Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

“Much to your exasperation, I know…” Olivia’s eyes flew open. “W-what are you doing?”

“Taking off your half boots,” said John, who was already kneeling. “Stop squirming. The laces have tangled into knots.”

It took him several long moments to ease the mud-spattered leather from her stockinged feet. After setting them by the washstand, he rose and moved—a little stiffly, she noted—around to the far side of the bed. “Our valises have been brought up. I shall blow out the candle, and if we both turn our backs to each other, we should be able to dress for sleep with a minimum of embarrassment.”

“But of course, sir. That’s a perfectly practical suggestion,” replied Olivia, accepting the bag she had borrowed from Cecilia. “As you know, I’m not a dewy-eyed virgin, so I’m not about to fall into a maidenly swoon.”

However, the soft rustling of fabric from across the darkened room did stir a fluttery little tingle along the length of her spine. She couldn’t help but picture John’s shirt sliding over his head, revealing the stretch of sun-bronzed muscle and the peppering of coarse curls on his chest—

Don’t.

Olivia wriggled out of her garments and hastily assumed the heavy linen nightrail that the earl’s sister had provided.

Don’t think of his body, don’t think of his kisses.

Only fools made the same mistake twice, and she prided herself on possessing a modicum of intelligence. Though that might be questionable, she admitted to herself, given her actions over the last few weeks.

Fishing a hairbrush out of the valise, Olivia edged over to the dressing table, grateful that the looking glass was naught but a dark blur within the moon-kissed shadows. Unpinning her locks, she ran the bristles through her windblown curls, hoping to smooth the worst of the snarls.

“You may turn around now, sir,” she murmured, keeping her own back to the center of the room. “Even without the shroud of near darkness, modesty has been more than satisfied.”

His steps stirred hardly a sound. There was somethin

g very intimate about the moment—the soundless shadows, the whisper of bare feet on the rag rug, the soft swoosh of her strokes.

Swoosh, swoosh.

John’s touch was light as a zephyr—for an instant she thought it was merely a draft ruffling the loose linen of her nightrail. But then the pressure of his fingers deepened, their tips massaging at her taut muscles.

“Wrexham.” Her voice wavered somewhere between question and a protest.

“Hush,” he said, his palms stroking inward from the ridge of her shoulders to top of her spine.

Olivia wasn’t sure that she was capable of further speech. Simply breathing was proving difficult.

“The travel was rough today,” he added. The heat of him was soothingly warm. “And I fear it will likely get rougher.”

His hands kept up their steady movement. Strong, sure. Yielding to his slow circling, the knots in her back began to melt away.

As for the lump in her throat…

Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the sweet, sweet sensations of his touch. Heaven only knew if she would ever feel it again.

“You need not subject yourself to further discomforts,” murmured John after another few minutes. “I have the map, the instruments. Come morning, you can stay here while I continue on. I can send a letter to Cecilia and she will come fetch you.”

“Absolutely not,” said Olivia, finally finding her voice. “I’ve come this far, and I’ve no intention of turning back and allowing you to face those dastards on your own.”

“Miss Sloane, I’ve faced far worse odds on the battlefield.”

“No doubt,” she replied. “But you are forgetting that this is my fight, too. These men wish to silence our voice by threatening your son. I want to help you quash their nefarious plans—together we will free Prescott and see them defeated in Parliament.”

A muffled sound, and a breath of air tickled against the nape of her neck. A sigh? A laugh? Or perhaps a mixture of the two.

“You,” he murmured, “are far too determined—and too stubborn—for your own good.”

“Yes, well, that is why the tabbies of the ton call me the Hellion of High Street. I have had to be tough as nails in order to follow my passions, sir. If that offends you, I am sorry. But I am not, and will never be, a demure demoiselle.”

“It was not meant as a criticism,” said John softly. Drawing his thumbs down either side of her spine, he set his hands on the small of her back. Their warmth sent a lick of heat spiraling through her core.