Free Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman by Lorraine Heath Page B

bury himself in woman after woman, bury himself and forget . . . that he couldn’t remember.
    So why the bloody hell didn’t he turn his horse in the direction of the nearest village where he’d find a tavern and a willing wench? Why was he riding hell-bent-for-leather into the countryside where he’d find no solace? Because he couldn’t bed another woman when the mother of his child smelled so enticing and smiled so sweetly and laughed so softly.
    It was the laugh that had done him in. He desperately wanted to remember hearing it before. Had they laughed in bed? Had she been comfortable with the intimacy?
    Only one night. He should ask her why.
    Had he left her feeling abandoned while he flitted to another flower, or had the roar of cannons torn him from her bed?
    He’d sat at that blasted table and studied her features—every movement, every expression, every nuance—searching for the smallest glimmer of familiarity. He wasn’t greedy. He’d take crumbs.
    He’d watched her fingers dancing over the table, signaling for bread, lifting a fork, holding a knife, carrying red wine to her lips, and he’d wondered if they’d danced over him, eliciting pleasure. He’d wanted them to skim over him again, to caress and stroke. He wanted to know if he’d had a pet name for her. Red, perhaps, in honor of her hair. Had he teased her about its brightness, or had her eyes always held the majority of his attention?
    Had he looked into them before war had torn away her innocence? Or had he always known them as they were now, with the haunted shadows weaving in and out? He’d seen her stiffen at his mother’s intrusive questions, and even though he desperately wanted to know the answers as well, he’d put a stop to the inquisition. He might have known her reasons at one time. He might have known her dreams and her hopes.
    Why was she not more comfortable with him? Had they parted in anger? Or had he broken her heart?
    She certainly hadn’t kissed him as though he had. She’d been eager, but there had also been a hint of shyness. Perhaps it was because of the length of time they’d been separated. He’d hoped that the kiss would spark his memory, but more than that, he’d simply wanted to kiss her, to know how it might affect him.
    It had very nearly dropped him to his knees. No other woman had ever affected him so, no other had ever made him not want to waltz into lovemaking, but to rush headlong toward pleasure. He’d not wanted to hold back. He’d wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her up the stairs to his bedchamber. He’d wanted to take her someplace where he knew that they’d not be disturbed. He’d almost forgotten what had brought her to Grantwood Manor.
    They’d been intimate before. Would she detect the uncertainty in him? Did they share little jokes? Did she have a preference for a particular position? Was there one she abhorred? Would she deduce by his actions that he was not familiar with her?
    What did he know of her? What did she know of him?
    The not knowing, after only a few hours, was driving him to madness. He should confront her, tell her everything. She wouldn’t be quite so enamored of him then, not when she learned the truth. What did he owe her? Marriage? His name?
    The tension shimmering through the dining room had been almost unbearable, everyone waiting for confirmation that he’d been restored to normalcy. His family had struggled to engage both Miss Dawson and himself in conversation. His family, who was so very skilled at walking through social situations unscathed, seemed to stumble tonight. Ainsley had the devil’s own tongue. His mother was herself an artist, an artist at deflecting conversation from her faults and scandals when it suited her, luring others into revealing their darkest secrets when she longed to know what they were. During dinner she’d stammered around like a schoolgirl at her first tea party.
    All the while, Miss Dawson had squirmed in her chair,