Love.
“You must hide beneath the bed,” Clementine said.
He glanced in the direction of the walnut tester in question. “Here now, darling. I am not a cat.”
The only sign of Fergus was his tiny orange tail, peeking from beneath the table.
“You shall fit,” she determined, and then shoved him in the direction of the furniture in question.
More knocks ensued.
On a heavy sigh, Dorset decided to oblige his betrothed. He crossed the room, lowered himself to the thick woolen carpets, and slid beneath the bed. From his vantage place, he watched the sweep of Clementine’s hem, her feet stocking-clad.
His cock became inconveniently hard at the sight of those silk stockings, for they were crimson, and they outlined the dainty turn of her ankle to perfection. Damnation, this would not do. Clementine’s skirts were to his right now, gliding elegantly over the floor. She stopped at the door, and the sound of it opening resonated in the quiet of the room.
“Forgive me,” Clementine was saying. “Fergus had quite a fright.”
“Fergus?” The navy silk skirts of the countess came into view as she entered the chamber. “And who ishe, Lady Clementine?”
“Fergus is the kitten Lord Dorset rescued,” Clementine answered brightly, her skirts coming nearer once more. “We…Inamed him.”
He wondered if their hostess, who was sharper than a rapier, would take note of her slip.
“You named him with the Marquess of Dorset?” Lady Fangfoss asked, not disappointing him with his opinion of her.
Clementine’s ankles were once more before him, and when she moved, he caught an equally mouthwatering glimpse of her calves. Dorset shifted to try to ease his discomfort and promptly found his face in the midst of a spiderweb. He made a sound of displeasure and then instantly wished to rescind the noise.
He held still, hoping no one would have heard.
“What was that sound?” their hostess queried sharply, the navy skirts coming nearer to the bed.
Blast.
The spiderweb on his nose began to tickle.
He was going to sneeze.
No, no, no, you dolt. Do not sneeze. Do not sneeze. Think of anything. Count to one hundred in Latin. Better yet, count backward. Centum—
The sneeze rocked through him, though he did his utmost to squelch it. The result was an emergent sound somewhere between a cough, a snort, and a grunt.
“Was that the kitten?” Lady Fangfoss queried next, sounding suspicious and perplexed all at once.
Clementine coughed. “Forgive me, Miss Julia. It was me, I am afraid. There was a bit of dust in my throat.”
“You must try to recall I am Lady Fangfoss now, my dear,” the countess gently chided.
“Of course. Pray forgive me, my lady. I am rather at sixes and sevens today.” Clementine moved once more, providing Dorset with a clear view of her tempting ankles.
When she was his wife, he was going to caress every inch of her. He was going to kiss his way from her instep all the way to her mouth. He would stop at her knees. She had lovely knees. Then kiss his way along her inner thigh. Her skin was as smooth and soft as silk there.
He suppressed another groan as a bolt of desire lanced him.
This was not helping matters.
He had to think of something else.
Anything else.
