The Dangerous Mr. Ryder

‘Thank you. Has it occurred to you that we have been touching—inadvertently or otherwise—all day?’

‘Of course. It was unavoidable. Butter?’

‘Thank you, no. And?’

‘And nothing. Touching in bed is quite another matter.’

‘That, my dear, is indubitably true.’

Eva almost choked on a further incautious mouthful of wine and stared at Jack across the steaming dishes. ‘I do not need you to tell me that. I am a mur…married ludy. Lady.’

‘Widowed lady,’ he corrected gently. ‘More wine.’

‘Yes.’ She was obviously tired, despite that nap in the carriage. Otherwise why was her tongue tangling itself? ‘Please.’

‘So.’ Jack chewed thoughtfully. ‘How to avoid this undesirable inadvertent touching? Whilst allowing me a decent night’s sleep.’ He reached across the table and lifted the second bottle of wine and the corkscrew. ‘What forethought on my part to order two bottles.’

‘It is a tolerable vintage,’ Eva allowed, fanning herself with her napkin. It really was warm in here. ‘As to the bed, thatsh—I mean, that’s your problem, Mr Ryder. You arranged it.’

‘What if I sleep on top of the bedclothes and you under them? More capon?’

‘Thank you.’ She was obviously hungry or why was her head spinning so? ‘Wearing what?’

‘Me or you?’

‘You, of course.’ Her glass was empty again. It really was a most excellent vintage.

‘A nightshirt.’ He lifted his wineglass, then glared at her over it as she snorted. It wasn’t a very elegant reaction, Eva acknowledged vaguely. Grand duchesses never snort, but really!

‘What, exactly, is there in that to provoke a snort?’ Jack demanded.

‘Men look ridiculous in nightshirts. Hairy legs sticking out of the bottom.’ Did I just say that? She blinked at the wineglass. It appeared to be half-full now. How many had she drunk?

‘Well, in my case you won’t be looking, so if you can just steer your imagination away from the aesthetic horror of it, we will be all right.’

He isn’t pleased I commented on his hairy legs. I suppose he has got hairy legs, all men do, don’t they? He has a hairy chest. Not very hairy, though, just nicely hairy. Some remnant of restraint, surfacing through the effects of four glasses of wine on a nearly empty stomach stopped her complimenting Jack on the niceness of his chest. A creeping feeling of unease that perhaps this conversation was not all it should be began to steal over her.

‘I think I am going to go to bed. Into bed. Under the covers.’

Jack stood up. ‘Can I be of any assistance? The door is over there.’

‘I know that,’ she said with dignity, gathering her skirts around her and paying particular regard to her deportment. ‘Good night, Mr Ryder.’

The effect of this exit was somewhat marred by a very audible hiccup.

Chapter Eight

Eva woke, far too hot and with a thunderous headache. She hadn’t recalled the bedclothes being quite this thick—but then her memories of the previous evening were somewhat uncertain. She had drunk far too much, that was indisputable. She had discussed lust and beds and nightshirts with Jack in a most outrageous manner. Eva screwed her eyes tighter shut and prayed that she hadn’t actually said anything about hairy legs. Had she? Or worse, chests. Please, God.

She shifted restlessly under the weight of the blankets and found that it was not layers of woollens weighing her down, but one long masculine arm thrown over her ribcage that was pinning her to the bed. At the risk of a cricked neck, she turned her head and found herself almost nose to nose with Jack.

‘Good morning. Do you have a headache?’

‘What are you doing!’ It was a shriek that almost split her head as she uttered it. Eva closed her eyes again with a groan. Warm breath feathered her face.

‘I must have turned over in the night. No inadvertent touching, though,’ he pointed out with intolerable self-righteousness.

‘Will you please remove your arm?’