The second thought through his brain was that she was in her dressing gown and nightdress.
“Wes,” she said softly, and he jerked his eyes up. “What—?”
He cleared his throat. “May I come in?” Her lips parted—damn, how her mouth entranced him. “I have a gift for you,” he added.
She blushed the most endearing shade of pink. “Oh no, that’s not necessary.”
Wes’s lips quirked. “Please.”
She let him in and closed the door. Without comment he handed her his travel atlas. Viola looked up at him, startled.
“It’s not much,” he said apologetically. “I’ve had it with me for years. When I am away from England, it reminds me of home, and when I am in England, it’s got splendid maps.”
“It’s yours? You must keep it—”
“I want you to have it.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. “It also has descriptions and engravings of scenic vistas all over England and Scotland, so you may see a bit of the world even if you never go beyond Kingstag Castle.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Happy Christmas.”
Her face went still as she gazed at the book, letting it fall open to an engraving of the cliffs at Dover. Then she looked up at him. There was a lovely flush on her cheekbones, and he could feel her every breath. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
His body roared to life, desire pulsing through him like a tidal wave. Before she could say more he kissed her softly, then harder as her hand went up his chest, around his neck, into his hair.
Every thought fled Viola’s brain except the smell and taste and heat of him. Wes pressed her back up against the wall and let his hands roam over her waist, her hips, up to her breasts. She sucked in her breath as his thumb went over her nipple. Wes paused, giving her a searing glance. It was all Viola could do to nod; yes, she wanted to say, more.
He’d brought her a gift, one of his own atlases. She was still clutching it, the worn leather smooth and soft. Normally she and Stephen exchanged small gifts, or at least a letter, but the snow had kept the mail coach from Kingstag for days. The Duchess of Wessex always gave the staff generous gifts, but Viola knew to expect the same thing the housekeeper would receive. Only Wes had given her something personal, something very dear and valuable to him and therefore wonderful to her. She’d never had her own atlas, nor any need for one. Only Wes looked at her as Viola, who yearned to see the world, not merely the secretary who made everything run smoothly. Only Wes . . .
Looked at her as if she were beautiful and fascinating.
Do not be afraid to seize happiness, echoed the dowager’s voice in her head. Viola knew she should be afraid. Not only because he was an earl and she was practically a servant, not only because an affair could cause her to become an unemployed almost-servant, but because Wes could break her heart. Somewhere in the last several days she’d gone and fallen in love with him, with his laughing blue eyes and droll sense of humor and wonderful wicked hands, which were currently exploring her body with exquisite effect.
But instead of choosing the prudent course, she dropped the atlas on the sofa beside her and clung to him, kissing him back with every fiber of her being. Being busy from morning to night as the duchess’s secretary hadn’t made her forget what it was like to want a man, to be wanted and held and loved by a man.
“Viola,” he breathed next to her ear, “I want to make love to you so desperately . . .” His hand cupped her breast, a heady sensation through the soft linen of her dressing gown.
She wasn’t afraid. She wanted to seize happiness. Even if just this once, she wanted to feel loved by him. She bit his earlobe gently, making him shudder, and whispered, “Please do.”
His hands shook as he unbuttoned her nightgown until it gaped open to her belly. She leaned her head back against the wall, breathing unevenly as he drew the sturdy linen apart, baring her to him. Her pulse felt like a drumbeat between her legs.
“Such beauty,” he whispered, his fingers tracing her collarbone. “Such sweetness.” His touch drifted lower, swirling over her breast. Viola moaned. “Such passion.” He brushed her ribs and Viola quivered. “Viola, I . . .”
She made her eyes focus on him. His hair was wild—from her hands—and his eyes burned as blue as flame. A fine sheen of sweat covered his brow, and he was breathing even harder than she was. “Take off your clothes,” she said.
He blinked, and a wicked grin curved his mouth. Without a word he stripped off his dressing gown, his waistcoat, his cravat. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers, then pulled the shirt over his head. Viola’s throat closed up as he shed his undergarments to stand before her completely nude.
The Earl of Winterton was magnificent, lean and strong and bronzed all over. Only one part of him was untouched by the sun, and her gazed fixed on it. His erection stood straight and thick, and the pulsing between her legs grew stronger.
“May I?” Unabashed at her staring, he fingered the edges of her nightgown. Viola managed to nod, and he slid the garment off her shoulders. “May I?” he whispered again, his hands sliding around her hips. Again she nodded, and he lifted her against him. She put her arms around his neck and hiked her legs around his waist, and he carried her through the open door into her bedroom and rolled them both onto the bed.
He drove her wild with light, teasing touches, then firmer strokes that made her twist and writhe in his arms. He kissed her everywhere, his mouth hot and potent. Viola was the one who finally reached between them and wrapped her hand around
