John could kiss her down there again and soon they’d be married and that would make it all proper.
Still, he waited.
Charlotte stood, wiped her hands on her skirts nervously, and then took a step toward him, taking pleasure in his quick inhalation of breath.
She reached into the pocket of her gown for the handkerchief she kept there. It had been protected from the worst of the rain.
“Here,” she said, looking for an excuse to touch him. She reached up and dabbed the water that still hung at his temples, ran the handkerchief along the hard, sharp planes of his cheekbones, let her hand trace his hairline, transferring her touch to his neck, to the folds of his cravat, to the edge of his collar, to the plain silver stick pin.
“You’re soaked,” she whispered.
John swallowed hard. She could feel the movement underneath her fingers. “We are both drenched.”
She took a fortifying breath. “We should remove this clothing, then, don’t you think? We don’t want to become bedridden.” Her cheeks flushed. She did very much want them to become bedridden. “I mean sick. We don’t want to come down with a fever.”
John smiled. “Agreed.” He ran his palm down her side and along her waist, before settling it on her hip. His fingers depressed her derriere.
Charlotte slid the stick pin from the cravat and slipped it into her pocket. She tugged at the knot. It didn’t come apart as easily as she expected. The dampness of the fabric made it difficult to undo. She bit her lip and tugged harder, her eyes trained on the white cloth in front of her until John’s hands came over hers, warm and strong.
She flicked her gaze upward. He was looking at her with an amused smile. He raised her hands to his lips, gave them a quick kiss, and then dropped them to turn his attention to his cravat. The way he yanked at it betrayed his urgency.
The heat she felt rising had nothing to do with the increased flames behind them.
At last, the knot came free. He held her gaze as he unwound the cravat and slid it off. Only when it hit the floor with a soft thwack did she realize she wasn’t breathing.
She exhaled, watching his delicate fingers make quick work of the lace of his collar. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in a hurried movement, revealing all of him.
Well, notallof him. But certainly enough. Certainly more than she’d seen before.
He was beautiful. He had the body of a ballet dancer, lean and graceful and both undulating and hard at once. There was a shadow at the hollow of his throat—a darkness she wanted to sink into. The firelight caught the flared wings of his collarbone, and she couldn’t help but reach a hand up to trace them. He tensed, and she could see the regular thrum of his heartbeat at his throat quicken, jolting her own heartbeat into an erratic thump.
Tentatively, she brushed her fingers downward, over the bone and to his chest, where light brown hair rasped beneath her fingertips. As she trailed through it, mesmerized by the feel of him, his nipples tightened, the way hers did when she had particularly untoward thoughts.
“God, Charlotte.” The words were almost a plea. His chest tensed, the interlocking muscles at his waist flexed. By his side, his fists clenched, but he seemed determined to let her direct what happened next.
She stepped closer to him, until his skin was only inches from her lips, until she could feel the heat that radiated from him. She reached a hand up again, this time to his back, her palm coming to rest on hard muscle above his shoulder blade. Her other hand rested on his waist, on the rope of muscle that fit into her hand perfectly, that started above his hip and traveled down well below the waistband of his breeches.
He was magnificent. Half naked, he was a god.
Not wanting to be outdone, Charlotte undid the buttons of her pelisse, trying to ignore the shaking of her fingers. When it was free, she shrugged it off, and it landed in a literal puddle on the floor.
Her dress would be a different matter. Her fingers rested on the lace at her neckline.
John ran the back of his finger across her cheek, down her jaw, and then tipped her face so it tilted toward him. As he captured her mouth in a kiss, his hands stole around her back to deftly undo her buttons, one by one, from the neckline through to the small of her back.
“Goodness, you’re an expert at that.”
“No valet,” he whispered. “I’m an expert at knots, buckles, and buttons.”
With its fastenings undone, the dress hung loose. With a nervous breath, she let it fall to the floor.
John’s hands fisted by his side for a brief second before he raised them, allowing his palms to skim over her stays and then her skin.
Goose bumps skittered across her. His touch was so, so light, yet it still felt as though he’d marked her permanently, the way a sculptor carved out stone, forever leaving a mark that could not be erased.
His fingers skimmed lower until they reached her drawers. His hands felt hot through the fine cotton. He didn’t untie the laces, though. Instead, he turned his hands to his breeches, undoing the fall and unlacing the waistband. As he leaned over to peel the breeches from his skin, he caught her gaze.
It was a cheeky, scandalous look that divested her of her nerves. It promised fun and more of the naughty kissing she’d been looking forward to. As he stood, she turned so that he could undo the laces on her stays. When they were loose enough to shimmy out of, she pulled them over her head and then turned around, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him with all the enthusiasm she could muster.
