Page 167 of Immortal Rose

It was at that moment that Willie had the misfortune of crossing from the study into the morning room. He paused midway across the foyer, his pale brows rising in pure male appreciation of the tempting vision before him.

“Get her cloak,” Hugh barked at him.

Willie bolted into the morning room before doubling back and fleeing to the safety of the kitchen.

“Don’t yell at him,” Viola scolded. “Felicity will bring it down in a moment.”

The door to the kitchen opened, and Keyes emerged, having clearly been chosen to deal with him. She made a good effort of looking blasé, straightening the painting of Albion’s coast that absolutely did not require straightening. When she entered the foyer, it was with the very placid smile Hugh had learned long ago was a warning. Inwardly, he winced.

She turned, catching a glimpse of Viola, and clasped her hands together. “How perfect you look, my lady.”

Perfect? Perfect? Perfect for forcing Hugh to beat every man with eyes off her. He let out a hard breath through his nose, looking at the woman who had raised him with utter betrayal.

“Thank you, Mrs. Keyes,” Viola said, looking emboldened by the words.

“I’ve finished hemming it!” Fizzy’s voice carried down the third-floor hall, followed by her hurried steps. By the time she reached Viola, swirling the velvet cloak around her shoulders and affixing its gold clasp at her throat, she was nearly beside herself admiring her handiwork.

Fizzy fell back in step beside Mrs. Keyes, her eyes limpid with pleasure.

“Let’s go,” Hugh said tersely. “God willing, this will be a brief adventure.”

Mrs. Keyes gave his arm a discreet but painful flick as he passed. Her eyes carried a clear message: Take care with her.

Too late, he knew.

They had walked in silence through the back garden, passing through the mews and nearby streets until they found a hackney. He quickly bundled her inside, sending one last prayer to God in heaven for mercy before following.

And now that same, charged silence set in deeper as the carriage rattled around them, driving her small body into his with every turn through Linden’s winding streets. Each time, he was forced to master the urge to drag Viola over his lap and ravish her mouth until her lips softened their hard line.

Hugh began to wonder if the hack driver was intentionally making the sharpest turns imaginable to get to the Nine Veils borough. He nearly came out of his skin when Viola steadied her sliding body by bracing a small hand on his thigh.

She didn’t remove it, even as the carriage straightened out its path. Neither did he.

Her breath caught as if she’d surprised herself, the sound faint beneath the drumbeat of his heart. Viola’s gaze was like the brush of rose petals against his cheek, soft but insistent. Then her hand began to glide up. Her touch was guileless, experimental, which made it all the more riveting.

Up, making the muscle beneath her fingers quiver.

Up, until the movement pushed back her cloak, revealing another glimpse of her bosom, the way it strained the delicate bodice.

Up, to stroke the deep groove where his leg met his hip. Right, toward the obvious bulge tenting his placket. She made a little noise, a wondering, hungry noise, and God, he wasn’t strong enough for this. He wanted her more than his next breath.

Hugh caught her fingers at the very last moment, pressing his lips to them to soften the rejection. Viola huffed in that way he adored, and just then, he couldn’t remember why it had been so necessary to stop. She’d singed a trail of embers into his skin, and it burned even now.

He kept her hand, turning her palm up to press a kiss there, too, for good measure.

“Perfume?” he murmured, bringing his nose to her wrist and inhaling the scent of roses and the natural musk of her skin.

“You bought perfumed gloves,” she answered tartly.

“Well done, me,” he said softly.

Viola tugged at her hand, and, with great reluctance, he released it.

“Hugh,” she said after a moment, having reclaimed her usual determination, “what are you planning?”

“Now that is an interesting question,” he said. “At any point in time, I’m planning for any number of things. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“For the Midsummer Ball,” she said. “You do have a plan for Glenmoor, don’t you?”