A Regency Virgin's Undoing: Lady Drusilla's Road to Ruin / Paying the Virgin's Price. Christine Merrill
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sleep in a haystack?’
‘You will find it a more comfortable bed than the ground is likely to be,’ he assured her. His employer was out of sorts with him again and had been behaving more curiously than usual since the robbery. He had assumed that she would have some reaction to her participation in the robbery. But he had assumed that it would be fear, or perhaps excitement. He had not been prepared for annoyance.
Although it took some experience to gather what behaviour was unusual for the Lady Drusilla. The girl was a genuine eccentric. She rode like a man when the situation required it, miles at a time and without complaint. Where another woman might have held even an unloaded pistol with shaking hand, she’d played her part like a veteran of the road. And she’d snatched the booty from the air as he’d tossed it to her as though they were true partners and the action was old hand.
But now her silence had a prickly quality to it. And it seemed to stem not from the hay in front of them, but his earlier suggestion that she would be able to hire a post-chaise and travel in skirts like a normal lady of the ton, sleeping in inns and ordering him about in front of the coachman. After the day’s easy camaraderie, the change in her grated on his nerves. ‘Well?’ he asked.
She frowned at him in the moonlight, the pucker of her mouth deeper than usual. He tried not to be flustered by it. But he could hardly look elsewhere because of what he had come to term in his mind ‘the issue of the breeches’. While it was difficult to look at her face and not think of kissing her, it was even more difficult to deal with the thoughts that arose when he looked anywhere else.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she demanded.
‘You are cross with me, though I have done just as you asked. I wish to know the reason for it. I can hardly remedy the problem if you do not state clearly what it is.’
‘There is nothing,’ she said, removing her hat and giving an imperious toss of her head meant to put him in his place.
‘There damn well is,’ he snapped back, looking at the cascade of shining black hair and forgetting his place yet again. After what they had just been through together, it irked him that she felt the need to play high and mighty.
‘It is nothing important,’ she corrected.
‘If it is important to you, then it is important to me as well. Now tell me what is bothering you.’
She bit her lip in the way that she had when she feared she was revealing a weakness, as though she were accustomed to having any such used against her. ‘I am tired, is all. And my muscles are sore from too much riding.’
‘You have not been eating or sleeping properly and you are stiff from exertion. And not accustomed to riding astride.’ She did look tired, swaying a little as she dropped to the ground beside her horse. It made him want to take her in his arms to soothe her, stroking her hair as one might a sleepy child.
Then she squirmed. ‘I think I am not accustomed to these breeches.’
Nor was he accustomed to seeing her in them. And his thoughts changed instantly from innocence to hunger. ‘I trust that they are not too uncomfortable.’
‘It is not that.’ She shifted again, but made no effort to explain.
‘All the more reason you should return to your own clothing tomorrow,’ he prodded. ‘If mine is so disturbing, I should think you’d be happy to be rid of it.’
And that was badly phrased. It made him imagine her without any clothes at all. He stepped closer until she was so close that he had no choice but to look into her eyes. If she released his gaze, he’d not have been able to take his eyes from the place where her legs met, imagining the hot wetness of it, wanting to touch, to smell, to taste.
It was absolutely the last thing he should be thinking. And nothing like the chaste devotion he’d felt for Emily Folbroke. This was an all-consuming lust.
And Dru was looking back at him with eyes fixed and yet unfocused, the pupils large in the thin dark irises. But the firm set of her lips had a slight curve to it, as though she was daring him to reveal his feelings.
And he wondered—could it be that the tight clothing was arousing her? Perhaps she had learned more from her wayward lover than she’d let on. While it was flattering to imagine that she wanted him, it was far more likely that what she was experiencing was little more than a passing urge.
If so, there was no real harm in indulging it. A slight bruising of his pride, perhaps, when she cast him off in the morning. But it was better than feeling unmanned and invisible as he rode at her side.
As an experiment, he smiled at her in a way intended to charm.
In response, she bit her lip again, as though plumping it before a kiss.
And so he gave her permission to reveal herself. ‘We have not really been speaking of doffing a disguise, have we?’
‘We have not.’ The words were half-statement, half-question, as though she was aware of what they did not mean, but was unsure of what they did.
He took a step closer. ‘Or whether my clothing is an ill fit. Which it is not, if you were wondering.’
‘It is not uncomfortable. But it is very improper.’ She’d said it with a half-smile, as though telling him a secret.
‘The impropriety is probably what makes it so damned fetching.’ He waited for the firm snap of her disapproval at his impertinence and a return to the cold and aloof woman who had been ordering him around Britain.
Instead, there was only a slight gasp and the whispered words, ‘You have been admiring me?’
‘Any sane man would. And I could recommend something that might ease your distress, if you are feeling unsettled. Do you wish me to be of assistance?’
‘In what way?’ Perhaps she was not as experienced as he suspected. There was no trace of guile in the question, or any sense that she was trying to shift the responsibility for what was about to happen.
Which was why he ought to turn away, and do nothing at all. If she was unaware of the truth, it was not his job to change that fact.
But he could not help himself. After the adventures they’d had together, he was as restless as she was. There might never be a night when she was less of a lady, and he more of a rogue. The distance between them had shrunk until it hardly seemed to matter. For better or worse, he would take advantage of the opportunity and touch the woman who had been driving him mad, almost from the first. He put a hand on her shoulder.
And she did not pull away.
So he said in a voice that was low and full of seduction, ‘Sometimes, after a long ride, it helps to massage the stiff muscles, to return the natural ebb and flow of the blood.’
‘I see,’ she said, though clearly she did not, for she added, ‘Like currying the horses.’
‘Yes. Rather.’ He was thrown momentarily off his stride.
‘And you would do that for me.’
He regained his balance and lowered his voice again. ‘If you wished.’ Again, he waited for the outraged dismissal.
And again it did not come. Instead, she said, very softly, ‘Perhaps you could demonstrate.’
So he stepped behind her, letting his fingers caress her shoulders as he moved, and eased the heavy coat from her body. He began, very innocently, by rubbing her neck and shoulders, stroking his hands down her back. She wore nothing beneath the shirt, having discarded her stays with her dress. It allowed him to enjoy the delicious feel of firm, smooth flesh under the linen, and the way the knots in her muscles seemed to melt at his touch.
It would be wrong of him to do more than this. And it was not as if he could pretend there was mutual seduction in play. Despite her forward nature, Lady Drusilla was considerably more innocent than the girl in the carriage had been. But he told himself that he was performing a service.