He ignored it.
Because gentle tremors were running through her. She wasn’t afraid, but she was quite overwhelmed. A virgin? More than likely.
But she was not without passion. She’d admitted to having urges. She wanted an affair. An unmarried woman’s lot was a sorry one, but it didn’t have to be pitiful.
She molded her chest against his, and although the pressure sent a pang through his wrist, he held her more tightly.
If Miss Violet Faraday wished to claim the pleasures denied most spinsters, he was quite willing to step up. He splayed his palm over her backside, massaged, and squeezed. Was she wet for him? A question easily answered by lifting her onto the table, sliding his hand up her leg…
Not tonight, however.
“Prickles,” she murmured against his lips. Delicate fingertips danced around his neck, to his face, exploring his jaw. “Your whiskers.”
Simon inhaled.
No, not tonight.
He rubbed his jaw along her cheek, and the squeal he evoked was unexpectedly satisfying.
But above that sound, Simon heard the vague rumbling of a carriage out front. “Shhh…”
Her eyes were wide. She had heard it too.
“Stay here,” he ordered, stepping toward the small staircase that led back upstairs. “Finish your tea.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked. “What have I done? They can’t know! No one can ever know!”
“I’m going to get the door,” he informed her, “in case you forgot my duties.” He was frustrated to be interrupted but also at the horror on her face. She might as well have slapped him. “Once I’ve locked the doors behind them—” He shook off the unfamiliar stinging sensation. What was it? Rejection? Simon gathered himself. “I’ll return so I can escort you back to your chamber. Please, wait here for me.”
She pinched her lips together, lips that were plump, red, and glistening, but she didn’t argue.
His irritation wasn’t only with her, but with himself, rather. Simon turned on his heel, cooling his temper as he climbed the steps.
He didn’t dally with unwilling women.
Furthermore, any woman who ever shared his bed knew precisely what she was getting into. The lady was well aware of who he was, what he was, and precisely what he was willing to offer. Not that he was one of those men who required a constant stream of women, but there had been times when he’d kept a mistress. He’d had a few affairs.
Arriving at the foyer, he stepped forward to take Lady Iris’s coat. “How did the cards treat you, my lady?”
“Fickle, Mr. Cockfield. Fickle,” Greystone’s aunt said. “I imagine yours was a quiet evening with all of us out. Violet, I’m certain, went to bed at sunset. I swear, my niece has always been a country person at heart.”
Lady Posy and Greystone followed closely behind.
“Did you enjoy your visit with Lady Isabella?” Simon greeted the younger girl.
“I did. I much prefer an intimate visit than a ball or recital, as you well know.” Violet’s niece slid her arms out of her coat and allowed him to relieve her of it.
“No fires to put out this evening?” Greys asked, handing Simon his hat and cane.
“No fires.” Not in the literal sense, anyhow. “And your meeting with Lord Huntly?” he queried back. “I take it that went well?”
“It did. Preliminary discussions are underway.” But his friend didn’t sound all that excited about securing his betrothal. “Clear night. I won’t be turning in for a few hours, I think. I’ll be in my observatory if you have need of me.”
Simon locked up behind them and then returned to the kitchen, where he found Violet pacing and looking as though she was carrying a world of regret on her shoulders. He wasn’t surprised to see that she’d cleared away all remnants of their tea.
“Is it safe to go up?” Her gaze didn’t quite meet his.
“Violet.” Simon shook his head.
