”
After giving a jerky nod, she rushed from the room, hating that the door practically slammed shut behind her. It was only when she reached the stairs that she realized she hadn’t even bothered to catalog enough of the woman’s features in order to recall exactly what she looked like.
Damn him for distracting her, for making her knees so weak she had to sit on the top step and gather her wits about her. She couldn’t very well barge back in there. By now, more clothing had probably been discarded.
With a deep sigh, she shoved herself to her feet. It seemed she was going to be spending the remainder of her evening outside, waiting to catch a glimpse of the woman as she was leaving.
Bloody damned hell. He didn’t know why in the devil it bothered him that Marguerite had come into his chamber and seen him with Louisa Parker sprawled all over him like a feline lazing in the sun. He made no secret that he entertained women in here. However, for the first time, he’d been embarrassed and experienced a bit of the shame his father had berated him for not experiencing.
It was simply the shock of her arrival. He’d been expecting Tom, had needed it to be Tom, had arranged the tableau for Tom to witness. He didn’t want to put Marguerite through the torment of being a witness at a divorce trial where she’d be interrogated without mercy regarding what she’d seen and heard.
“Who was she?” Louisa asked demurely.
He shook his head. “Simply a servant.”
“If we were truly having an affair, I do believe I’d be jealous by the manner in which you looked at her, as though you longed to lap her up, like a cat does cream.”
Waving her off, he tossed back the wine Perkins had poured earlier and refilled his glass—although he was very tempted to switch to scotch. He needed something stronger, something that burned, warmed, and could make one forget more swiftly. “It was all merely performance. As you’re well aware, within this chamber, you and I are actors upon a stage.”
Only he’d been incredibly tempted to carry the strawberry to Marguerite, place the succulent fruit between her succulent lips, and watch her bite into it while he imagined she was instead nipping at his throat. “Although she wasn’t the expected party, the show must go on, and hopefully she’ll be tittering about what she saw to the other servants.”
Except she didn’t strike him as a titterer. She appeared to be someone of honor who held secrets close. As closely as he did. He glanced over at his guest. “More wine?”