Free Heaven Sent the Wrong One by VJ Dunraven Page B

the kitchen.
    "Er, yes," Alexandra closed the door behind her and regarded the plump woman who was carrying an enormous load of newly laundered dresses. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
    "Aye, 'bout time ye do dat, lass. Yer ladyship's clothes been pilin' up me laundry room. 'Ere," she handed Alexandra the mountain of garments. "Press 'em wi' dat iron whilst them coals is 'ot."
    Alexandra gaped at the heap in her arms and exclaimed, "Right now?"
    "Aye. Wer do ye tink ye is, foolin' 'round in yer fancy frock? Da Manor 'otel?" The laundry maid made an exasperated gesture with her hands. "Off ye go now, lassie. Me needs me racks fer mor o' them dresses. Me ladyship an' 'er guests keep meself busy, me tell ye."
     
    ~
    A little, more than a half hour later, Allayne hurried to his rooms at the far end of the second floor. He had reiterated his instructions to his footman and coachman to keep mum about the charade, and had taken longer than necessary to get away from the housemaids who relentlessly flirted with him.
    A modicum of relief washed over him as he finally reached his bedchamber. He was delayed not more than five minutes, but that could be enough to turn away his be autiful Anna from his bed.
    He turned the knob with a soft click and peered inside.
    The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, shrouding the chamber in shadows. Allayne waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom until gradually, the furnishings began to take shape in the darkness.
    His gaze landed on the enormous four-poster bed.
    A slim figure lounged beneath his white bedding, pale naked shoulders peeking over the edge of the linens.
    Anna.
    He hastily undressed and slipped under the sheets next to her on the bed. She was breathing steadily, lying on her side facing away from him.
    Poor darling, he grinned, placing an arm around her waist. She must have been exhausted from the long day.
    He kissed an exposed shoulder.
    She stirred with a sigh.
    Encouraged, Allayne pressed himself closer against her back.
    She responded with another heavy sigh.
    He planted a kiss on her nape.
    She moaned, mumbling words he couldn't understand.
    He trailed kisses from her shoulder to the side of her neck.
    She giggled.
    Allayne smiled to himself. His Anna had been awake the whole time. He rubbed his now inflamed member against her backside.
    She groaned and wiggled her bottom.
    Allayne couldn't abide the teasing any longer. He boldly moved his hand from her waist and squeezed her breast.
    She arched her back, pressing herself against his palm with a soft whimper.
    Allayne felt for her breast again and frowned. Had he misjudged Miss Banana's endowments? He could swear, her bosoms were as big as melons—or did she do something with her corset to make them look larger than they were?
    Another squeeze yielded nothing but paltry flesh.
    Holy smelly Moses , he noticed the coarse mat brushing against the palm of his hand covering her breast—is she flat and—God forbid— hairy chested ?
    His erection wilted.
    Should he light a candle and inspect the delicacies she offered or should he just keep his mouth shut and pretend it didn't matter? Nevertheless, he did not have time to cogitate any further. Anna seemed to enjoy his groping and reached backwards, burying her fingers in his hair as she pulled his head closer for a kiss.
    Allayne did not resist.
    In the gist of things, a flat, hairy chest hardly made a difference. What he really wanted to do was to shoot his rapidly stiffening pistol at Miss Banana's juicy target—her virginal maidenhead.
    He propped an elbow to raise himself just enough to meet her half-turned lips. She was eager and hot, plunging her tongue into his mouth a little too aggressively, it somewhat surp rised him.
    Allayne cradled her cheek with one hand and caressed her jaw line with his thumb to calm her down. Her skin felt oddly scraggly. Christ —was she one of those peculiar women who grew a beard? And she tasted like—what the