“That…that is my ankle,” she said, sounding curiously breathless.
His lips twitched, for again, he imagined he knew the reason why. He should make haste with plucking her gown free—rip the thing to shreds if necessary—withdraw from the madness of the moment, haul her from under the bed, and demand she leave his room and never dare encroach upon it again. That would be the honorable thing to do. The sane thing to do.
“Is it?” he asked mildly instead, his fingertips traveling over silken stockings, learning the firmness of her Achilles, a vulnerable place on so fierce an opponent.
Temptation broke him. There was perspiration on his brow now. He had permission to touch. She’d asked him for help, had she not?
Trevor stroked once with his forefinger, then again with his thumb, the hitch of her breath and the sensation of this forbidden part of her making him almost giddy. Who would have thought, that of all the occasions upon which he had caressed a woman, the most erotic would be in the shadows beneath his own bed, his touch skating over a place as uninspiring as the back of an ankle?
“Yes,” she said, a hiss of sound breaking the spell touching her had cast upon him, but not entirely. “Ridgely, my bare ankle is not where my dress is caught.”
He might have told her that her ankle was not truly bare. The stockings were an unwanted impediment to the seduction of her skin. And he almost asked her to call him Trevor. But that would have been stupid. Easily as buffle-headed as lingering here, caressing the ankle of his very forbidden, very innocent ward. Truly, he should be ashamed of himself.
“I was merely eliminating the possibility,” he said, allowing his investigation to travel higher again, then extending his reach, sliding until both his shoulders were wedged beneath the bed. What a dilemma it would be if the two of them managed to trap themselves here at once, he thought wryly before treating her to some queries of his own. “Why were you hiding from me in my own room? Or perhaps the true question is why were you in my room at all?”
Muslin and linen were no match for his hand. He felt all of her, every exquisite curve, and he was certain, as he caressed his way to her other leg, that the sensation of Lady Virtue Walcot’s limbs would forever be impressed upon his palm. It would be a memory that lasted all his days. A sensual taunt of what perfection truly felt like.
“What were you doing inmyroom?” she demanded, some of her sauciness returning.
Regrettably, he found the place where her gown was indeed caught on a rough, wooden slat beneath his mattress. His fingers began to work her muslin free.
“I was discovering that you lied to me,” he told her, forcing some sternness into his words as he reluctantly remembered their disparate roles.
He was not here to corrupt her. Rather, his task was to see her estate sold off and to wed her to a suitable gentleman as hastily as possible. Then he could bed someone far more suitable. He could bed two someones if he wished. Ten, even, though not all at once. One for each night. A sennight and a half of wickedness. Better yet, a full fortnight. Oh, the possibilities.
Pity the only female who interested him was the very vexing one who had entrapped herself in this most compromising scenario. Time to get out from underneath the bed. The position was doing strange things to his bewildered mind. Perhaps there was a lack of air. Yes, that explained it quite nicely.
He slid away in retreat. “You are freed now.”
Trevor rose to his feet, rubbing idly at his chest where the woolen rug had chafed him. He opened and closed the hand that had touched her, bemused by the lingering sensation of her tempting curves.
With a rustle and a groan, Lady Virtue’s hands appeared first, then the tempting mahogany tresses, gathered in a now-terribly-untidy chignon. She tilted her head, gazing up at him, and the effect of her brown eyes was akin to a lightning bolt crackling into the deepest, darkest part of him. Her cheeks were pink from her exertion, and he could not resist wondering if she also would look as delightfully flushed and rumpled if she were under him in bed.
“Will you not help me?” she demanded.
Quite rudely for the woman who had invaded his chamber and then so thoroughly intruded upon his privacy. But then, he supposed that the sooner he had her out, the sooner she could be on her way as well. And she would be far beyond his reach, no longer a temptation.
He caught her hands and pulled in one strong motion, bringing her gliding across the Axminster like a fish through water. It would have been amusing, the scene they presented, had he not been half-naked and were it not entirely, despicably wrong for her to be here alone with him in his chamber. She was his ward, damn it all.
His maddening, vexing, infuriating ward.
She was the minion of Beelzebub who refused to marry and leave him in peace.
She wasdelicious.
And she had to get out of his chamber at once.
He tugged her to her feet, the sudden motion sending her swaying and pitching directly into his chest. God, what a mistake, for he had no choice but to catch her there and hold her against him, to absorb how pleasant it felt, all her softness pressing into his hardness. How wickedly, inexplicablyright. To feel the fullness of her bountiful breasts crushing into him, her hands splayed on his chest.
Yes, she bloody well had to get out of here before he did something foolish.
* * *
Virtue wasin Ridgely’s arms.
Hisbarearms.
And her palms were on Ridgely’s chest.
