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“Alan,” Reina soothed, leaning down with her arm extended.
Alan flipped onto his back in front of her, stubby legs in the air. He exposed his chest and vitals in a posture of utter submission, his tongue lolling out.
My thoughts exactly, John wanted to say dryly. Instead, he murmured to Reina, “You look very smart this evening, ma’am.”
Reina glanced up while rubbing the dog’s little chest, her eyes sparkling as if she could read his true thoughts. “Thank you, Pembroke. I’ll return the compliment.”
He had dressed in the usual masculine scheme of black and white, but his cravat was pearl gray silk, tied in a four-in-hand knot.
“He looks like he always does,” Belinda grumbled.
“What would you have him wear, you goose?” Enid asked good-naturedly. “Flowers and polka dots?”
Tuppence was chuckling. “There’s no way for a gentleman to stand out when it comes to evening clothes, Belinda. They all have to wear black.”
“I have no desire to stand out,” John said sincerely, reaching down to assist Reina.
She took his hand and rose to her feet.
He adored the feel of her hand in his. He wanted to draw it around his neck and pull her off balance until she was pressed all along him. One of the curls at the top of her head brushed his chin in a silky tickle. The scent of her skin-warmed perfume invaded him with every breath. He was overwhelmed with the desire to snatch her up and take her to some dark, private place, and feast on her with the longest, deepest kisses either of them had ever known. God, he couldn’t bear to think of it . . . being inside all that radiant energy . . .
Somehow he forced himself to let go of her hand, breaking the link between them.
“Is the carriage ready?” Reina asked.
“Aye, ma’am. Maddock is waiting outside.”
Enid went to Reina with something in her hand. “Let me help with your gloves, ma’am.”
Reina extended her arms in turn, while Enid carefully slid a glove up to each elbow and fastened it.
John was thrown into confusion as he saw that Reina’s arms were covered in delicate black lace. “You’re going to wear those out?” he asked.
She blinked in surprise, her brows lifting.
Enid replied with a flinty edge to her tone. “Why wouldn’t she? They’re her gloves.”
They weren’t really gloves, though. They had no fingers, nothing but a hole for the thumb. They didn’t keep the hands warm or offer any kind of protection . . . they didn’t do anything gloves were meant for. They looked like bedroom garments, simultaneously revealing and concealing.
“Other women will be wearing gloves like these at the tertulia,” Reina said. “They’re made of Spanish lace . . . look.” She came close to him, offering an arm for his inspection.
John had no choice but to take her wrist and stare down at the intricate sheath of black lace, which had turned her skin into erotic art. He was wrenched with the desire to press his lips to it; find the taste of her through the fragile mesh.
Her voice came to him as if from a distance, muffled by the thudding heartbeat in his ears. “It’s made by hand with bobbins. They weave threads together, pinning them to a pillow to hold them in place.”
“Interesting,” he said dazedly, releasing her wrist with the care of a man handling explosives.
Reina turned to Tuppence, who stepped forward with a black wool garment draped over one arm.
“Here’s your evening cloak, ma’am, ” Tuppence said brightly.
Reina’s brilliant smile encompassed the three women. “Thank you, all of you, for your help.”
“It was a pleasure, ma’am,” Tuppence said, and managed a shallow curtsey in spite of her ungainly stomach. And Enid, even with her stiff hip, performed an approximation of a curtsey.
Reina was obviously surprised by the curtseys, which she never would have expected or required. But it was a sign of the devotion she’d inspired, that they wanted to show her the respect they would have accorded a duchess. She glanced at Belinda, who was frowning.
“What is it, dear?” she asked.
