Her chest seized as his hands closed around her waist. He lifted her from the saddle, guided her down to her feet. His strength—in his arms, in his body—was clearly on display. He didn’t allow her to fall, prey to gravity, or even to slide. He was in perfect control. As though she weighed no more than a child.
Dauntry’s eyes met hers, storm-dark, pupils indistinguishable. He blinked, dashing rain from his eyes. Droplets spilling from his lashes. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t move.
Hazard bumped her as the groom led him away, knocking her into Dauntry. With a crack of laughter she spun and ran for the house. She was halfway up the second flight of servants’ stairs when Dauntry caught her. A hand latched onto her skirts, the sound of threads popping loud as the thunder outside. He took one last step, till he was even with her on the stairs, and held her pinned there.
George pressed herself back against the wall, overwhelmingly crowded in the narrow stairwell. Her wet skirts clung to her legs, weighing her down. Water flowed off them, rivulets becoming a stream as they joined and rushed down the stairs.
Dauntry was every bit as wet. His shirt and cravat were more than wilted. They drooped, revealing the strong column of his neck, the cluster of large freckles normally hidden there, like the secret birthmark of a fairy-tale prince.
George pushed back farther, denying the urge to lean in, set her lips to his bare throat. To leave her own brand there. Her own secret mark.
He let go of her skirts. Raised the hand that held her in place to brush the drooping feathers out of her eyes. He followed the line of her head, sliding his hand around to cup her nape. Held her securely, softly, as though she were fragile.
His lips captured hers in a kiss equally as gentle. Lips moulding to hers. Hot tongue easing apart her cold lips, questing inside for a response. His hand curled into her hair and the other slid up her rib cage to cup her breast, his thumb finding her nipple through layers of clinging wool and binding stays. It slid back and forth, sending jolt after jolt of pure need to lodge in her belly, to make her thighs strain, and the secret place between her legs throb.
His head tilted as he slanted his mouth over hers. She opened her own, tongue meeting his with all the fervour of desire denied, fobbed off, and ignored until it rises up like a swollen river and sweeps everything out of its way.
The sound of feet rushing up the lower stairs broke them apart. Brought her down with a lurch. George ducked under Dauntry’s arm and fled up the stairs.
Could she really settle for having him only once? And if she couldn’t, where would that leave her?
Safe in her room, she rang the bell for her maid and began to struggle out of her sopping clothes while she waited for the girl to appear. Wet wool pooled on the floor. Her hat appeared to melt into her dressing table. She stood in shift and stays, boots still on, unable to undress any further without assistance.
Her mastiff raised his head from where he lounged on her bed, his immense bulk taking up most of the available space.
‘’lo, Caesar. How’s my boy?’
His tail thumped, like a fist punching the bedding, but he didn’t move to join her by the fire. Lazy beast.
George combed her fingers through her hair, pulling at tangles, scattering hair pins onto the carpet. Even after a drenching, her hair smelt of horse, and she knew she had a fresh layer of mud on her face.
She rubbed at a streak of mud on her hand, then chuckled as her maid arrived and she was stripped and bundled into a warm, quilted wrapper. Quite a pretty state for seduction, soaking wet and muddied to the brow. She put her hands out towards the fire and waited for the bath to be filled.
The hot water stung—nearly unbearable against frozen toes and fingers—as she climbed into the great marble tub in the adjoining room. It engulfed her in relaxing warmth as she sank below the waters, grateful for the current earl’s renovations which allowed such easy luxury. There was simply something sensual, almost sexual, about being immersed in hot water, especially in a tub big enough for two.
George ran a soapy sponge over her breasts, down her belly. What was the worst that could have happened if she’d invited Dauntry to join her? If it were Dauntry’s hand holding the sponge as it moved across her skin…George tossed the sponge away and sank below the water, rinsing her hair. That was not a safe fantasy.
She scrubbed the scent of horse out of her hair with jasmine soap and soaked until the water became tepid. Once out, her maid helped to dry her with towels warmed by the fire, then assisted her back into her wrapper. The slide of heavy silk felt wonderful against clean damp skin.
There was nothing planned for the rest of the day. The other guests were likely downstairs playing billiards, or attempting to cheat one another at cards.
Whatever they were up to, she wasn’t in the mood for it. So she simply sat in her window seat while her hair dried, absently reading a novel, watching the gardeners prepare the flowerbeds for winter. Running that surprising kiss over and over in her head.
It had been a long time since a man had truly surprised her. And this one inspired a need no other man ever had. Not even her husband had been able to make her flush with desire with no more than a softening of the eyes. She winced at
