It was Spencer—thank God, it was Spencer there in his midnight-blue jacket, his red-gold hair falling over his brow.
“Win”—he was nearly across the room at her side already—“what the devil’s taking so long?”
She found herself frantically folding the greatcoat, trying to remember exactly how she’d found it. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing? I thought this was the bloody plan! During dinner, didn’t we say?”
“I—” Theyhadsaid that. Only she’d meant—“I didn’t intend for you to get mixed up in this any further than you already are, Spencer! I meant that I would return the jewels myself whilst you stayed at the table.” She nudged the edges of Noake’s greatcoat, pushing it into careful equidistance between the garments on either side.
“For God’s sake,” Spencer growled, “you don’t have to do everything yourself, you bloody-minded woman. I sent the footman guarding the door off on an errand, but he won’t be gone forever.” He clapped a hand atop hers, which had been straightening the buttons on all the coats she’d touched. “Looks perfect. Let’s go.”
“Are you certain—”
“Yes,” he said, and took her hand in his.
They both heard it then—a soft, light voice just outside the parlor door. A murmur of words.
Close. Too close.
Spencer caught her by the waist and dragged her down to the floor behind the settee, concealing both of them in its shadow.
Winnie caught her breath on a soundless gasp. She practically fell atop him—his legs braced under her hips, her body half-turned so that her back was against his chest. He stopped their fall with one arm and then, silently, eased them down, bending his elbow, letting her head come to rest beneath his chin.
The voice came closer. Lady Yardsley? A servant? Winnie couldn’t tell.
Spencer tried to shift beneath her. His breath tickled her ear—softly, so softly. As he moved, his free hand caught on the side of her bodice, which was still partially unfastened. His thumb snagged against the hooks, tugging the garment down.
They both froze.
The soft feminine voice was joined by another voice, deeper. “Could’ve sworn I left this door open.”
Winnie could feel Spencer’s heart pounding rapidly in her ear. His breath was coming quickly too—she could feel each rush of air in her hair, against the sensitive curve of her ear. He was so warm beneath her. If she tilted her face up, she could find his throat with her mouth.
She heard the sweep of the door against the plush rug as it opened.
Her own breathing turned erratic. With every soundless inhale, her chest lifted—and with each indrawn breath, the side of Spencer’s thumb brushed against her breast, separated from her skin by nothing but her thin chemise.
“Looks all right,” said the male voice. He was closer now—so close that Winnie thought she might be able to see the edge of his shoe in the shadows.
She tried not to breathe, not to move. Spencer too was motionless. Every muscle of his body was taut, rigid. She could feel the rock-hard breadth of his thigh between her own.
And his breath: quick, light, tickling her ear and neck.
It was like a caress, soft and ephemeral—like a touch sliding along her skin. Her lips parted on a silent gasp.
Her thighs felt—loose suddenly. As though they were spilling apart, softening, inviting him between them.
This was madness. The footman moved away from them, his shoes vanishing around the settee. Her nerves felt spiky, crackling with clarity. She could feel everything—Spencer beneath her, his body hard and hers melting against him.
“Good and fine,” agreed the female voice. “Come on, Reg—quick. I’ve got a quarter-hour before Pennywhistle will be screaming for help with the ices.”
“Oh God. Annie. I shouldn’t. What if someone comes by?”
“It’s dark, Reginald,” murmured Annie. “No one will see.”
“Hellion.”
“Spoilsport.”
