Hugh shifted. “And did you take anything from my study?”
“No,” she stated somewhat breathlessly. “For the last time, I demand you release me.” She arched her head, their cheeks brushing, and so slowly, reluctantly, he backed from her one hair’s breadth and spun her to face him.
With the lantern behind her, she was a gold-framed silhouette in the dark, and whilst some of her hair was pinned, the rest fell loose about her shoulders, breasts thrust to the fore.
“You respire most rapidly, Miss Jones,” he drawled. “Through…guilt? Should I perhaps discover if your night-rail conceals any of my possessions.”
Hugh was aware he was about to act the shameful blackguard but this governess was not who she seemed – he’d wager his favoured Hessian boots on it.
“How dare you! I’m no thief and anyone would breathe with rapidity if they found themselves so mistreated.” She waggled her bound wrists and pulled her shoulders back with all the indignation of Joan of Arc. “I’m… I am just a simple governess.”
And he was a virgin. “That I doubt.”
She scowled. “I’ve nothing to hide.”
Also doubtful. So perhaps a thorough search of her would not be inappropriate.
He reached past her shoulder and brought the lantern aside her, a curious one with mirrored plates within it. The light now glittered across her skin, highlighting a gold necklace and darting butterflies in her hair.
With leisure, he roved a finger along her smooth décolletage.
All eyes followed.
“An unusual bauble,” he murmured, drawing a butterfly pendant from its luscious cocoon.
Lashes swept up and pierced him. “A gift from Lord Fowler for educating his daughter.”
“Ah, yes, the earl pursuing parakeets in the Amazonia. How convenient.”
He allowed it to drop.
And slid his hands to her shoulders, daring her to scold him.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr Cadwalader. This is no way to treat a governess.”
“No, indeed,” he whispered. “But at this moment, at this hour…” Hands slid down her arms, finding naught but pliable cotton. “Are you a governess?”
Her breath caught.
As did his.
Words abandoned them both, but eyes trailed and spoke a thousand.
Fingers skimmed to her waist and unto her hips.
He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath the cotton night-rail, could imagine pressing her back to the desk, covering her petite frame with his, nipping the pendant aside, kissing the swell of those luscious breasts.
Parting her legs…
Would she whisper his name?
Would her hands explore also?
But her hands were tied so his own continued.
A breath left her but she said not a word, which told him much.
A governess would shriek or faint but she…watched.
