leaning her forehead against the solid door as she felt his fingers unlace her, deftly, as he'd unlaced so many other women before. She wasn't going to think about that, she told herself. She wasn't going to think at all.
The dress began to slide, catching on the narrow hoops. And then he set to work on her stays, which was a very good thing since she was having a hard time catching her breath. He freed them, then untied the ribbon that held her hoops and petticoats around her waist.
Everything fell down around her ankles in a whoosh, leaving her standing still in her chemise and stockings and drawers. She started to turn, but his hands caught her shoulders, to stop her.
"You're not naked yet.”
"I know," she said, reaching for asperity and ending up with nervousness.
"I thought we agreed you were going to get naked."
"You still have your clothes on."
"So I do," he said. "Shall we change places?"
She turned then, and he let her. In the half light, with his bruised face, he still looked beautiful.
"No," she said. "You can stay there." And she reached for his neck cloth.
She'd never removed a man's neck cloth before, and it took her a moment to figure out how to untie its intricate knots. The fact that her hands were shaking didn't make things easier. At one point she tugged when the folds weren't free, and he made a faint choking sound. "Perhaps I'd better do this myself if I'm going to survive long enough to pleasure you."
She froze. Suddenly the memory of their first meeting came back to her, when he'd mocked her clumsiness, and she tried to pull back from him.
He wouldn't let her. He caught her hands and placed them against his chest. ' You're going to have to figure out how to deal with me, darling Charlotte," he said, brushing a kiss against the corner of her mouth. "I'm a very insensitive fellow half the time, and if you take offense we'll be spending all our time fighting. Or making up. On second thought, perhaps you should keep getting angry with me."
"Why?"
"Because when we make up we'll have sex, and it will be delicious."
"Can't it be delicious without fighting?"
He'd pulled the neck cloth free and handed it to her before dropping his arms. "Why don't we find out," he said in a soft voice. "Do you think you can manage the buttons?” She could. He shrugged out of his coat. He was still in riding clothes, so he wore no vest, and the tiny pearl buttons on his snowy shirt were difficult but not impossible. At least she didn't run the risk of strangling him in the process. The shirt opened beneath her fingers, exposing his smooth, beautiful chest with just a faint sifting of hair in the center. She was fascinated by that hair. She pulled the shirt free from his breeches and pushed it off his shoulders. And then she leaned forward and pressed her face against his chest, rubbing her cheek against the softly furred part, turning her mouth against him and licking delicately, breathing in the scent of him.
He let out a ragged breath. "Get to my breeches," he begged. "Please."
"'But you said we're in no hurry," she murmured against his chest. She rubbed her face against him like a kitten, and found herself making soft purring sounds as she did so. While she was luxuriating in the touch and texture of him, he was growing ever more tense.
He took her hand and slid it down the front of his breeches, holding it there against the solid ridge of flesh. She smiled against his skin, moving her mouth downward to the flat bowl of his navel, rubbing, purring, until she sank onto her knees, pressing her cheek against his erection, letting her nose and mouth and chin brush against it through the fine wool of his breeches.
"Oh, merciful God," he muttered weakly. She put her hands up to his narrow hips, needing to hold on to something, as she caressed him with her face, her mouth, loving the feel, the freedom of it.
He held himself very still, letting her play for long minutes, as he seemed, impossibly, to grow harder and larger beneath the constricting breeches. Finally he spoke, and it sounded as if the words were being forced out. "I hate to bother you," he said politely enough, "but my breeches are becoming positively painful. At this rate I'm going to pop the stitching.