The hunting lodge was colder inside than it appeared from the outside, but the moment they slipped through the warped door—boots squelching on old stone, breath clouding in the air—it did not matter. Lottie turned the lock with a sharp click, then turned back to face her apparent saviour, undecided whether she meant to kiss or kill.
The place was an excellent location for either. A more prudent young lady might have found this alarming, but for Lottie’s purposes, it was very convenient.
Deverell leant a shoulder against the door. “Shall I assume you have brought me here for murder? Is that your forfeit?”
Lottie tilted her head. “I have not yet decided.”
He folded his arms, and she could tell he was biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling. This, naturally, made murder the more tempting option.
She stepped towards him. Her riding habit clung damply to her calves, her gloves were stained with moss and mud, and her pulse was still racing, not from the win or the jump, but from themortifying memory of his hands at her waist. It was one thing to win a race. It was quite another to require assistance getting down from the site of one’s own triumph, and to discover that she rather enjoyed being rescued.
Lottie did not care for the imbalance. If Mr Deverell wished to stand there looking handsome and muddy, and insufferably pleased with himself, then he could suffer a little in return. He could be made to lose that composure and discover, however briefly, the peculiar indignity of not knowing where to put his hands, his eyes, or his clever tongue.
In short, he could be made the fool.
“I have decided on your first forfeit.”
“Have you now, Miss Tolliver?” His gaze sharpened, but his smile only deepened. “And shall I be permitted to survive it?”
“That depends entirely upon your performance.”
“Ah.” He pushed away from the door. “Then I shall endeavour not to disappoint. What have you in mind?”
“Well,” she began, as though discussing nothing more than the weather, “I have already had your mouth upon mine. And while it was quite enjoyable, I now find myself curious about the remainder of your talents.”
His eyes sparkled beneath raised brows, but he said nothing.
“I should like to see,” she continued, removing one glove with the soft slide of leather over skin, “how good you are with your hands.”
“My hands,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Both of them?” He looked entirely innocent, which was to say, not innocent in the least.
“Clearly.”
“There are,” he said, his voice lower now, but still threaded through with amusement, “many things I could do with myhands, Miss Tolliver. Are you quite sure you understand what you are asking?”
Lottie felt heat climb into her cheeks and hated him for it. “I won,” she said, drawing her second glove free with rather more force than was necessary. “And you agreed. One favour. No refusals. No questions.”
“I do not recall agreeing to no questions.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are being difficult on purpose. If you ask questions, you are not performing the favour. You are delaying it.”
“I could delay a great deal with my hands, Charlotte.”
She made a small sound of impatience. He really was quite aggravating, and the point was to make a fool ofhim,not the other way around. “Show me, then.”
His amusement dimmed by a degree, deepening into something less safe. “If you insist upon issuing commands in that tone,” he said, “you must not blame me when I take them seriously.”
“I know,” she replied, and she heard the breathlessness in her own voice. “That is rather the point.”
He reached up slowly and tugged at the fingers of one glove, peeling it away with the kind of patience that made her throat go dry. He peeled off his other glove, and dropped both to the floor. “I shall require very specific instruction.”
Lottie’s breath snagged. She felt alive and wild and hungry, and she wanted a man’s hands between her thighs.
“Then kneel.” She stepped back until the backs of her thighs met the bench. “And listen.”
