Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

“She must’ve been dreaming.”

“How could she when she don’t never sleep? She said it were him, big as life, along with a servant.”

“Mebbe he rode on.”

“She says he never did. She says he come here. And now I’m the one as has to find out why he didn’t stay at the Bear like usual nor even stop in for his breakfast. And what was wrong, she wanted to know, that he gives his custom to the Crown, when all these years him and his lordship his father and all the rest on ’em, whenever they comes to Reading, they always stops at the Bear?”

Benedict swore under his breath.

The landlady of Reading’s Bear Inn should have been called Argus, for she definitely possessed more than the usual allotment of eyes.

He should not have come within a mile of Reading. He was too well known, and not only at the Bear.

“She can’t expect you to ask him,” the first voice said.

“Well, I wouldn’t, would I, even if she told me to. Do I look daft to you? I’ll ask his manservant what the matter is.”

“If it is his manservant,” said the first voice. “If she wasn’t seeing things that wasn’t there.”

Not waiting for the man to knock or listen for signs of life within, Benedict noiselessly latched the door to the hallway, crossed the tiny room, silently opened the door to the guest bedchamber, and slipped inside.

Very quietly he closed the door behind him.

He heard a sharply indrawn breath.

He turned . . . and froze where he was.

Mrs. Wingate froze, too, in the act of rising from the bathtub to reach for the towel draped upon the chair.

He found his tongue. “I beg your—”

“Ohhh—” She slipped and started to topple.

He shot across the room, scooping her out of the tub and up into his arms while the bathtub rocked, sloshing water.

She was wet, and slippery as an eel, and she was struggling—to hold on or get away, he couldn’t be sure. Trying not to drop her, Benedict bumped into the chair. He lost his footing on the wet floor and went down, landing on his back with her on top. The chair skidded across the floor.

He tried reaching for the towel, but the chair was more than an arm’s length away. Meanwhile, she was straddling him, and her breasts, her naked breasts, dripped onto his face as she tried to hoist herself up. His hands slid down to cup her wet bottom. Her wet, utterly naked bottom.

She was wet and naked everywhere, every glorious curve glistening in the morning sunlight.

She went very still, her blue gaze locking with his, her hands splayed on the floor next to his arms, boxing him in.

Water dripped from her chin to his.

She bent her head.

She licked the water droplet from his chin.

He remained very still. This is a test of character, he told himself. I can and will—I must—resist.

She lifted her head again and gazed at him, blue eyes wide and dark.

His gaze slid lower. To where the skin was soft and white and . . . pink.

Pink, the color one found on a woman in all the wickedest places.

One tiny water droplet gleamed tantalizingly on a taut, rosy nipple.

He couldn’t remember why he ought to resist.

He lifted his head and flicked his tongue over the droplet.

She shivered, and another droplet slid down the side of his neck. She bent and pressed her lips to the place. The water drop was cool, and he felt the coolness of her damp skin. But her mouth was warm, and the warmth spread outward from the place where she touched him. It shot down to the pit of his belly to make it ache, and the ache vibrated in his groin. He was hard and swollen even before their lips met, trembling with need. Theirs was a tremulous kiss, too, like the hesitant first step into a forbidden place.

Forbidden, yes, absolutely.

Also inevitable.

The taste and feel of her mouth—remembered, endlessly remembered, impossible to forget—swept away hesitation. He rushed in, like any fool.

He cupped her head to hold her in place so he could drink deep and long. She sank down onto him, and her body made a damp imprint on his clothes that did nothing to cool him and everything to inflame him.

He let go of her to tear off his clothes, heedless of buttons flying and fabric ripping. In one impatient instant he was as naked as she. Then he crushed her body against his, warming hers with his heat while he savored the lushness of her and the softness and silkiness of her and while his hands hungrily roamed the length and breadth of her: the graceful slope of her shoulders and the perfect swell of her breasts and the dusky rose nipples, taut buds against the palms of his hands.

