too much?”
“Was mine?”
His lips curve in a grin, eyes dancing. “Certainly not, as I think my note made clear.”
“It did. However, I also noticed that, while you waxed appreciative on my epistolary efforts, you did not return them in kind. It was most disappointing.”
His lips lower to my ear, whisper tickling as he says, “I certainly can, having had more than enough time to consider the matter. Shall I tell you how I would have responded, had you carried through with your inclinations and climbed into my bed?”
Heat rushes through me, and I shiver, knees weakening. Yes, that’s terribly cliché of me, but my knees literally do weaken, and if he hadn’t been holding me up, I might have swooned at his feet. Or, possibly, jumped him, which wouldn’t be nearly so period appropriate.
I look up into his face. “I would love for you to tell me. The only thing I’d like more is for you to demonstrate.”
His breath catches, and his grip on me tightens, eyes clouding with desire so sharp my knees really do give way, just a little.
“You did warn me about this,” I manage. “Should I rap my own knuckles?”
He laughs, soft and hoarse, and he straightens. “I believe so. I really do have plans for this evening, and they do not begin this way.”
“Do they end this way?”
A chuckle, ragged and knee weakening. “A gentleman does not divulge his intentions. And I fear that if I do, I will divulge them in great detail, upon which we will decide not to leave this bedroom.” He takes a deep breath, steps back and waves me to the door. “Our evening begins down the hall. Follow me if you please.”
21
William leads me to the master suite. As he grips the doorknob, I say, “You’re taking me from one bedroom to another? Well, the bed is much larger in here. Or, perhaps, we’re going to begin in one and move to another, make our way through all the rooms. Intriguing. Potentially exhausting, but if you’re up to it . . .”
He casts a look over his shoulder.
I rap my knuckles. “Sorry.”
“Indeed. There will be none of that.” He pushes open the door. “At least, for the next few hours.”
“Hours?”
His mock-scowl makes me grin. He steps back to usher me through. Teasing has never been my style, but he so obviously appreciates it—while so obviously trying not to appreciate it—that my inner coquette has been unleashed. I’m about to tease again when I see the dress, laid across the bed, and I stop, gaping.
Victorian dresses are often ornate or overdone. This one is simplistic perfection. Copper satin shimmers like fresh-minted pennies. The only ornamentation is the short puffed sleeves with black lace oversleeves. Sophisticated and stylish and utterly gorgeous.
I glance at William, expecting to see his lips tweaked in a very satisfied smile. Instead, he’s running a finger over his chin, watching me apprehensively.
“It is . . .” He clears his throat and straightens. “We never discussed your fantasy of attending a ball beyond the basic concept. I know the dress is a large part of that, but as for exactly what sort of dress you imagine . . .” Another throat clearing. “I am hoping this one is . . . vaguely suitable.”
“Vaguely suitable?” I throw my arms around his neck and give my most girlish squeal, making him chuckle in relief.
I back away and run a hand over the dress, the satin whispering beneath my fingers. Before I can speak, he hurries on with, “I am not taking you to a ball. I would if there were any I knew of in the area. I shall take you another time, but for now, I have brought the ball to you.”
“A ball for two?”
He pulls at his collar. “Yes, that’s hardly a proper affair, and not at all what you imagined—”
I press my lips to his, stoppering his words. Then, I pull back with, “Tonight I’d prefer a ball for two. Thank you.”
A flush creeps up his face as he tugs again at his collar. Then he glances down at his own clothing. “This is not my attire for the evening, of course. I will be changing shortly, after the—”
The front door knocker sounds. I stiffen, but he only turns to the hall with a soft curse. “She’s early.”
Another rap, harder now. He glances at me, looking flustered. “You are a widow.”
“Uh, yes, I believe we’ve established—”
“A widow I knew as a childhood friend.”
“Also correct but—”
“I must answer