Read Online Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel by Katharine Ashe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katharine Ashe
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turning around, and disappeared on the upper landing.
“Lady Holland is a bit under the weather now,” Tacitus said to the milliner. “If you will excuse her.” He took the stairs two at a time.
She was standing before her door, a cat curling around her ankles.
“I don’t care for cats,” she said to it in a weak voice. “I have told you that twice already. Two days in a row. Now go
away
.”
His footsteps sounded on the top riser and she turned her head as the cat slunk away.
“Lady Holland,” he said as he went forward, his cravat far too tight. “I beg your pardon for insulting you. I don’t know what came over me.”
Her
. She had come over him. As she had six years ago. But this time
she was married
.
“Insulting me?”
“Pinching you,” he clarified, somewhat strangled.
“I asked you to.” She shook her head. “Do you know, I am not entirely sure this is a dream after all. If it were, I’m certain I would not have you apologizing for pinching my behind when it was quite a lot more like a caress, now, wasn’t it?”
His mouth, dry as an old bone, opened and nothing came out.
Her perfect teeth showed between her parted lips and her breasts rose upon a quick breath.
“I am dreaming,” she said a bit raspily. “I am sleeping and merely dreaming now.” She was staring at his mouth.
Quite abruptly he could not think.
“I have heard of this before,” he managed to mutter. “Sleepwalking, I believe the men of science call it. Good God, what do they say to do with a sleepwalker?”
“Never try to wake a sleepwalking person,” she said. “You must gently encourage him to return to bed, then he typically falls into deeper sleep quite readily. I read about it once.”
“All right. Excellent advice.” He moved toward her as footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Why don’t you open that door and I will make certain you tuck yourself in nicely.” The air was surely lighter upstairs than down. He felt downright dizzy. Good God, he had never in his life wanted to put a married woman to bed. Any bed. Anywhere. Any married woman.
Until this moment.
“Milord,” Mrs. Whittle said behind him. “I saw that her ladyship is feeling poorly,” she bustled toward him. “How may I help?”
“Do wait a moment, Mrs. Whittle,” Lady Holland said and took a single step that brought her right before him. She looked into his eyes. “I am most certainly dreaming. There can be no two ways about it. And while I would never commit actual adultery, no matter how evil Richard is, I don’t think that doing this in a dream really qualifies as infidelity. I think. I hope. I don’t know. It’s just that for six years I have wanted to … I …” She took a mighty breath. And then she went onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.
It was over as soon as it began. She jolted backward, butted her shoulder into the door, fumbled for the handle, then opened it and slipped inside. Tacitus heard the lock turn.
“Goodness me,” Mrs. Whittle said.
Tacitus swallowed. Then again. Tried to breathe. Found it a futile effort. And then tried to breathe out, to expel entirely from his senses the honey scent of her skin and the soft warmth of her lips and everything that
he
had been dreaming about for six years. But it was impossible.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
Chapter Five
Calista removed her stained gown and climbed into bed, bemused and muddled from hunger.
She should not have kissed him. Even in a dream.
If she were dreaming.
She must be dreaming
. But perhaps she had dreamed
yesterday
.
How on earth would she have dreamed yesterday almost exactly like today before she had actually lived through today?
Pulling the pillow over her head, she willed herself out of the dream.
The church bell started tolling. She counted. It ceased at eight. If Mrs. Whittle were to be believed about the bell’s regular habits, it was not yet Sunday, but still Saturday.
Again
.
This could not be happening.
“Lady Holland is a bit under the weather now,” Tacitus said to the milliner. “If you will excuse her.” He took the stairs two at a time.
She was standing before her door, a cat curling around her ankles.
“I don’t care for cats,” she said to it in a weak voice. “I have told you that twice already. Two days in a row. Now go
away
.”
His footsteps sounded on the top riser and she turned her head as the cat slunk away.
“Lady Holland,” he said as he went forward, his cravat far too tight. “I beg your pardon for insulting you. I don’t know what came over me.”
Her
. She had come over him. As she had six years ago. But this time
she was married
.
“Insulting me?”
“Pinching you,” he clarified, somewhat strangled.
“I asked you to.” She shook her head. “Do you know, I am not entirely sure this is a dream after all. If it were, I’m certain I would not have you apologizing for pinching my behind when it was quite a lot more like a caress, now, wasn’t it?”
His mouth, dry as an old bone, opened and nothing came out.
Her perfect teeth showed between her parted lips and her breasts rose upon a quick breath.
“I am dreaming,” she said a bit raspily. “I am sleeping and merely dreaming now.” She was staring at his mouth.
Quite abruptly he could not think.
“I have heard of this before,” he managed to mutter. “Sleepwalking, I believe the men of science call it. Good God, what do they say to do with a sleepwalker?”
“Never try to wake a sleepwalking person,” she said. “You must gently encourage him to return to bed, then he typically falls into deeper sleep quite readily. I read about it once.”
“All right. Excellent advice.” He moved toward her as footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Why don’t you open that door and I will make certain you tuck yourself in nicely.” The air was surely lighter upstairs than down. He felt downright dizzy. Good God, he had never in his life wanted to put a married woman to bed. Any bed. Anywhere. Any married woman.
Until this moment.
“Milord,” Mrs. Whittle said behind him. “I saw that her ladyship is feeling poorly,” she bustled toward him. “How may I help?”
“Do wait a moment, Mrs. Whittle,” Lady Holland said and took a single step that brought her right before him. She looked into his eyes. “I am most certainly dreaming. There can be no two ways about it. And while I would never commit actual adultery, no matter how evil Richard is, I don’t think that doing this in a dream really qualifies as infidelity. I think. I hope. I don’t know. It’s just that for six years I have wanted to … I …” She took a mighty breath. And then she went onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.
It was over as soon as it began. She jolted backward, butted her shoulder into the door, fumbled for the handle, then opened it and slipped inside. Tacitus heard the lock turn.
“Goodness me,” Mrs. Whittle said.
Tacitus swallowed. Then again. Tried to breathe. Found it a futile effort. And then tried to breathe out, to expel entirely from his senses the honey scent of her skin and the soft warmth of her lips and everything that
he
had been dreaming about for six years. But it was impossible.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
Chapter Five
Calista removed her stained gown and climbed into bed, bemused and muddled from hunger.
She should not have kissed him. Even in a dream.
If she were dreaming.
She must be dreaming
. But perhaps she had dreamed
yesterday
.
How on earth would she have dreamed yesterday almost exactly like today before she had actually lived through today?
Pulling the pillow over her head, she willed herself out of the dream.
The church bell started tolling. She counted. It ceased at eight. If Mrs. Whittle were to be believed about the bell’s regular habits, it was not yet Sunday, but still Saturday.
Again
.
This could not be happening.
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