The Wallflower Wager - Tessa Dare Page 0,33

might decide to pop in again, and what she might be wearing—or not wearing—if she did.

Instead, he sat down and wrote his letter—with pen and ink. He took his time choosing every last word. His penmanship had never been so legible. But a few paragraphs simply refused to stretch into hours. Eventually, he ran out of excuses and crossed the antechamber. As he opened the door halfway, he sent up a prayer.

Please let her be asleep in bed.

She wasn’t asleep. She wasn’t in bed.

She was on the bed. Clad in his shirt, which he’d been a bloody fool to loan her.

Draped in bedsheets, she’d been a Grecian goddess. An aloof deity meant to be worshipped, adored, even feared—but never embraced.

Seeing her swimming in the billowing waves of his shirt, however, with her fair hair hanging loose about her shoulders . . . ? The intimacy of it shook him to his core.

She looked not only desirable, but necessary. A part of him. The better part, of course. The part where his redeeming qualities might be hiding, if indeed he possessed any. Gabe doubted he did, but he found himself longing to search her thoroughly, inside and out, just to be sure.

This was a dangerous situation. No otters. No carriage. No coachman. Just a man, a woman, and a bed.

“Gabriel?” Her voice was husky, sweet. “Aren’t you coming in?”

Don’t do it, he told himself. Let her be. She’s safer without you. Close the door, turn the latch, slide the bolt, and nail it shut for good measure. Leave.

Instead, he entered.

Chapter Twelve

When his silhouette appeared in the doorway, Penny gulped. Audibly.

This was an ancient coaching establishment, centuries old. The floorboards had worn to a dark, grooved polish, and the floors tipped at drunken angles where the walls had settled into the ground. The rooms had low ceilings and even lower door mantels.

When Gabriel entered the room, this all conspired to impressive effect. He filled the doorway, looming and large, and as he walked toward the bed, the floor groaned and creaked beneath his feet.

Out of an instinct of self-preservation, she wriggled to the far side of the mattress and drew the quilt up to her neck. Rationally, she knew she had nothing to fear. Not from him, that was. But as he slung his formidable, masculine body onto the other side of the bed, she was a tiny bit afraid of herself.

He was so warm, and so big. He smelled like soap and clear water, and when she stole a look at him, the hair lightly furring his bared chest was visible in the dim firelight. Her fingers ached to touch him.

“There.” He folded his arms over his chest and crossed his legs at the ankles. “You have an animal in your bed. Sleep.”

Sleep? Impossible.

How could she sleep with such a riot of noise? Her pulse pounded. Her whole body pounded. Her heart, her eardrums, her wrists, the hollows behind her knees—and, throbbing hardest of all, the secret, intimate pulse between her legs.

Falling in lust at first sight was bad enough. This afternoon she’d tumbled into a whole river of desire, all the way up to her neck. Now Penny was drowning in a sea of sensuality. She was confused by it, even a bit panicked—but drawn to him nevertheless.

Because he knew how to swim.

And he could teach her to swim, too.

She covered her face with her hands and groaned into them.

“What?”

“The animals,” she lied. “They’ll have missed their dinner tonight. And unless Mrs. Robbins takes him out—which is unlikely—Bixby will have piddled on the carpet by the time we’re home.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it tonight. Save your strength. The otter was only one animal. We’ve still a dozen or more to get rid of. Not to mention, you have your wardrobe and social obligations to occupy you.”

She stared up at the blackened ceiling beams. “This will never work. Even if we manage to find homes for the animals—and you must admit, we’re not off to an auspicious start—I’ll never meet my aunt’s expectations when it comes to circulating in society.”

“Oh, yes, you will. I’ll make it happen. I’ve money and influence at my disposal.”

“I’ve no doubt you do. But all the money and influence in the world can’t change my nature.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your nature. Your nature is fine.”

For that sentence alone, she could have kissed him.

“I’m a wallflower,” she said. “No, I’m not even a wallflower. At a party, a wallflower stands against the wainscoting. I don’t