‘You don’t look as if your ride did you much good,’ said Tom when he caught sight of her mutinous expression. ‘You look all hot and bothered.’
‘Thank you,’ she said tartly. ‘That is exactly what every girl wishes to hear. That she is looking far from her best.’
‘Would it help,’ he said, deliberately ignoring her waspish tone, ‘if I were to comb out your hair for you?’
‘Comb my hair?’
He indicated the comb she held in her hand. The comb she didn’t even recall picking up. She gazed at it, wondering what category permitting him to act as a sort of lady’s maid came under. Would it be the equivalent of warming her hands, or shoving them right into the flames?
‘You were about to tackle it yourself, weren’t you? And I know how long it takes you. I’ve watched you wrestling with the tangles often enough. And though you’ve done without a maid very well,’ he said in as calm and rational a tone as he could muster, ‘surely, you would appreciate having someone else do it for you?’
Well, there was no harm in asking, was there? The worst she could do would be to refuse his request. But if she let him, ah, then he’d have the memory of sifting all that glorious golden mass through his fingers.
A victorious feeling soared when she plumped herself down on the edge of his bed, her back to him, and handed him the comb with what looked like resignation.
‘I used to think having the maid dress my hair was the most tiresome part of the day,’ she said as he deftly unbound the braids into which she’d fastened it that morning. A shiver of longing rippled through him as her tresses flowed across her shoulders and down her back in waves. All the way to her waist. ‘But at least it wasn’t my arms that ached with the effort of subduing it.’
It wasn’t his arms that were aching, either, just at the prospect of plunging his fingers into all that silken glory.
‘It could do with washing, really,’ she added, as he started at the tip of one lock and began to tug the comb through. ‘It has been getting dustier, and dirtier, every day.’
‘Shall we ask Madame if she will bring a bath up here and some hot water? I could wash it for you.’
She sighed. ‘Oh, that would be heavenly, Tom, only—’ she shook her head ‘—it would also be disastrous. I haven’t any of the special lotion Mama found that helps it take a curl. And nobody to put it in papers. I dare say it is very vain of me, but I have no wish to let you see me looking like a half-drowned waif with a head full of rats’ tails.’
‘You could never look like that,’ he said, laying aside one lock and starting on another. ‘A mermaid, perhaps, washed ashore after a storm. Come to steal the heart of the poor fisherman who caught you in his net.’
She shook her head and sighed. ‘Tom, you do say the most p
reposterous things. But you do tempt me to yield. To the idea of washing my hair,’ she added hastily. ‘Only, don’t you think it would be rather improper?’
‘You are about to get into bed with me. Spend another night in my arms,’ he pointed out. ‘Isn’t that even more improper?’
She cocked her head to one side. He could almost hear the wheels whirring in her mind as she considered her response.
‘No,’ she said at length. ‘I don’t know how it is, but cuddling with you doesn’t feel anywhere near as improper as letting you wash my hair.’
He knew why it was. He could just see her closing her eyes and leaning back. He could feel the liquid warmth anointing his fingers as he massaged her scalp. Hear the little moans of pleasure she’d give as he poured warm water from the pitcher to rinse out all the lather. She’d arch her neck, thrusting out her breasts...
The comb slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
She bent to retrieve it. His eyes fixed on the curve of her bottom where the nightgown stretched over it. He’d become erect at the vision he’d just had, of her getting wetter and soapier as he rhythmically ministered to her. From behind.
Now he was as hard as a ramrod.
He groaned.
She turned swiftly, a concerned frown on her face.
‘What is it, Tom? Is something hurting? Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have let you comb my hair. Lie down and rest.’
She bent over him, laying one hand across his brow.
‘I don’t need to rest. I need...’ He swallowed. Then, pushed to the limits of his endurance, he reached up to cup the back of her neck. ‘Don’t you know what you make me want, when you speak of intimacy and the impropriety of being in bed together?’
‘I’m sorry!’ Her face was a picture of contrition. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘I know. That’s the hell of it,’ he gritted. Then, since his soul was bound for hell, anyway, he pulled her down to him and sipped at her lips.