Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed (Sons of Sin 1)
She blushed. He turned the most innocent words into an invitation to wickedness.
“Speaking of eccentric manners,” he said lightly, raising his glass to Sidonie in a brief toast, “you’re not in a pew listening to the Sunday sermon.”
“I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you,” she lied.
He sank his strong white teeth into a patty. “At least take the jacket off.”
She primmed her lips and wished his taste didn’t linger even after the delicacies. Curse him, she’d remember kissing him until her dying day. “As a prelude to taking everything else off?”
Amusement brightened his eyes. “Should the urge strike, don’t mind me.”
In truth, she was overly warm. Her heavy riding jacket prickled over the muslin gown. It might be nonsensical to hide her body when he’d already seen every inch, but after those soul-awakening kisses, she desperately needed defenses. To cool the heat of the air and his gaze, she swallowed some champagne. He rose to fill a plate from the sideboard and top up his wine.
“I’ve had enough,” she said quickly, but Merrick ignored her and filled her glass.
“Try this.” He fell to his knees before her and between thumb and forefinger lifted a small square of nuts and pastry shiny with syrup.
The couch was so low, when he kneeled in front of her they were eye to eye. She retreated against the sofa. “Move away.”
“So nervous, tesoro.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “And me on my best behavior. If I promise not to kiss you, will you stop worrying?”
“I—”
He smiled and pressed the pastry between her lips. She struggled to articulate a protest, then shut her eyes on a low moan of approval. “Goodness, what is that?”
“Something I discovered in Greece. I insisted Mrs. Bevan learn how to make it.” Gently he tipped Sidonie’s glass against her lips until she drank.
She opened her eyes. He leaned near, too near.
“Something that good must be sinful.”
“Sidonie, Sidonie, such a little puritan.” Shakily she took another pastry between her fingers. Eating from his hand made her feel like his lapdog.
“You were in Greece?” She nibbled at the pastry. The spicy sweetness no longer astonished, but it was just as delicious.
“You think polite conversation will keep me in line?”
To her regret, learning about him was more tempting than any bonbon. “One lives in hope.”
Slowly he drew away. “My motto.”
She inhaled, filling lungs starved of air. Her relief evaporated when he lifted one of her feet across his bent knees. “What are you doing?”
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His hold turned ruthless before she could jerk free. “Making you comfortable, cara.” A few flicks of skillful fingers and he’d removed her scuffed half-boot.
“That’s not a good idea,” she said, even as he slid the second boot away and set it down on the carpet beside its mate.
From his kneeling position, he regarded her darned cotton stockings with unmistakable disapproval. Stupid to mind, but shame at this evidence of poverty rose like bile. With shaking hands she tugged her skirts down to cover her feet. “I suppose you’re used to painted harlots flaunting themselves in silk and lace.”
His lips twitched. “Painted harlots? Your imagination runs amok.” He inched her skirts up past her ankles.
Lurching forward, she slammed her hand down upon his. She realized her mistake when the heat of his palm radiated over her shin. “Mr. Merrick! You have no right to undress me.”
“Only your stockings, cara.”
“Permitting the removal of my undergarments exceeds our bargain.” She wriggled free and struggled to stand. The squashy sofa proved appallingly difficult to escape. When finally she rose as clumsily as a drunken bear, it did her no good. Merrick caught her hand and tugged sharply. With an undignified bounce, she collapsed back onto the cushions.