A fountain.
Lady Amelia.
Lady Amelia splashing in the fountain, wearing nothing but stays, stockings, and a chemise.
Playful…wet…
His cock sprang to instant life.
“Oh, it feels so good,” she cooed. “The water and the breeze against one’s bare skin. I’ve never felt so…good.”
Oh, he—and his cock—could think of a few ways to make her feel even better than good.
He cleared his throat. “You must come out of there at once,” he commanded with all the ducal authority he could muster. Which was a great deal, even under the current circumstances.
She acted as if she hadn’t heard him and began floating on her back.
Little of her was left to the imagination.
She was as exquisite as his imagination had insisted—long, slender, yet all the lines of her so very feminine.
“Out,” he barked.
“I think not.” She hadn’t even bothered to look at him.
Tristan wasn’t accustomed to people ignoring his commands. It irked him. Especially when any rational person could see he was in the right.
Of course, Lady Amelia was no longer a rational person. She was a person stewed to the gills.
He moved to the edge of the fountain. “Now.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Don’t make me come in after you.”
“You won’t.”
She spoke the last bit with a certainty that rubbed against his last remaining nerve.
That was it.
With focused efficiency, he shed coat, waistcoat, and cravat, stripped down to shirt and trousers. That was as far as he would go. What if someone happened upon them, and he was in the buff?
He would have to marry the chit.
That was what.
Even in Italy.
“How fussy you are,” she said, blithe and unconcerned.
On a great charge, he cleared the lip of the fountain and sank to his waist in an instant.
“It’s deeper than you’d think,” she said with the wisdom of one who had gone before.
That irked him, too.
In five great strides, the water dragging against him, he reached her. For her part, she remained floating on her back, staring up at him, small nipples hard as cherry pits through the translucent muslin of her chemise.
