Regency Rogues and Rakes. Anna Campbell
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his shoulder blades under the waistcoat … the muscles of his arms, tantalizingly visible under the fine linen of his shirt … the back of his waist and the upside down V of the waistcoat where it gathered at the base of his spine … and on down over his hips and the long legs … and all of that big body moving so smoothly and as gracefully as a thoroughbred.
He walked to the door and closed it behind him, with a sharp thud that made her jump, and jolted her out of the daze.
She shook her head. She closed her eyes and opened them. She drew her tongue over her lips … the way he had done.
She moved to the table, refilled her wineglass, and drank it down in a gulp to strengthen her resolve.
She marched to the door connecting their rooms and pushed it open.
He froze, a wineglass halfway to his mouth. That wicked, dangerous mouth.
“No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
“What are you saying?” he said. “Are you insane?”
“I was for a minute,” she said. “But you can’t do that again. You can’t be such an idiot.”
“Go away,” he said. “Do you know you’ve almost no clothes on?”
“Never mind. I need—”
“Never mind? Listen to me, Miss Innocence. There are many things a man can ‘never mind.’ A nearly naked woman isn’t one of them.”
“Taut pis!” she said. “There wasn’t time to dress. I have to say it while I know why I’m saying it, while I’m still under the influence.”
He dragged his hand through his tangled hair. “You don’t have to say anything. You have to go away.”
“I cannot get involved with customers,” she said. “It’s bad for business.”
“Business!”
“And do not tell me you’re not a customer.”
“I’m not, you nitwit. When was the last time I bought a dress?”
“Any man who has the means to pay our bills is likely to acquire, sooner or later, a woman we want in our dress shop,” she said. “She won’t patronize us if we have a reputation for poaching the men.”
“Business,” he said. “This is about the shop.”
“Yes,” she said. “Which means I couldn’t be more serious. If you kiss me again, I’ll stab you.”
She turned and marched out, slamming the door behind her.
She poured herself another glass of wine, but this one she drank more slowly. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. She couldn’t remember when last she’d done something so difficult and terrifying and so completely the opposite of what she wanted to do.
No wonder Marcelline had lost her head over Clevedon.
No wonder she’d insisted on explaining to Sophy, for the hundredth time, how babies were made.
Lust was a dangerous force.
Like any Noirot, Sophy liked danger, risk, a gamble.
But she could not, would not, gamble with Maison Noirot. If she let the dangerous force sweep her away, it would sweep away everything they’d worked and suffered for.
She rose, walked to the bathtub, and took out the dressing gown he’d drowned there. She wrung it out and draped it over the chair—near the fire but not too near. It wasn’t completely unsalvageable. The girls at the Milliners’ Society could take it apart and make something of it.
The dressing gown wasn’t important. It was the shop Sophy needed to save—and that meant saving Lady Clara. That was all she had to do, and it wasn’t going to be easy.
She smiled. But she was a Noirot, after all, and if it were easy, it wouldn’t be much fun.
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