What Not to Bare: A Loveswept Historical Romance (11 page)

Or just a stunningly handsome, very masculine male in the midst of overdone femininity.

He still had that scowl on his face, too. “Would you care to sit down?” he said, pointing to the least spindly chair.

She considered it for a moment, then went and sat in the chair opposite. “You should take that one, I am not certain the rest of these could handle your weight.”

His lips moved as though to smile, but he didn’t. Which made her heart flutter even more. Mistake or no, she just wanted … well, she would just have to say it, wouldn’t she?

“Before you demand to know why I am here, practically unchaperoned, it is because I didn’t see you last night. And I found myself horribly disappointed that I hadn’t.”

His frown grew … frownier.

She held her hand up as he opened his mouth. “And before you say anything, and get all distant and polite, let me assure you, I have no designs on you besides friendship.”
Not just that
, her sly mind whispered inside her head. “That is, I do not have any expectations.”

Now he just looked shocked. Which, perhaps, was better than frowny.

“Would you sit, please, and stop towering over me? You’re quite intimidating.”

The chair creaked as he sat down.

He caught her eye and almost smiled. Thank goodness.

He did not clear his throat. Good. “I apologize for disappointing you last
evening.” He made no mention of her expectations. Nor of why he hadn’t appeared.

“Well.” Charlotte clasped her hands in her lap and looked at him. She cleared her throat. “I am in need of your—of your assistance.”

He leaned back and flung one arm across the chair. “What can I help you with?”

She swallowed. “Does a gentleman wear anything underneath his evening clothing?”

He unfurled his arm from the back of the chair, drawing his hand through his hair. “And why would you possibly need to know that?” he asked through a clenched jaw.

She hadn’t thought that through, had she? She rose unsteadily, realizing just what an idiot—what a naïve, infatuated idiot—she was. “Never mind, I will find someone else to ask—”

Before she could finish the sentence, he was up on his feet also, holding her upper arms. She felt the heat and the strength and the emotion in his hands.

“You will not go ask anybody else any of your questions.” He stepped closer, so he could stare into her eyes. And she into his.

Dark, lovely, lovely blue. Oh, he was still speaking.

“If you have—
when
you have questions—you will ask me. And only me.” He shook her gently. “Is that understood?”

She bit her lip. His eyes tracked the movement. “Yes,” she said in a soft voice.

“Good.” He exhaled. “To answer your question, I have to say—” He shook his head as though clearing it. “Lord, Charlotte …”

He was so befuddled, so adorably confused, and so entirely charming she couldn’t resist. She raised her hands to his face and grasped his chin, pulling his mouth down to hers.

This time, she knew how it would feel. Had been thinking about how it felt, in fact, for the entire time since it had happened. Part of her brain was occupied with avoiding Mr. Goddard’s attentions, or ignoring her mother’s persistent nagging, or wishing she could just be done with this whole trying-to-get-married business, take all her money, and just go somewhere, but all the while, during all that time, a tiny part of her kept reliving the Kiss.

So she was prepared to be disappointed when she finally got to experience the
reality again.

She was not disappointed.

As soon as their mouths met, he made a low noise in his throat, and his hands slid down her arms to her waist. Holding her in place, as if she were going to go anywhere.

At first, the kiss was soft. Just a meeting of mouths. His firm lips pressed against hers, their noses almost bumping into one another.

Then, after only a few seconds, he tilted his head, angling his nose to the side of hers, pressing harder on her mouth.

Oh. Goodness.

She slid her fingers across his jaw, feeling the stubble prickle against her fingers. Her fingers kept sliding back, around to his ear, to the back of his neck, where they rested, curling into the soft smoothness of his hair.

She wanted to roll herself into a ball and dissolve into him, she wanted to touch him everywhere, she wanted to pause so she could process all the feelings and touches she was experiencing.

His fingers flexed at her waist and he drew her closer, into his body where she fit up against him like a piece in a puzzle.

