To All the Rakes I've Loved Before (A Honeycote Novella) by Anne Barton Page A

illuminating for him as it would for her.
    * * *
    What did one wear to one’s almost-fall from grace? Amelia riffled through her wardrobe in search of something suitable for seduction. She was tempted to remain in the dress she’d worn to dinner that night, but one felt a bit foolish wearing so many clothes in one’s own bedchamber after midnight. She could opt for the pretty robe that she’d been wearing the night Stephen arrived, but it seemed to Amelia that this evening cried out for something rather more… daring. So, a few minutes after Cicely had braided her hair and helped her into her modest cotton nightgown, Amelia took it off and slipped into her finest chemise—the one with tiny satin rosettes on the straps and a low neckline edged in delicate lace. A flounce at the hem tickled her calves, just below the knees.
    And that was all she wore. No corset, no stockings, no slippers. Just yards of smooth silk whispering against her skin, making her feel very naughty indeed.
    In deference to the night’s chill, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and settled into a chair before the fireplace to wait for Stephen.
    The house grew quiet, and Amelia knew the staff had retired, leaving the coast clear for him. An hour passed, and she began to wonder. Had she accidentally locked her door? She padded over to check, and the moment she put her hand on the knob, the door opened inward.
    Stephen stood hesitantly in her doorway, the candle he held casting a flickering light on his bruised but still heartbreakingly handsome face. His gaze roved over her, lingering on her breasts and somehow making them feel swollen and heavy. He swallowed. “Amelia,” he whispered. It was a question. She saw the need and tenderness in his eyes and smiled, knowing she would never regret this night.
    “Come in.”
    He locked the door behind him, and she waved him toward the armchair where she’d been sitting. He wore a crisp white shirt—with no cravat to hide the delicious skin at his throat—and his buckskin trousers. And… Hessian boots.
    She must have looked puzzled because he shot her an apologetic smile. “I had the devil’s own time getting them on with my ribs so sore.”
    “You didn’t have to wear them, you know.”
    “I thought they would help me keep myself in check. Keep things from going too far.”
    She frowned, confused. “Boots are an impediment?”
    “I don’t like wearing them in bed.”
    “Oh.” She warmed at his thoughtfulness, and some of her awkwardness melted away. “Would you like a glass of sherry?”
    “No, thank you.” He turned serious and ran a hand through his hair. “Amelia, you take my breath away.”
    Her skin tingled and her nipples tightened at the compliment. Her fingers itched to touch him. “Where shall we begin?”
    He chuckled. “The first rule is that there must be no rushing.”
    “Why must there be rules?”
    “Because I want this to be special. For you… for us.”
    Well. That was a good reason. “May I make a suggestion—about where to begin?”
    He arched a brow. “Of course.”
    “I should like to remove your shirt.”
    Letting out a long, slow breath, he nodded, and held his arms slightly away from his sides in invitation. Amelia eagerly accepted.
    Grabbing handfuls of fine cambric, she pulled his shirttails out of his trousers and lifted the shirt over his head. He disentangled his arms from the sleeves and tossed the shirt behind him.
    Without hesitation, Amelia placed her hands flat on his chest. A light sprinkling of hair brushed against her palms, and the skin beneath felt warm and hard. He kept his hands at his sides while she traced the slight indentation down the center of his torso and the subtle ladder of contours on his abdomen. When she reached the lowest rung, just inches above his waistband, he inhaled sharply, clasped her hands in his, and tugged her closer.
    “You are full of surprises,” he said with a smile. “But so am I.” Reaching behind her,