Pushing a lush blond curl off her forehead, she looked about. She gathered her gown and chemise off the floor. She found one stocking on the footboard, and after much searching found the other entwined with the bedclothes—and close by his side. Eyes wide, she reached for it. Drew back. Reached for it again. Gathered it in her hand and gradually, gently, drew it toward her.
So she wanted to leave before he could stop her. A notion he found he could not bear. Grasping her wrist, he asked, “Where are you going, love?”
She jumped violently and scattered clothes everywhere. Trying to hold her gown over her nakedness, she stooped to pick up her chemise again. “I…um…I need to go back to the inn before someone…um…sees me.”
Releasing her, he stood.
She glanced at his nakedness. At his erection. And dropped the chemise again. “Oh, heavens.” She carefully didn’t look at him again, but he could see the fiery blush that lit her cheeks. “Oh…heavens.”
Gathering the quilt, he wrapped it around her shoulders and trapped her in his embrace, holding her arms at her sides, cherishing the scent of her hair. “I don’t want you to go.”
She bent her head and whispered, “It would be best if I did.”
“Best for whom?” He nuzzled the sweet, warm nape of her neck.
“I have a suitor arriving today, and my reputation is already well on its way to being destroyed by Mr. Murray.” She struggled to sound stoutly brave. “So I should go back.”
Harry hated this. To see all the warmth and openness of last night demolished by the advent of daylight. By the twin reminders of duty and fear. He ought to tell her the truth about himself now, but the sun was lightening the sky. Explanations would take time, and might include shouting—hers—when she discovered his identity. Besides, he rather cherished the notion of dressing in his best coat, gathering a bouquet of wildflowers, and coming to court her as the dreaded Edmund Kennard Henry Chamberlain, Earl of Granville.
She would either embrace him or plant him a facer.
He would take care to protect the nose she had already once broken.
So she was right. She needed to get back. Turning her to face him, he leaned down. At first she tried to avoid him, but when he caught her lips with his, she wavered, then answered him with a kiss both gratifying and passionate. Dropping her clothes on their feet, she slid her arms around his bare waist and caressed his backside with fingertips skilled for one so newly initiated. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her breasts against his chest until all he could feel was the two points of her hard nipples, the soft touch of her lips, and the firm undulation of her hips.
Lifting his head, he gasped for air and grasped for wisdom. This wasn’t a seduction. No. She stole his common sense without even trying.
“Harry.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Harry, if you would like—”
A mutual seduction, then. He pleased her as much as she pleased him. Before she could conclude her offer, he said, “You’re correct.”
She straightened. “I… am?”
“Yes.” Picking up her chemise, he pulled it over her head. “It would be churlish to treat you with so little respect after you’ve allowed me to teach you the beginnings of passion.”
r /> When her face came through, her eyes were narrowed. “The beginnings of passion? You mean…there’s more?”
He shook the worst of the wrinkles out of her gown, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “So much more, my darling.”
“Oh. My.” Her eyes grew wide again, and she considered him in a manner that both flattered and aroused. “When could we …?”
As soon as we wed. But first he had to find that letter from his mother and read it. He expected that would explain everything. “Come on.” He helped her into her gown and buttoned the back, then left her to put on her stockings and shoes as he threw on trousers, a shirt, and his boots. By habit, he slipped a knife into his sleeve, but nothing had aroused any suspicion here at tranquil Wildbriar Inn.
Such peace was enough to make a man of his calling very apprehensive, for in his experience that preceded chilling jeopardy.
He held her close to his side as they made their way across the lawn. The birds stirred, making sleepy chirps. From over the hill they could hear the occasional baa of a sheep, but nothing else was awake. Not even the insects buzzed. From habit, Harry scrutinized the windows at the inn. He saw nothing, yet …yet the hair lifted on the back of his head. Someone was watching them. Probably the chaperone, or a malicious gossipmonger, or even a romantic scullery maid. He could, and would, deal with any of them.
Yet in his experience, the explanation was usually more complex—and more deadly. He touched the knife in his sleeve.
When they arrived at the outer door, Jessie turned to him with a wobbly smile and prepared to dismiss him.
Reaching around her, he turned the knob. “I’ll see you inside.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is.”
“If someone catches us—”