An incredibly attractive, masculine puzzle.

And then—and then he slid his tongue over her mouth, just barely glancing across her lips with it, and she made a soft noise that would have embarrassed her if she weren’t so entirely engrossed in what was happening.

He parted her lips with his tongue at the seam, then slid inside.

Oh. Badness.

Only not, because there could not possibly be anything bad about something that felt so good. Could there?

His tongue delved into her mouth, teasing and tangling with hers. It felt—well, it should have felt odd, but instead if felt simply wonderful. Her entire self was focused on the kiss, on what his tongue was doing, on how his lips were moving against hers.

She responded by slipping her tongue into his mouth, pulling him tight against her, her fingers still clasped in his hair. She felt his chest against hers, felt her knees tremble as he deepened the kiss, his mouth and hers joined in a delicious moment.

His hand had crept up from her waist to her torso, his large fingers splayed across her body like he was claiming her—
owning
her.

She felt her breasts press against his chest, an odd ache making them feel heavy and sensitive. She’d never thought about it, but now that the thought had crossed her mind, she desperately wanted him to touch her. There.

And, judging by the way his fingers were creeping up, so did he.

At least they were in agreement.

But just as it seemed both of them were to get their wish, he broke the kiss, letting go of her and moving back a few steps. He froze and looked at her, his eyes wide and the darkest blue she’d seen, his mouth—that gorgeous, delicious mouth—still tempting her.

“I apologize, Lady Charlotte. That—” He ran a hand through his hair, and it ruffled. Beautifully, of course. “That should not have happened. Please, allow me to escort you home.”

Charlotte stared back at him, feeling her chest heave as she drew deep breaths. Trying to settle herself, even though every part of her was not in want of settling.

Every part of her wanted, in fact, to kiss him again. And again. Would she ever tire of it?

She doubted it. Honestly, how did people not just spend all of their time kissing?

“There is no need to apologize.” She backed up and sat herself down in her chair with a definitive
whump
. “I am the one who kissed you, remember?”

She glanced down, and oh—goodness. Well. There was that.

She couldn’t think about all that right now. She knew that as a gentle young lady she should be screaming in fright and running from the room, but she instead just wanted to figure out how it all worked.

If he’d been startled when she asked him about men’s evening wear, how would it be if she asked about
that
? An abrupt giggle burst out of her before she knew it.

He still stood, staring at her, the evidence of how he felt still right there, right at her eye level, which made it hard to concentrate. For her, at least; she couldn’t tell how he felt. His face still bore that same expression and he hadn’t moved.

“Sit down, Lord David. I won’t bite,” she said.

At that, his mouth—Lord, that mouth—curled up into an almost smile, and she
knew it was going to be all right.

He sat, the chair emitting that same creaky groan and they both laughed.

“Yes, well. That was … You are …” He shook his head as he paused.

“Impetuous? Annoying? Forward?” Charlotte said when he didn’t speak.

Now he smiled at her truly, a full-faced smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle up. “No, I was not going to say any of those words. You leave me speechless, honestly.”

Charlotte tilted her head to look at him. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

She saw him swallow, then slowly shake his head. “I do not know.”

***

He shook with the wanting. He was grateful she’d urged him to sit, because he wasn’t certain he could stand. And it was just a kiss—not that anything with her was “just” anything. As in just asking about what men wore underneath their clothing, or talking offhandedly about how atrocious—abominable, in fact—her taste in clothing was. Even the first time they’d met she’d nearly asked him about where he’d been wounded.

Which, coincidentally enough, was right near the part that was throbbing in want and desire right now. Not that he could think about that now. He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs to try to disguise the workings of his body.

Her eyes darted down, then back up to his face. So she’d noticed. He wondered just how long it would be before she asked him about that.

“Before that happened,” he said, gesturing to the space between them, “you were promising me that you would save all your questions for me. And me alone.” He didn’t want to think what Lord Bradford would say if his niece got an even worse reputation with him pretending to court her.

