She gently rolled over and gazed at his sleeping face. Despite the swelling and his bruises, he really did have the loveliest of faces. In repose that worried furrow that often creased between his dark eyebrows had disappeared, that stern countenance had softened. Yes, it certainly was a beautiful face. And those lips, so soft, so inviting. If they weren’t swollen and if they didn’t bear a cut where some man’s fist had connected with his face, his lips would be oh, so kissable.
In some ways his injuries were a good thing. Otherwise she might be tempted to lean over and do a little test, just to see if the touch of his lips on hers would be as wonderful as she imagined.
But such a liberty would be so wrong, particularly under the circumstances, and would be too bold, even for her. It was quite a cheek to even think of such a thing.
She gently hoisted herself up on to one elbow and gazed down at the handsome sleeping face, better to just observe those tempting lips.
She leant down slightly. No, she couldn’t do it. Could she?
She looked around the room as if there was an invisible audience disapproving of what she was thinking. The room was empty. Obviously. No one would know. Not even Mr Lockhart. After all, he was sound asleep.
But even so, it really would be so wrong. She looked back down at him. Slowly she leant forward, until her face was so close she could feel his soft breath on her cheek. She moved a fraction closer. Her lips lightly touched his. She was right. Soft, sensual, delicious. And oh, that lovely masculine scent of his. Nellie drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. She moved her tongue gently along his bottom lip.
He stirred slightly in his sleep.
Her eyes flew open. She sat up straight, her body rigid, her heart pounding. She looked around the room as if the invisible audience had suddenly appeared and were tut-tutting at what she had just done.
No one was objecting, not even Mr Lockhart. He had stopped moving and had remained fast asleep. Nellie exhaled her held breath. She should never have kissed him. It was a shocking thing to do. She should be utterly ashamed of herself.
She ran her tongue along her bottom lip. Yes, utterly ashamed. But she wasn’t. Smiling, she extinguished the oil lamp and snuggled back down in the bed, luxuriating in the warmth of the man beside her. It had been a terrible thing to do, but she had no regrets, and any shame she might have felt was buried deep beneath the pleasure of having discovered what it felt like to have his delicious lips on hers.
Chapter Eight
Dominic woke and looked around the unfamiliar room. Where was he? What had happened? He tried to sit up and a searing pain ripped through his chest. Memories of last night came flooding back as he registered the pain in every part of his body: the noisy public house, that ruffian manhandling Nellie Regan, the brawl in the street, then being helped through the streets by Miss Regan, back to her rooms.
Another image entered his mind, of kissing Miss Regan, of holding her while she slept, of feeling her warm, soft body up against his. He lay back down and closed his eyes. That had to be a dream and one he most certainly should not have had. She had kindly given up her bed to him, despite his protestations, but he could not expect her to sleep in that uncomfortable armchair another night. He would have to make arrangements to return to his town house today.
The sound of soft footsteps made him open his eyes and he saw Nellie Regan enter the room, still in her nightdress, carrying a jug and bowl. She turned in his direction and he quickly closed his eyes, guilt searing through him at the mere thought that he had dreamt of kissing her.
A door squeaked open. He opened his eyes a fraction and saw her remove some clothing from the cupboard. With her back to him, she stood at the washstand and began her morning toilette. Dominic knew he should close his eyes, look away from this intimate scene, or warn her that he was awake. But despite what his mind was commanding, he couldn’t do it. He was transfixed. She looked too beautiful for him to deny himself the pleasure of watching her. She was like a woman in one of the pre-Raphaelite paintings he had recently seen at an art exhibition. Her long red hair was flowing down her back in gentle curls and, with the morning light coming through the thin curtains at the window, he could see the outline of her curvaceous body under the muslin of her nightgown.
His gaze moved slowly over her body, taking in every beautiful inch of it: the tiny waist, the round hips and the curve of her buttocks. He imagined encircling that small waist with his arms as he inhaled the scent of her hair, running his hands over those enticing curves, across her hips, taking those round buttocks in his hands. A stirring in his groin alerted him that one of his body parts had apparently not been affected by last night’s altercation.
She really was a beautiful woman, with a sensual, feminine body, and she had the most beguiling face he had ever seen. He was wrong. She wasn’t like a woman in a pre-Raphaelite painting. She was even more beautiful. But what he was doing was certainly wrong. He should not be watching her. He should close his eyes, turn his back on her. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do. But right now, he had no interest in being a gentleman. What he wanted to do with this woman was much more primal than that. And if he could actually move, he would have
