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As soon as Lady Paget left, Bea walked back to the fireplace. She needed her clothing to dry out as soon as possible. Her bodice was merely damp, but her underskirts clung to her legs, no matter how she plucked them away.

The idea of compromising the Duke of Lennox was horrific. She wasn’t that kind of woman. She had honor and decency.

But kissing him?

That she could imagine. He would hold her without hesitation, not like the one boy who had kissed her back home. He would pull her against his body until she felt the solid strength of his thigh—

Suddenly she realized there was someone in the room with her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jonah pushed open the door of the library.

Beatrice Valentine was standing to the side of the fireplace, staring down into leaping flames. Firelight bounced against skin that was the color of sweet cream with the faintest tinge of pink. Lips, dark rose. Eyelashes so long he could see them across the room.

Her lips made him think of the bedchamber. Oh, bloody hell, everything about her made him think of a bed, not just the room. Her skin was silky without even a freckle to be seen.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons Regina disliked Miss Valentine so much? His sister had weathered a case of measles that had left permanent scars. She carefully painted her face to conceal them.

Beatrice had tucked a few curls fallen from her topknot behind her ear. Her neck had a pleasing curve, though no gentleman would look below her collarbone.

He looked.

Her bodice wasn’t as wet as her skirts, but it was damp, clinging to her chest. He could see a pert nipple that he wanted to lick and tease until she cried out. Cried his name. His big palms would wrap around her breasts as he brought them to his lips as if they were made for him.

Jonah was abruptly aware that his cock was high and hard.

He had to stop gaping at Beatrice Valentine.

This was terrible. Ungentlemanly in the extreme.

For the first time in his life, his body ignored his mind’s command. Her skirts hugged her legs with loving attention except for a cloud of gauze that did nothing to conceal her limbs.

Or the cleft of her arse.

She was perfect. So delicious that his heart was thudding in his chest.

His hand tightened on the door, and he almost backed away into the corridor as silently as he’d come. He could send a footman in his stead. Then he imagined a man in livery gaping at Beatrice, and his heart drummed an answer.

Never.

He walked forward, closing the door smartly behind him, making his shoes thump on the uncarpeted floor. Startled, Beatrice pivoted to face him.

Their eyes met in one of the most intimate moments of his life. He was aching for her, on the very edge of losing control, and in that moment of madness, it seemed that she felt an equal bolt of desire.

Then she blinked. “Your Grace! Has your carriage arrived already? I thought a footman would fetch me.”

“No footman is seeing you like that,” Jonah growled. He’d never heard his voice with such a raw edge.

He kept trying not to look, but any man would imagine curling his hands around those luscious curves, cupping her lavish arse, pulling her up and into his arms. His hands wouldn’t meet around her thighs, so he could take hold without fear of breaking her. The image of her laughing while waltzing, her mouth cherry red and sweet, merged with the idea of lifting her against his surging tool.

“Forgive me, Miss Valentine,” he said, managing with an effort to sound civilized. “I see you are damp. May I offer my coat?” Without waiting for an answer, he wrestled himself out of it.

He felt unaccountably clumsy, as if he were wearing one of the tight coats Devin affected. He wasn’t, but somehow the garment caught on his shoulders.

He must be drunk. He’d just neglected to swill brandy.

He stepped forward with his coat. “You needn’t,” Beatrice said, but she let him drape the coat around her shoulders.