He would never make it back to India if that happened.

“Do you promise?” he said, keeping his eyes locked with hers.

She smiled, a sensuous smile that burned its way from his eyes all the way to … well, there.

He was in deep trouble. And would be in even deeper trouble if she allowed her
tongue to run away with her.

An inopportune image if he wanted to keep himself from investigating what her tongue could do.

“I promise,” she replied, at last, when he’d nearly forgotten what he’d asked.

“Good.” He folded his hands in his lap, just over there, hoping his erection would subside enough for him to concentrate on the matter at hand. Damn. Another unfortunate turn of phrase.

“So, since I have promised, do you also promise to answer any and all questions I might have?” Her brown eyes sparkled with that zest that, he’d come to realize, indicated she was intensely invested in something.

Right now, that something was him.

And it felt marvelous. Too good, in fact.

“Uh, of course,” he said, knowing full well he would likely regret his promise within the next few minutes.

“What do you wear under your clothing, then?”

Oh, dear Lord. He cleared his throat. She smiled, as though at a private joke. “Nothing. It is—” He gestured down to his shirt and jacket. “There is only the shirt and jacket and trousers. We don’t wear a chemise sort of thing, like you ladies do.”

Her eyes brightened even more. “So you are aware of what ladies wear underneath their clothing?” She’d tilted her head in her questioning mode.

“Uh … yes.” He didn’t say anything else, for fear of entirely getting himself in the soup. He was definitely a gauche-mat at the moment. He didn’t think he could even think clearly, not with her sitting across from him in her ridiculously loud gown and her lips still red and swollen from his kiss.

She nodded, as though his answer was expected. “Of course. Men have so many advantages to ladies, don’t they?”

Where was this conversation going? David felt totally at sea, having no clue what she might say next. He both dreaded it and anticipated it.

She frowned, as though in thought. “I wonder,” she began, and David felt his insides tighten in anticipation. She met his gaze and smiled that sensuous smile again. “I wonder if you would allow me to investigate the differences between men and women.
Their clothing, their attitudes, their very personalities. Those are the questions I would most like to ask.”

She paused and began to do something at her wrist to her glove. “And it would be much easier if you could think clearly, wouldn’t it?” She removed the glove—a bright purple glove, if he wasn’t mistaken—and his breath caught.

She flung it on the carpet between them as though in a challenge. Which, he thought, it rather was.

Dear Lord.

“There would be no obligation to anything, as you said before,” she said in a light, conversational tone. Almost as though they were discussing the weather. “It would merely be you assuaging my curiosity.”

Was that what it was called?

“And you would be saving me from having to ask someone else, as you said before.” She spread her hands out, palms up, a glove on one hand. “See? It would be a beneficial relationship.”

“A beneficial relationship,” he repeated, feeling as though his head was going to explode. What was she suggesting? Did she even know what she might be suggesting?

The gleam in her eye and the curl of her lip suggested she did know.

He was definitely in the soup.

“So when can we begin? I am so happy you thought of this, Lord David. An excellent idea for investigative discovery.”

“What?” What would Lord Bradford—or anyone—think if she told them this was his idea? He would be married to her in moments, if her family didn’t murder him first.

He wasn’t sure which idea was more frightening. He was intrigued by her, he definitely enjoyed kissing her, but it wasn’t as though a few kisses and some unexpected conversation was going to make him forsake his entire life’s goal. Was going to make him resigned to being the stunning
beau ideal
of a wealthy, unpredictable woman.

Who seemed to get dressed in the dark.

She’d slid the second glove off her hand and threw it to join its mate on the carpet. He kept his eyes on her skin, the delicate part of her wrist where it melded the hand and the arm. Just being able to concentrate on her, rather than her clothing, made
him able to breathe and think better.

Imagine what would happen if she remov—oh, no. He couldn’t allow himself to think of that, or he’d risk losing whatever composure he’d managed to regain since they stopped kissing. If by composure he was referring to his subsiding erection.