She roamed him, too, in the same hungry way, and he kept himself in check, though the touch of those slim hands tore at the last particles of his self-restraint, and he had little other thought—if you could call the wild need thought—than to be inside her.

Still, in the back of his mind he knew this was once in a lifetime, and he must make it last as long as he possibly could. He would never have her again, and so he must have all he possibly could, and give all he had to give. And so he took possession with hands and mouth upon the soft upswell of her belly and over the span of her hips and down along the contours of her thighs. That was too near where he wanted to be, but he hadn’t the will to retreat.

He slid his hand between her legs and held her there, possessively, held her where it was warm and damp and completely feminine and pink, where a delicious pink bud hid amid the moist curls. He stroked there, and she caught her breath and let it out on the softest moan, and moved against his hand.

He had to have her then, but he had to have her completely and absolutely. Surrender, unconditional.

He stroked along the soft folds and inside, where he felt the hot pressure of flesh against his fingers. He held himself in check, and pleasured her until her entire body vibrated, and he heard her surrender in one soft cry.

Then at last he drew up her legs and thrust into her. She wrapped her legs tightly about his hips and thrust back. When he answered in kind, she threw her head back and arched her body. She was fearless and uninhibited, taking pure animal joy in him, and he could not get enough of her. He could only give himself up to her.

He was lost and didn’t want to be found. The world was bedlam and he didn’t want sanity.

He wanted only her. He let passion take them where it would, rushing recklessly to the last jolting ecstasy. He clasped her tight in his arms and held on, through a short, sweet nothingness, and he was holding her still while the world slowly rocked back into place.

BATHSHEBA LAY SNUGLY in his arms for far longer than she should have done. She need only breathe to inhale the scent of his skin, and it made her feel as though she’d drunk one glass too many of champagne.

She lay securely wrapped in his arms, her head resting on his chest, one hand clinging to his shoulder, one leg tucked between his. She wanted to stay where she was, where she had wanted to be, it seemed, since the first moment she saw him. She wanted to make believe this was where she properly belonged.

But she was too aware of the midmorning sun, and the sounds outside of a town fully awake and busy.

She made herself draw away. Or try to. His arms tightened about her. She pushed at him. The muscular arms were immovable.

“You must let me go,” she said.

“You are becoming emotional,” he said. “I knew this would happen.”

“I am not emotional,” she lied. As the languor of lovemaking wore off, she was rapidly approaching a state of panic. She was ruined, utterly. She’d ruined everything. Olivia’s future was—

“You are not thinking rationally,” he said. “I can feel it. You are agitated, when you ought to be calm and content. After all, we have done what we both have been longing to do—”

“Speak for yourself,” she said.

“If my touch disgusts you, you have a curious way of showing it,” he said.

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“I did not want to hurt your feelings,” she said.

He laughed softly, his big chest rising and falling.

“Yes, of course, you are happy,” she said tartly. “You got what you wanted.”

“Did you not get what you wanted?” he said. He drew his head back to regard her. “If that is the case, I should be happy to correct any oversights.”

“That is not what I meant,” she said. “I meant that you are a man, and lovemaking means nothing to you. It is not the same for me. I cannot simply roll over and fall asleep, especially when all my carefully arranged world is falling to pieces—and I know I have no one to blame but myself.”

There was a short silence, then, “I should not have to remind you that it takes two,” he said. “I made no effort to free myself from your wicked toils.”

She recalled what she’d done: the irresistible urge to lick the water droplet from his chin. . . the urge she’d given in to. What more brazen invitation could she have issued?

She ought to hide her head in shame, but shame was not in her character.

“No, you did not,” she said. “You put up no struggle at all.”

“I appear to be sadly lacking in moral fiber,” he said.

“That is true,” she said. She let her hand stray over his chest. “Naturally, I prefer that. The Great World will be vastly disappointed in you, however. You know what they will say, do you not?” she went on ruthlessly. If she did not face the facts, aloud, she’d let herself hope. For more. For everything to come right . . . when she knew it could only go wrong. “They will say a man of your strong character ought to have been able to resist the likes of a common harlot like me.”