Page 29 of A Scoundrel in the Making

“What the devil are you doing in my private washroom?” Mr. Russell demanded. His gaze dropped to Abigail’s breasts.

She glanced down. The sheer chemise might as well have been invisible. Her rose areolas were clearly visible as hard peaks.

“I suppose we are doing the same thing you and Lady Julia had planned,” Lord Reade drawled.

Mr. Russell’s expression darkened. “Aye, but these are my private chambers. How did you get in here? I locked the door.”

“Locked?” Abigail frowned. “Not when we entered.”

Mr. Russell’s eyes narrowed. “I had to use my key to get in.”

“Of course,” Reade said. “I locked the door when we entered. I’m sure you understand.”

“I am certain I locked the door when I left.”

Reade shrugged. “I hate to disagree with you, but it was unlocked. How else might we have gotten in?”

Abigail thought of the sconce they’d left in the holder inside the secret passageway. Mr. Russell was sure to check the passageway after they left, and when he found the torch, he would know how they’d entered the room. They would have to return and dispose of the damn thing.

“What are you doing in this part of the castle? This is my private wing,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh dear,” Abigail said. “You were right, Lord Reade. We shouldn’t have explored this part of the castle.” She looked at Mr. Russell from beneath her lashes. “I’m afraid this is my fault. Lord Reade warned against us coming here—and entering the room—

but I prevailed upon him. I must admit, I couldn’t resist the warm bathwater.” She leaned forward so that her breasts pressed more heavily against her chemise. Lord Reade’s attention snapped onto her breasts and her cursed nipples puckered.

“I have had enough of this.” Lady Julia whirled. Mr. Russell hesitated, his gaze lingering on Abigail’s breasts. Men really were quite predictable.

He looked at Reade. “I will escort Lady Julia to her room. Once Lady Buchman is dressed, please leave.” He turned and hurried after Lady Julia.

Through the open door, Abigail glimpsed the woman dragging her dress over her head. Mr. Russell reached her side as she pulled the fabric down over her breasts.

“Julia,” he began, but she turned as the skirt fell down over her hips and legs. She headed for the door.

When the bedchamber door closed behind them, Lord Reade said, “I will leave you to dress.”

Before she could reply, he crossed the room and pulled the door closed behind him.

* * *

When Lady Buchman emerged from the washroom, Reade turned from the claymore hanging on the wall over the hearth. She looked almost as indecent as she had in the bathtub. Her dress clung to her breasts and Reade discerned the dark patch at the apex of her legs. The woman had no shame. Neither did he. He willed his hardened cock to cease throbbing.

“Do not look at me as if I am a prostitute,” she said. “It’s your fault that this dress is so sheer.”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“This is what happens when one wears a wet chemise beneath a dress.”

That hadn’t occurred to him. Still, she didn’t appear the least bit embarrassed.

Her eyes narrowed. “And don’t act as if I should be ashamed. You have no compunction about seducing a woman for your own pleasure, but a woman isn’t allowed to use her charms in the service of her country?”

“I said nothing about you being embarrassed,” he said irritably. “In fact, I didn’t say a single word.”

“No need,” she said. “Your thoughts are plain.”

He wanted to reply—and say what, he knew not—but she interjected, “Mr. Russell won’t return right away. We can begin our search.”

“You don’t think he’ll return right away?” Reade asked.