Chapter 14
After his conversation with her brother, Giles had not expected to see Felicity again. Let alone discover her in his bedroom. Wet. Naked.
She scooted to the other side of the bath and patted the water. “Come in. The water’s fine.”
He kicked the door shut and stalked over to her without taking off his clothes. If he removed so much as his cravat, all chance of restraint would be lost.
“I was worried sick about you,” he growled.
“About me?” She rose to her feet and met his gaze at eye level. “I’ve been worried sick aboutyou.”
Or would have, if meeting his gaze had not been delayed an irresistible second, as he took in the dripping, naked body standing in front of him.
She was not offering herself to him in marriage. She might not have intended to offer herself to him at all. But here they were, and she was not shying away. She was leaning closer.
“Let me see your arm,” she said softly.
“Arm?” he croaked.
“This one.” She pried it from his chest and winced at the profusion of contusions and scabs. “That’s it. I’m killing Wiltchurch.”
“I’m fine,” Giles assured her.
Naval officers wore silk shirts beneath their uniforms because the fabric was strong enough to pull a bullet from a wound without tearing. Giles didn’t expect to confront enemy soldiers, but a racing track was often a battlefield of its own. This hadn’t been his first accident.
He held up his arm. “The bone’s not broken. It’ll be good as new in a week or two.”
She stared at him doubtfully. “It doesn’t look like it’ll be good as new. It looks like somebody ought to accidentally shove Silas Wiltchurch in the Thames.”
Giles fully intended to have it out with Wiltchurch. Publicly, in front of plenty of witnesses. Today, in fact. High Society might suffer fools, but Giles did not. He’d ensure the blackguard was never welcome in another race again.
He lifted his good hand to Felicity’s cheek. “I’ve suffered worse. Mostly when my heart stopped, as I watched you drive away.”
She leaned her cheek into his palm with a small smile. “I did it.”
“You did it,” he confirmed. “I wish I could swing you in my arms and dance you around this room like you deserve.”
“There’s a second option.” She licked her lips. “A way to celebrate that requires very little dancing and even fewer clothes.”
Giles knew he should dissuade her from this tack. Not because he didn’t want to ravish her—she was voicing the exact thoughts he’d been having—but because he’d wanted it to meanmore. Making love to Felicity should be the beginning, not the ending.
She touched a fingertip to his damp lapel. “You should get out of these wet clothes.”
“I…” He glanced at her finger on his chest, then down to her naked body, and felt his self-control slipping away. “I’m not certain that’s the wisest idea.”
“Let me help.” She plucked at his cravat. “For purely practical reasons. At least let me clean your arm.”
He gave a tight nod. There. He would prove his arm was fine, they’d put their clothes back on, and that would be that.
Maybe.
She began to unfasten each button of his jacket, of his waistcoat, slowly, deliberately. He sucked in his stomach as her fingers stripped him a little barer with each pop of a button.
“I’ll try not to hurt you,” she murmured as she eased his ruined jacket from his wide shoulders and carefully off each arm. “But I can’t promise not to.”
He knew that. He’d known from the beginning. This moment was worth it.
“What I’m feeling isn’t pain.” He leaned into her touch despite himself. He couldn’t help it.
