A soft knock sounded at the door.
Hester paused mid-twist and looked up at the door, wondering who would disturb her at such a late hour. Had Worthington changed his mind?
Did she want him to?
Frowning, she stared at the door.
If it was Worthington, and honestly, who else would be at her door at this hour, Hester would politely send him away with the excuse the wine had given her a terrible headache.
But not before asking him to politely unbutton the gown.
Another rap sounded. Louder.
Goodness.
Composing herself, which was difficult given she’d been struggling for what seemed like hours to free herself from the gown, Hester stepped over the small piles of petticoats littering the floor and kicked the matching slippers under the bed. Her hair was down, but she couldn’t do anything about that.
Hester cleared her throat and opened the door a crack. “Mr. Worthington—” The greeting died on her lips.
Sinclair stood in the hall, not Worthington. His fists were clenched, the green of his eyes hard and cutting as emeralds.
“Not Worthington,” he practically growled, pushing open the door.
Hester stumbled back, her foot catching in one of the discarded petticoats. A wave of physical longing struck her unexpectedly, rippling down her entire body. Her stomach twisted into a delicious knot.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Black.” Sinclair reached behind him and shut the door, throwing the lock.
Oh. Dear.
Disappointment was the least of the emotions surging through Hester. Her body, every nerve trapped inside this stupid dress, arched in Sinclair’s direction while her mind steadfastly maintained shock and outrage at his appearance.
She ignored the instant fluttering between her thighs. “I have retired for the night, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Retired, but expecting Worth? Why don’t I wait with you for his arrival.” He came further into the room, stalking towards her like some great cat.
“Get out,” Hester sputtered, keenly aware of him, as she had been all night. “Don’t you have your own business to attend to? Lady Downing and her generous bosom for one. I don’t relish the thought of her roaming about looking for you. She might step in something unpleasant.”
“Her generous—” Sinclair blinked in confusion, before a slow, lazy grin crossed his lips. “Are you jealous, Mrs. Black?” His eyes flicked downward to her breasts.
“I insist.” Hester stamped her foot which wasn’t nearly as forceful when you had only stockings on. “That you must leave. Immediately. I’ve tolerated your foppish antics and your friends long enough. You may own Blackbird Heath, but you do not own me.”
They both paused, staring furiously at each other.
Finally, a bemused look crossed his handsome face. “Can’t get out of that gown, can you, Hester?”
Her lashes lowered at the sound of her name on his lips. She took a shallow breath, struggling to breathe because of the bloody corset, defeated in every way imaginable by this man.
“No.”
Sinclair moved closer, the edge of his nose trailing into the strands of her hair. Without another word, his fingers gently worked the buttons free along her spine, palms spreading every so often over her shoulders and back.
Hester felt every brush of his fingers, arching at the light, careful touch though flames lashed against her skin. She could never have dallied with Worthington, not when Sinclair made her feel like this.
She sighed in relief as the silk finally slipped down her arms.
“Tell me to leave, Hester.” The low rasp ruffled her hair and vibrated along her neck.
“But—” She swallowed. “I’ll still be stuck in my corset.”
