“All right, what I’m gathering from that is that you would feel more comfortable if I were fully dressed. Yes?”
He exhaled a shaky breath between nods.
“Very well,” I whispered. Unable to resist, I leaned down to him. His eyes slipped shut and his chin tilted up, still eager for my attentions in spite of his discomfort. I pressed a soft kiss to his lips before dropping one, then another on his closed lids. My efforts earned me a quiet gasp as I pulled away, thrilling me in an entirely self-satisfied way. “I am going behind the screen. Don’t peek.”
I slipped behind the screen with my gown and stockings. This would have to be done alone since I had dismissed Jane for the morning.
I could not resist the urge to let the fabric of my wrap brush against my night dress as loudly as possible in the silent room. I made no claims of sainthood after all. I pulled my chemise from its place on the hook and donned it. My stays proved more challenging. Fortunately, I wore half staysa la paresseusewith this gown and could fasten them well enough myself. Stockings and petticoat donned, I slipped the sage muslin overtop.
That was where my talents ended. The long line of dress hooks would defeat me.
“William?”
“Yes?”
“I need some assistance.”
“Would you like me to call your maid back?”
“Or you could…” I trailed off. Confident now in the numerous layers of fabric between us, I stepped from behind the screen. He still had his eyes respectfully shut. “It is merely the dress, if you don’t mind?”
He swallowed, his throat bobbing enticingly. “No. No, I don’t mind.”
“Very well. You’ll have to peek I suppose.” And he did. His eyes found mine with astonishing accuracy. They had hardened to the darkest of navies. He rose slowly, stretching his limbs out while I turned to offer the line of hooks down my back for his fingers.
He started at the bottom, near the base of my spine. Though there were at least three layers between my skin and his hands, and his fingers did not stray, it felt as though there was nothing between us.
Nearly halfway up, he ran into the obstacle of my hair. His touch was featherlight as he gathered it and swept it across my shoulder gently. He continued on, his feet pressing closer with each hook. By the last one, I could feel his warmth against my back and his breath caressing my neck.
I had lost the upper hand in this. And I was fairly certain I did not want it back. Far too quickly, he finished the last hook. His hand slid around my shoulder, holding me steady while he dropped a fevered kiss to the back of my neck, just above the line of hooks.
“There,” he breathed.
Uneasily, I pushed my hair back and moved to attend to my coiffure, to add some distance, to gain my bearings. I reached for the silver brush resting on my vanity as I sat. His hand found it seconds before my own.
“Let me?” His voice was low and graveled and oh so delightful. If he spoke like that always, I would be able to deny him nothing.
Even as I nodded, I expected him to start from the top of my head and rip the brush through, taking all my tangles with it. Instead he grabbed a curl, pulling it through his fingers, studying it.
“Spun gold,” he whispered, more to himself than to me. He settled the brush at the end of the lock, pulling it slowly through before moving up an inch and repeating it.
And then I remembered where he likely gained familiarity with the care of long hair. The hurt for him was overshadowed by the warmth I felt at such reverence. And both were dwarfed by the bone-melting satisfaction that came with each pull of the brush.
Far too soon, he finished. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of my head as he set the brush aside before turning back to the settee. He left me at the vanity, bereft and desperate for more.
I spun on my stool and caught sight of his back—an enticing back at that. His shoulders were tight and unnaturally high on his frame. I caught my lip between my teeth to keep back the pleased grin at the way I had discomfited him.
Shaking the thoughts away, I recalled the reason for his presence. “Downstairs, you said you had something urgent to discuss?”
It was as though I had doused him with water. The languid, calm, sensuality disappeared. In its place the distressed posture and expression.
“Celine, love. Someone broke into my office last night. I think— I suspect— The killer, they know we’re searching for them.”
Twenty
HART AND SUMMERS, SOLICITORS, LONDON - JUNE 14, 1816
WILLIAM
