Page 68 of Souvenir of Love

The spluttering stopped.

He waited.

She mumbled something incomprehensible, pulled the covers tighter, and burrowed her face more deeply into the pillows.

He glanced about the room. None of the furniture looked as inviting as the bed. And besides, every available piece seemed to be draped with an article of Elizabeth’s damp clothing. A particularly charming bit of lace nonsense was draped over the arm of a straight-backed chair. He’d just have to pick her up and move her over. Pushing back the lace sleeves of his nightshirt, he leaned over the bed, drew back the covers, swept back the tangles of chestnut curls, and slipped his hands around her rib cage just under her arms. It wasn’t a good enough grip—he slid his hands farther underneath her and encountered breasts. Soft, warm breasts that filled his hands, the nipples pebbling ever so slightly against his palm. His groin tightened in response. He cursed under his breath. He was supposed to be looking out for Elizabeth Harcrest, not taking advantage of her in her sleep.

Reluctantly, he slid his hands out from under the tantalizing weight that filled them. He drew the covers farther down. She was wearing a voluminous nightshirt. Not at all what he expected, particularly in view of the expensive examples of unmentionables that adorned the room. He’d always secretly believed a man never really knew a woman until he’d slept with her. Although in Elizabeth’s case, James wasn’t sure he’d ever really know her. Which was probably for the best.

Still, he was tired, too. And it washisdamned bed. James studied her draped form, trying to make out the indentations of her waist. Nothing too dangerous there, he told himself as he reached for her. He lifted. Her bottom came up against his stomach. He could feel her thighs against his belly. The urge to pull her closer and down was nearly overwhelming. He released her.

James pulled the covers back up over Elizabeth; she mumbled something about the hour being too early and, besides, she’d already practiced. He didn’t have the foggiest notion what she was talking about, but he thought Moreham shouldn’t allow her to practice anything. She was far too dangerous as it was.

He raked a hand through his loosened hair. Come hell, high water, or Elizabeth Harcrest, he was going to sleep in a bed tonight. He climbed in beside her, his back turned resolutely to her curves, and nudged. She didn’t budge. James Dinsmore, scourge of society, heir to a duchy, lay on the edge of the mattress, without a pillow, one arm and half a leg dangling over the side of the bed, four toes exposed to the cold. He nudged her again. She settled her back against his and sighed.

“Elizabeth,” he said firmly, “move over.”

“Just some hot chocolate, please,” she mumbled.

“Moveover.”

Startled, half-awake, she scrambled over, taking the remainder of the covers with her.

“And give me back some of the damn covers.”

“You don’t have to be so cross about it!” She thrust the covers at him, her voice sounding, to his ear, unreasonably offended.

He moved away from the edge of the mattress and took a portion of the bundle of sheets and blankets she held bunched in her arms. “Thank you,” he said as politely as if she’d agreed to allow him to promenade her around a dance floor. He made a great show of spreading them down the length of his legs and tucking in his toes. “Now a pillow, if you please.”

She tossed one at him. “If I’d known you were so possessive about your bedclothes, I’d have wrapped myself in a shawl.”

As he caught the pillow, he allowed his eyes to wander slowly over her. He started with the rumpled chestnut curls that fell below her shoulders, moving to the laced vee of her oversizednightshirt, down to her hands covered by cuffs edged in lace. He recognized the lace. Anne had stitched it. “And this shawl, would it be yours? Or something you pilfered from my trunk?”

She flipped a curl over her shoulder in what was meant to be a gesture of defiance, but it only served to offer him a glimpse of breast between the vee. Catching the direction of his glance, she snatched the nightshirt closed. James felt the same sense of heavy regret as when the curtain fell on the last scene of a brilliantly sung opera.

“Since it is your nightshirt, I can understand why you would be interested in an explanation of how I came to be in it.”

He nodded.

“But it is your fault, really.”

James turned to her, leaning on one elbow. “Sorry? My fault?”

“If your men had not been so consumed with keeping that little trunk of yours dry, perhaps they might have noticed that the lids of my trunks were left gaping in the rain.”

He made a silent promise to himself to warn David to take better care to conceal his concern over the welfare of the little trunk. “I see. You have my deepest apologies. I shall speak to my men in the morning. In the meantime, while your things are drying, you are welcome to my nightshirt.”

“It’s not as if I enjoy wearing your things,” she sniffed. “Frankly, James, since we find ourselves sharing such intimate quarters, I feel compelled to tell you…well…your cologne…it’s…less refined than your usual choices.”

“You don’t like it?” He pretended to take offense, though he agreed with her; the stuff David had concocted to make the invisible ink on the interior of the trunk reappear smelled so noxious it made his head spin. “It’s all the rage in London, but then you’ve been out of circulation these past months, and styles do change so quickly amongst the haute ton…”

Her sharp intake of breath told him his attempt to change the subject had been successful.

It was a cruel thing to say. He knew it. But she was noticing far too many details about his belongings. And with her sitting so close and wearing so little, he was noticing far too many details about her.

Elizabeth pulled her pillow to the far side of the bed and turned her back to him, dragging the bedclothes with her.

Cold air chilled his toes, but James didn’t ask for the covers back.