“Well, I never!” Cecilia gasped in outrage, but her face reddened and she turned away.
He unlaced the corset, and Cecilia exhaled with relief as it eased away from her bones. Then he reached around and began releasing the hooks at the front. She inhaled again sharply.
His body rested against hers. His breath stroked the skin behind her ear. “Um,” she said.
“Yes?”
The question was a smiling whisper that made her toes curl and herwits duck for cover. But if she answered, telling him in no uncertain words to stop what he was doing, she’d be utterly, linguistically compromised and would have to marry him.
“Nothing,” she muttered.
The corset came away; he dropped it to the floor. Blood rushed through her body, stoking the heat of it until she felt she would erupt. She ran her hands down her midriff, trying to calm herself, and Captain Lightbourne cleared his throat.
“And now my hair,” she said.
“Oh God, really?”
“Unless you want me to be stabbed to death by my hairpins in the middle of the night.”
“It would be a swifter, less painful death than the one you’re putting me through.”
She laughed, and he caught her arms, turned her around.
“Sir!”
“Forgive me, but I want to see you laugh.”
She smiled, and he caught his breath. Reaching up, he drew a pin from her hair. He expected a sensuous unfurling of red-gold glory and steeled himself, but in fact the coiffure was so well established that he had to remove three more pins before it fell, all of a sudden, sending her hair in a luscious deluge almost to her waist. She brushed away strands from her face, blinking as they caught on her long, thick lashes.
“Oh God,” he said again in a strangled voice, stumbling back. “Go to bed. Quickly. And pull the blankets up high, and fall asleep at once.”
She laughed, perplexed, and he closed his eyes. “Just—bed.”
“But I need to make use of the powder room,” she said, and he groaned.
“This was a bad idea. Very bad.”
“We should have slept in the carriage?”
He envisioned it, which was another bad idea, for given that slight encouragement his imagination began to run wild. “No,” he said. “No, absolutely, definitely not. Powder room. Bed. I shall—I know, open this window, take a breath of cold night air. Yes. This, now, this was an excellent plan. So cold. Refreshing—no,repressing, that’s the word. Ice-cold, all through me, like a winter’s river—no, like Lady Armitage’s cold, thin face. Perfect, Ned. Just keep thinking about Lady Armitage and everything will be fine. Lady Armitage reclining on her sofa. Lady Armitage’s mouth. No, you want to be calm, not queasy. Lady Armitage telling me to bring her a finger.”
“What are you talking about?” Cecilia asked. He turned, jaw clenched, and almost leaped out of the window to see her standing close by him. She smelled of wine and roses, and a little of sweat that made him think as vehemently as possible of Lady Armitage throwing ice-cold water at him. Her breath stirred beneath her fine lawn chemise, stirring him as well. Lady Armitage put down the water buckets and shrugged.
“What?” he said stupidly, trying not to stare.
“Never mind.” Slipping past him, she leaned on the windowsill, inhaling the dark air. “Night is like the underskin of a poem, don’t you think, Mr. Lightbourne?”
“Captain,” he answered, for want of anything more sensible.
She sighed, and her face softened, and as Ned watched anxiously, tears filled her eyes.
“You need to go to bed,” he reiterated, for if there was one thing that truly terrified him, it was a crying woman. He had not thought this one capable of it.
“I love a horizon,” she said, leaning farther out the window. “That feeling of longing, of mystery and distant magic, pulls always on my soul. I suppose that’s where my mother must be. Roaming through the afterlight, stealing heaven...”
She lifted a hand as if to reach for Cilla, and Ned caught her before she tumbled out.
“Come on,” he said, guiding her firmly away from the longing horizon toward the solid, safe bed. When they got there, she crawled over the quilt and burrowed in like a child.
