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Yours in sincerity,

Lady Henrietta Maclellan

Henrietta folded up the letter and put it to the side, where a groom could deliver it the next morning. She couldn’t help a little smile at the thought of how different the two letters she had written that night were. She probably should discard the love letter. Except that it was likely the only such letter she would ever receive. She left it on her dressing table instead. She could show it to Imogen, and they could have a laugh over it.

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A Midwinter’s Night’s Dream

Esme was having a dream. He’d come up behind her, quite silently, and put his hands on her shoulders. She knew who he was, of course, and she knew that they were alone in Lady Troubridge’s sitting room. After all, she’d had this dream many times before.

And the reality once.

They were beautiful hands, large and graceful. It would be lovely simply to lean back against his chest, to allow his hands to slip forward and round her breasts. But she had to tell him. This time at least.

She turned around, and his hands fell from her shoulders.

“You are not available, my lord. You are, in fact, engaged to my closest friend.”

“Only nominally,” he answered, unperturbed. “Gina has fallen in love with her husband. Even I can see that. I expect she will tell me tomorrow that she has decided not to annul her marriage.”

“I must also point out that I am not available.”

“No?” Marquess Bonnington caught one of her hands in Fool for Love

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his and brought the palm to his mouth. She trembled even at that mild caress.

Damn him for his beauty, for the emotion in his eyes, for the way his hands made her shudder with longing. “As it happens, I too am returning to my husband’s bed,” she said briskly. “So I am afraid that you have missed your opportunity. Strumpet today, wife tomorrow.”

His eyes narrowed. “Returning does not imply immediate action.” He paused.

She said nothing.

“Do I understand that you are not yet reconciled with the estimable Lord Rawlings?”

At her small nod, he reached behind her and locked the door. “Then I would be a fool to miss the small opportunity that I have, would I not?”

His hands glided down her arms, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She’d forgotten something, forgotten to tell him something. But he had already taken off his clothes. Sometimes in this dream she watched him disrobe, and sometimes he would suddenly be there, naked amidst all the elegant furniture.

“Aren’t you going to undress?” he asked. His voice was husky. He had a big body, a rider’s body, which made her feel weak with desire just to look at it.

“Sebastian,” she said, and paused. She was experiencing the dream on two levels: her dream-self living it as if it were truly happening again, and her real self struggling to warn Sebastian. To tell him that she was returning to her husband’s bed the very next night. So he mustn’t come to her bed, ever. He mustn’t think that this . . . this encounter was for more than an evening.

He kissed her neck, and she felt his tongue touch her skin for an instant. His hair caught a golden sheen from the candles. She looked up into his stern, familiar, beloved face. Kiss-84 Eloisa James

ing him was like drinking water after a long thirst. His mouth was so sweet, and so fierce, and she had longed for him forever. She slid her hands up muscled arms, dusted with golden hair, to broad shoulders.

“May I act as your lady’s maid?” he asked. She laid her face against his chest for a moment, savoring the beauty of the moment, the slight roughness of his chest against her skin. He smelled sun-dusted, as if he’d been riding. He smelled like male skin, like Sebastian. He began nimbly unbuttoning her gown, his fingers slipping little caresses between buttons.

“Doesn’t it bother you that this is the first time you have done this?” she asked, with some curiosity. He paused for a second in his nimble unbuttoning. “No. The process seems simple for most men, so why would it not be so for me? The action required of me does not seem complicated or difficult.” A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “I am reputed quite an athlete, Esme. I trust I shall not fail you in the field.”

The dream Esme noted his incredible arrogance. Had the man no lack of confidence?

But the real Esme had been in Lady Troubridge’s sitting room before and knew that he wouldn’t fail her. That his prowess was greater, even on that very first try, than that of any man with whom she’d been intimate.

He slipped her gown from her shoulders, leaving her in nothing more than a few French scraps of lace, held together with little ties and bows that delicately begged to be undone.