Pure Sin (8 page)

"Only my gown?" It was a sultry courtesan voice, heated and low, and those violet eyes gazing down at him were wanton, audacious in their challenge.

He chuckled at her unabashed sensuality. "We'll begin with that," he softly replied, "and go on from there. We've plenty of time. It's a long night…"

The breakfast room was awash with sunshine, Lucie's bright chatter sunny like the warm spring day outside. The small table held a steaming array of food on crested china and gleaming silver: scones; porridge; bacon; ham; poached eggs; buttered toast; colorful jams. A small bouquet of lavender-blue iris in a celadon vase graced the center of the table, the arrangement suitably low so conversation wasn't impeded. Adam and Flora, seated opposite each other at the round table, exchanged discreet smiles over the delicate blooms. Neither had slept more than an hour, their senses languid in the aftermath of a night of heated passion, tantalized by their nearness, hot desire a tangible presence to the initiated.

"Can we ride to see the baby foxes?" Lucie inquired, stirring Chantilly cream into her hot chocolate so briskly it splashed over the rim of the cup.

"After your lessons," Adam replied, ignoring the widening chocolate stains on the linen cloth, a silver spoon with a dollop of cream in his hand. "Do you want more?"

"After my
morning
lessons?" Lucie stopped stirring in her excitement.

"Right after," Adam answered. Assuming her nonreply to his question meant no, he placed the sweet mound of cream in his own chocolate. "Tell Miss McLeod she can come along if she wishes."

"Cloudy doesn't like to ride horses."

"But she likes baby foxes. She told me." Reaching over, he began cutting the ham on his daughter's plate.

"Maybe she can ride old Charlie."

"Is Charlie the big chestnut?" Flora asked, thinking no man deserved to look that good in the morning after a near sleepless night. He appeared fresh, alert, his hair still damp from the bath, his white linen shirt crisply ironed, unbuttoned at the neck, the dark vest he wore over it a handsome Irish wool tweed. An ornate gold charm dangled from the watch pocket—an elegant touch, as if a valet had dressed him.

Lucie's curls bobbed in affirmation. " 'Member," she said through a mouthful of ham. "Charlie was the one who liked apples."

Adam's gaze met Flora's fleetingly over Lucie's head, a swift, private look, explicit with torrid memory. "Tell Miss McLeod she can have the padded Mongolian saddle," he said, his attention returning to his daughter, his neutral tone distinct from his obsessive thoughts.

"Cloudy's too fat," Lucie explained to Flora and the earl, "so she always rides in a carriage if she can, but the foxes' den is up in the hills and the baby kits are ever so cute and fuzzy, which is why Cloudy will probably change her mind just mis once and try old Charlie."

Adam allowed himself to watch Flora as Lucie spoke to her, his observation ostensibly benign. He thought her ravishing even dressed simply in a tan silk blouse and twill skirt. Or nothing at all, his inner voice noted in pleasurable memory. She was astonishingly beautiful with her coppery hair pulled back in a sleek chignon, although the bright morning light accented the faint lavender shadows under her eyes, causing him a slight twinge of guilt. He'd have to allow her more sleep tonight.

"Papa, could you put
two
Mongolian saddles on Charlie?"

Forcing his mind back to the immediacy of his daughter's query, Adam said, "Why don't I check with Montoya in the stables? He knows what Charlie likes. Now, do you want strawberry jam on your scone?" he asked, the prosaic routines of the breakfast table so at odds with the lust so prominent in his mind.

"Can we have a picnic too?"

He smiled. "Why not?"

Lucie clapped her hands perilously close to the full chocolate cup, but her father didn't flinch. "I want lemon pie and sugar cookies and those little white puffy things with nuts inside."

"Perhaps we should see what others want," he suggested, not certain a three-year-old's favorite foods held universal appeal. "Why don't you check with Lady Flora and Lord Haldane?" Adam said, his dark gaze resting on Flora.

She immediately looked away, dropping her gaze from such vivid, hot-blooded allure. It felt as though he'd touched her intimately or kissed her in full sight of everyone, so uncontrollable was the heated sensation. It took her a fraction of a second to find her voice. "What do you think, Father?" she asked, needing time to compose her emotions. "Do you have any preferences?"

"If you include a flask of brandy for me, I'm content," George Bonham pleasantly replied. "And those white puffy things sound intriguing," he added, smiling at Lucie. "Are they really good?"

Adam's bronzed hand dwarfed the silver knife he held to spread jam on his daughter's scone, Flora noticed, drawn to the powerful image, to the subtle flex of his muscles and the rhythm of his movements. Heedless of her father's voice, she remembered instead the delicacy of Adam's touch the night before.

"They melt in your mouth, Georgie," Lucie replied, addressing the earl familiarly after the last two days of easy friendship. "They taste like candy and cookies mixed together. You'll like them immensely," she went on, "but make sure you take some before Cloudy reaches them, because she likes them the very best and she can eat hundreds and hundreds."

"I'll race her for the basket." The earl leaned back in his chair, his coffee cup in his hand, his smile for the little girl across the table from him. She reminded him of Flora as a child; she had the