wouldn’t cool his ardor. The saving grace was that he wouldn’t have to try it. She’d be gone in a few hours.
He swung his feet onto the floor and rolled the kinks from his shoulders. It was morning. The snow would shortly begin to melt. And if not, well, that’s why God had invented shovels. People had places to be. The mail coach wouldn’t rumble by until noon, but the hack drivers would start rolling past long before. By midday, he’d be back in dreadful solitude.
Then, and only then, would he reenter his bedchamber, lay his head upon warm pillows that still smelled of her perfume, and allow himself to think of what might have been, had the circumstances been different.
But first, he would have to go re-lace the lady. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to dress at all. He splashed cold water on his face and scowled at his reflection. Perhaps throwing himself upon a snowdrift wasn’t such a bad idea.
Why must women’s clothing be so… interactive?
Xavier could get in and out of full regimentals in a matter of seconds. In fact, he’d let his valet go when he’d joined the army and hadn’t bothered to look for a replacement since his return. He didn’t need a valet. His retinue of five—a cook, a housekeeper, a butler, a footman, and a stableboy—were more than sufficient for an ex-soldier in a country cottage.
If only his servants were here! The cook and the housekeeper could play lady’s maids whilst Xavier and the other three men shoveled snowdrifts all the way back to London if need be.
Of course, if they were here, they would constitute five more witnesses to Miss Downing’s utter and complete ruin. As it stood now, there was still a chance, however slim, of getting her packed off and back home with everything important intact and no one ever being the wiser.
He dressed quickly. When he tugged on his first boot, his stockinged toes sank into something damp and spongy. He scowled and jerked his foot free. There could only be one explanation. He turned over his Hessian and curled his lip in disgust as a wet clump of cat hair and cravat threads tumbled out.
Egui . The world’s smallest, and most efficient, chaperone.
When there was no more personal grooming he could do to procrastinate the inevitable, Xavier made his way down the corridor toward his bedchamber.
Gentle firelight spilled from the open doorway.
She was awake. Of course she was awake. Her cat couldn’t have left the bedchamber without her having first opened the door.
He knocked on the doorjamb without peering inside. “Good morning, Miss Downing. You’re up early. Did you not sleep well?”
“I usually rise with the sun, though ’tis not very fashionable. Come in, come in. You don’t intend to hold a conversation from the other side of a wall, do you?”
He did consider a wall to be the safest of all possible barriers, but he supposed it was the least practical. He rolled back his shoulders and stepped into the open doorway.
His throat dried.
Miss Downing had moved the stool before the fireplace and sat with her back toward him. A cinnamon-colored dress gaped below her nape as she tilted her head to one side and struggled to drag a pearl comb through her long, wavy hair. Each curl glimmered in the firelight, then nestled back against the curve of her breast and the small of her spine.
He had never seen anything more erotic in his life.
“Would you like me to—” He clapped his chest when his voice came out far too husky. After clearing his throat, he tried again. “Shall I lace your stays?”
“Only if you wish to.” Rosy firelight—or perhaps a light blush—colored her exposed neck.
“I have to,” he answered, not bothering to hide the strangled desperation in his voice. “For both of us.”
“You don’t have to.” She turned around and looked him square in the eyes. “You wish to.”
A surprised laugh burst from his throat. His bluestocking might be exceptionally well read, but she knew very
He swung his feet onto the floor and rolled the kinks from his shoulders. It was morning. The snow would shortly begin to melt. And if not, well, that’s why God had invented shovels. People had places to be. The mail coach wouldn’t rumble by until noon, but the hack drivers would start rolling past long before. By midday, he’d be back in dreadful solitude.
Then, and only then, would he reenter his bedchamber, lay his head upon warm pillows that still smelled of her perfume, and allow himself to think of what might have been, had the circumstances been different.
But first, he would have to go re-lace the lady. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to dress at all. He splashed cold water on his face and scowled at his reflection. Perhaps throwing himself upon a snowdrift wasn’t such a bad idea.
Why must women’s clothing be so… interactive?
Xavier could get in and out of full regimentals in a matter of seconds. In fact, he’d let his valet go when he’d joined the army and hadn’t bothered to look for a replacement since his return. He didn’t need a valet. His retinue of five—a cook, a housekeeper, a butler, a footman, and a stableboy—were more than sufficient for an ex-soldier in a country cottage.
If only his servants were here! The cook and the housekeeper could play lady’s maids whilst Xavier and the other three men shoveled snowdrifts all the way back to London if need be.
Of course, if they were here, they would constitute five more witnesses to Miss Downing’s utter and complete ruin. As it stood now, there was still a chance, however slim, of getting her packed off and back home with everything important intact and no one ever being the wiser.
He dressed quickly. When he tugged on his first boot, his stockinged toes sank into something damp and spongy. He scowled and jerked his foot free. There could only be one explanation. He turned over his Hessian and curled his lip in disgust as a wet clump of cat hair and cravat threads tumbled out.
Egui . The world’s smallest, and most efficient, chaperone.
When there was no more personal grooming he could do to procrastinate the inevitable, Xavier made his way down the corridor toward his bedchamber.
Gentle firelight spilled from the open doorway.
She was awake. Of course she was awake. Her cat couldn’t have left the bedchamber without her having first opened the door.
He knocked on the doorjamb without peering inside. “Good morning, Miss Downing. You’re up early. Did you not sleep well?”
“I usually rise with the sun, though ’tis not very fashionable. Come in, come in. You don’t intend to hold a conversation from the other side of a wall, do you?”
He did consider a wall to be the safest of all possible barriers, but he supposed it was the least practical. He rolled back his shoulders and stepped into the open doorway.
His throat dried.
Miss Downing had moved the stool before the fireplace and sat with her back toward him. A cinnamon-colored dress gaped below her nape as she tilted her head to one side and struggled to drag a pearl comb through her long, wavy hair. Each curl glimmered in the firelight, then nestled back against the curve of her breast and the small of her spine.
He had never seen anything more erotic in his life.
“Would you like me to—” He clapped his chest when his voice came out far too husky. After clearing his throat, he tried again. “Shall I lace your stays?”
“Only if you wish to.” Rosy firelight—or perhaps a light blush—colored her exposed neck.
“I have to,” he answered, not bothering to hide the strangled desperation in his voice. “For both of us.”
“You don’t have to.” She turned around and looked him square in the eyes. “You wish to.”
A surprised laugh burst from his throat. His bluestocking might be exceptionally well read, but she knew very
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