Yes, she was here, Lady Virtue.
Beneath his bed. Hiding.Watching. Trevor liked that knowledge. Liked it too much. Liked her eyes on him. Devouring him. Had felt it like a touch.
And that was why he had to stop. Why of the two of them, it was he, the practiced seducer, who was surrendering. He’d never been so hard without touching a woman. From her mere presence alone.
Fuck.
Still, no movement from beneath the bed.
He clung to his amusement, hoping it would make some of his longing recede. “I know you’re there, Lady Virtue. No sense in pretending you are not.”
He knew she was there because his prick was like a divining rod in her presence, pointing to the source of what it wanted most. What it couldn’t have.Ever.
His body and head ached from the bout of fencing at Angelo’s. He’d been forced to admit that the strenuous nature of a match against his skillful friend, Archer Tierney, had been ill-advised so soon after the blow he had taken to the head. He had cried off and returned home early, only to find that his chamber had been invaded.
Unfortunately, it would seem that his cockstand didn’t give a damn if wanting his ward was wrong, or if he’d recently nearly been knocked into the next century by a bloodthirsty footpad. He moved away from the hearth, stalking toward the bed, annoyed by her silence and refusal to emerge every bit as much as his inconvenient desire for her.
A city full of lovely women, many of whom would be quite easily persuaded to go to bed with him, and all he wanted was a willful, book-loving bluestocking. He hadn’t bedded anyone since the day she’d arrived at Hunt House. Perhaps another beating about the head would force some sense into his bloody mind.
Trevor stopped just short of the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. He was half-naked. It was quite barbaric of him. Certainly, scandalous. Truly, he ought to have a care and put his shirt back on, but that did not mean he was going to.
“Out, Lady Virtue,” he commanded.
“I am not a dog,” came her muffled grumble of indignation from beneath the bed.
He might have known that ordering her about would produce the desired result. Stubborn chit.
“Believe me, my dear,” he drawled wryly. “No one would ever mistake you for a hound.”
“Is that an insult?” she asked.
He was still talking to a bed.
Trevor scowled down at the offending piece of furniture. “Come out from under there, curse you.”
There was a moment of hesitation, then some rustling, and a quietoof, followed by a sigh.
“I fear that I’m stuck,” Lady Virtue said, her voice unusually quiet and devoid of impudence.
Stuck? Beneath his bed? If he’d required additional proof that she had been sent from the bowels of hell to plague him, surely this was it.
“What do you mean bystuck? My bed is relatively large, whilst you are, in comparison, sufficiently small.”
Not too small. In fact, she was, by his estimation, just wonderfully right. Well-curved in all the proper places, particularly her rump and breasts. Best not to think upon it now, however. Indeed, best to think upon itnever.
“My dress seems to be caught on something,” came her hushed answer.
It was damned disconcerting, knowing she was under there, somewhere, and he could not see her as he wished. Toying with her had been wickedly entertaining. But half the sport of crossing verbal swords with Lady Virtue was watching her as he did so. Her countenance was animated in the most entrancing way. He’d never seen another woman so brimming with enthusiasm and audacity. The combination was ridiculously compelling to him.
“Your dress is caught,” he repeated grimly, wondering if he would have to go under the bed himself to rescue her.
Surely not?
“I cannot seem to free it.”
Blast.
He lowered himself to his knees and leaned forward, peering into the darkness. “Where the devilareyou?”
