LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘What?’ Decima gasped. If he didn’t take his hands away in one second, she was going to turn round and…

      ‘Your freckles. I wondered if they went all the way down and they do. Here.’ His fingertip touched lightly across her shoulders, across the nape of her neck, trailed lightly down the dip of her spine.

      Decima shuddered at the touch, her mind reeling at his words. Her freckles? He found those disfiguring brown marks attractive?

      Then his lips replaced his hands and she was pulled back against him, his hard thighs supporting her, his mouth trailing tiny kisses across the soft skin of her shoulders. His aroused body was branding her buttocks with heat through her flimsy chemise and she gasped at the feel of him and the primitive urge that coursed through her to press herself back, rub herself like a cat against the evidence of his arousal.

      His hands lifted to cup her breasts gently, his palms cradling the soft weight, while his thumbs touched the hard peaks of her nipples, which were thrusting shamelessly through the fine fabric.

      ‘Decima.’ His face was buried in the curve of her shoulder, his voice harsh and muffled against her neck. ‘One of us is going to have to step away from this. Now.’

      ‘I know,’ she murmured, her voice shaking. ‘I know, and I do not think I know how to.’

       Chapter Nine

      Adam drew in a deep breath. He had never had a problem with self-control before. It seemed he had never found himself in a position where his conscience was in direct conflict with his deepest desires. And just at that moment his desire was to carry Decima through into the bedchamber and bury himself in her soft, strong, innocent body.

      With an effort that was painful he brought his hands away from the tantalising weight of her breasts, stepped back until her clothing no longer brushed against his body, and back again until he could put a shaking hand on the screen and draw it closed on the image of her standing there, almost naked, quivering for him.

      He shut the door into the dressing room and stood looking round at his bedchamber, at the wide bed with its dark green velvet throw. What would she look like stretched on that velvet, her hair loose, her eyes wide with innocent longing? With an oath he flung open the door and strode out onto the landing.

      ‘My lord?’ It was Bates. Damn. Adam looked down at himself. The soaked buckskins did nothing to hide the state of agonising arousal he was in. He yanked his shirt out, ran a hand through his hair and walked into the room.

      ‘How are you feeling, Bates?’ Hell, Pru was there, too, still curled up in the chair, her eyes wide as she took in his appearance. Her gaze flickered to the groom’s and they both looked studiously away.

      ‘Very well, thank you, my lord. The leg aches, but Pru—Miss Staples, that is—fetched me something from the stillroom that helped. I was just wondering if you’d help me shift position a bit. I’ve slid down.’

      ‘Where’s Miss Dessy, my lord?’ Pru asked.

      ‘Having a bath.’ He bent to help Bates, grateful that his back was turned to the maid’s scrutiny. ‘She is using the tub in my dressing room because it is deeper and she got rather chilled outside.’

      He shook out the pillows quite unnecessarily, controlling the urge to talk on, justifying himself.

      ‘Of course, that’s why you can’t go and get changed,’ Pru said in a tone that suggested she accepted his explanation—just. ‘I had better go and give her a hand.’

      Adam froze. Had Decima had enough time to compose herself? Had he left stubble burns on the soft skin of her throat? ‘I think she has everything she needs,’ he said finally, straightening up. Either Decima was going to confide in her maid or she was not, but he was not going to say anything to provoke the girl to hurry off in search of her mistress any sooner than necessary.

      ‘I’ll go and set her clothes out then, my lord.’ Pru got to her feet a little unsteadily. Adam thought of telling her she should still be resting, then decided he would be chancing his luck; Miss Staples would no doubt enquire if he thought he should be helping her mistress to find her change of underwear.

      Both men watched her make her way out. Adam could feel Bates’s eyes boring into him. ‘Well?’ he demanded irritably. It seemed to be his day for justifying himself to the staff.

      Bates shrugged. ‘Not my place to say, my lord, but, as you’re asking, I’d say that trifling with virgins isn’t your usual kick. Bit risky, that.’

      ‘I am not trifling—’ Adam broke off. It was exactly what he was doing. It was not his intention, but it was certainly the effect. ‘Damn you, Bates.’

      ‘As you say, my lord.’ Bates was never so compliant unless he was deeply disapproving—and he was usually acute enough to be right, which was why Adam tolerated the not infrequent censorious comment. This was different.

      ‘Miss Ross is a gentlewoman. One does not trifle with gentlewomen.’ Or virgins of any description come to that, but he was not discussing Decima’s state of innocence. Bates received this lofty statement in silence, leaving Adam nothing to do with himself other than to stalk out with all the dignity he could muster.

      Which was not much, he decided, catching a glimpse of himself in the landing mirror on his way downstairs. His clothing was dishevelled, his groin was in a state of acute discomfort that seemed unlikely ever to subside, his heart beat like a drum, and his conscience was positively screaming at him for his unrepentant desire to drag Decima out of the hot water and make love to her until they both dropped from exhaustion.

      Snarling at himself, he threw open the larder door and began to lift out platters and jars, banging food down on the table as though to knock out an opponent. He had made her cold, wet, shocked and embarrassed. And all he could do to make up for it was to try to give her a decent meal.

      Decima eased herself into the hot water, letting the physical shock of it on her chilled skin drive away the other shocks her body had experienced for a fleeting moment. The respite did not last. She slid under the water until it lapped her chin and her hair was soaking. Her arms lay by her sides. She felt too self-conscious even to risk touching herself; everything throbbed or tingled in an overwhelming manner.

      She had wanted a kiss, just a kiss. She could admit that to herself. In her innocence she had expected it to be pleasantly intimate, full of the scent and warmth she had experienced when Adam had carried her. She had not expected it to devour every sense, to overturn her mind until she was almost screaming with desire for him to touch her, stroke her, everywhere. To do things she could not begin to understand, let alone find words for.

      Of course she knew the basic facts of life. But somehow she had expected all of that to be confined to the actual marriage bed. Surely kissing was simply a mildly amorous gesture? It seemed not. How was she ever going to face him again?

      The water was beginning to cool. Cautiously Decima lifted the tablet of soap and began to wash. Face, arms, hands. All safe. She swallowed and slicked foam rapidly over the swell of her breasts, gasping as they seemed to turn heavy and full under her palms. Feet, those were safer—except for the memory of Adam’s big hands rubbing them back to life. Calves, thighs…her hands trembled and stilled above the soft tangle of curls. He hadn’t touched her intimately, so where had that hot, heavy yearning feeling come from? From the feel of his hard weight pressed against her, that was where. Pull yourself together, Decima, you cannot go through life not washing properly!

      A few hasty, soapy swipes later she scrambled out of the bath, snatching up towels from the pile and swathing herself in them as though Adam was still in the room. No dressing gown. Now what should she do?

      There was complete silence in the adjoining room. Decima peeped round the door, then scuttled for her own room, bursting in to find Pru with her hands full of petticoats and a disapproving expression on her pale face.

      ‘Pru,

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