And when the Roxburys left the box, it was bare seconds before Spencer’s mouth was on hers, laughing against her lips.
It was sweet. It was so sweet.
They broke apart, and Winnie pressed her fingers to her mouth—to stifle her demented giggles, perhaps, or maybe to hold the kiss against her lips.
“Bloody hell,” he said, “I had no idea if you’d be here when we arrived.”
Her laughter broke free, the heady combination of relief and exhilaration fizzing like champagne in her blood. “I ran.”
“Wherewereyou? I saw the damned necklace on the chair—Jesus, I’ve never moved so fast in my life, trying to put myself between the old viscountess and the sight of the thing. She’s canny as the devil.”
“I was”—she laughed again—“in the draperies.”
“God.” He pulled her against him, ran his hands along her back as if to assure himself that she was whole.
She clutched back at him. “How did you know I needed you?”
He pressed his face to her hair, and she felt the whisper of his breath against her ear. “Bleeding Roxbury went to order ginger biscuits and, when they had none, said he’d pop back up to the box to ask his grandmother what refreshment she preferred. I swear, Win, I thought I’d gone blind for a moment. All the blood left my head.”
She still felt amusement curling within her—and tenderness too, slow and sweeping. “It’s all right.” She went up on her toes and pressed her lips to his neck. “We did it.”
His palm was on the small of her back, and as her lips moved against his neck, he swept his hand down, cupping her buttocks. He made a sound, a rough and hungry sound, and her lingering laughter faded.
She wanted him. Silvery and dangerous, her desire had crept in around the corners of his laughter, between the steady grip of his fingers and the dimple at the edge of his mouth. And he wanted her too. Perhaps not the same way—not the sharp-edged consuming desire that filled her—but it could be enough. She would make it be enough.
His deep voice was a murmur in her ear. “Go stand in front of the balustrade.”
She pulled back and stared up at him, uncertain.
“I know you wanted to watch their box,” he said. “Make sure they found the necklace.” There was a flush staining his neck, and his pupils looked wide and dark in the gaslight. One of his hands cupped her face, and his thumb brushed against her cheek. Rubbed slowly and deliberately over her bottom lip. “I want you to stand by the railing so I’m not so tempted by this goddamned mouth.”
Her lips parted.
He pushed his thumb into her mouth, the barest intrusion. It was enough for her to feel his skin against the tip of her tongue. To taste him—sugar, ginger, cream. He made a harsh, low sound before he pulled away. “Go.”
She caught his wrist, pressed a kiss to his thumb, and then moved to stand in front of the balcony’s ledge.
The ledge was solid gilt plaster that came to her waist; above it, she was in full view of anyone who cared to look. She did not think anyone close enough to make out her heated skin, her disheveled coiffure. Spencer moved to stand just behind her as she gazed out across the theater in the direction of the Roxbury box.
His hand came to the nape of her neck. His thumb moved slowly across her bare skin, and she shivered. His fingers slipped beneath the back of her gown, pulling the bodice taut against her nipples, which had grown painfully tight and sensitive.
He traced the edge of her dress, coasting along the back of her neck and then up behind her ear. He held her nape in a careful grip, at once possessive and fearfully gentle.
“God, Winnie,” he said hoarsely, “you make me want to do such wicked things.”
Her breath shuddered out of her. “What things?”
His fingers went tight on her skin, a leashed demand. She pressed her lips together, trying to stifle a moan as desire pooled in her belly.
Across the theater, she watched Roxbury and his family enter his box.
Behind her, Spencer’s grip relaxed. He took a lock of her loosened hair between two fingers. And then, very slowly, he used the soft strands to trace the low-cut front of her bodice, where her breasts rose and fell erratically.
“I want to touch you here,” he murmured, “in full view of this whole damned theater.”
Her hair brushed along her skin. Every one of her nerve endings felt ablaze, sensitized to full awareness of even the lightest sensation. Her nipples were tight points beneath the front of her gown.
She felt dazed. She watched Roxbury across the theater—she thought she saw him exclaim as he came to his chair.
