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Mr. Robertson froze, eyeing her with confusion. He shook his head, as if both denying her accusations and clearing his thoughts. “I don’t understand.”
One side of her mouth curled. “You said you want only the truth. As do I. Do you seek to take advantage of our evident”—her hand gestured between them—“compatibility? Or else you’ll make it known that my brother isin trade?I love my brother, Mr. Robertson, but I’ll not become your mistress to secure your silence.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Nay, lass. I’m not here because of your brother! I’m heredespitehim. I wish the man was no relation of yours.”
His voice carried the ring of truth.
Clara felt terrified anew. Her mind set to work reinforcing a new safety wall between their mutual desire, seizing upon the offense his openness caused.
“Nonetheless, sir, you’ve erred. It offends me you think so little of my family—of me—that you could believe I would entertain…the thought of…”
She averted her gaze as her mind and body betrayed her. She imagined how his warm, firm fingers would feel on her nude hips, not through layers of fabric.
“Oh, you’re entertaining the thought. This very moment.” His voice dropped an octave, and in volume. “Your body is humming at the thought of being mounted by me.”
She spun away from him, hiding her reaction.
“If I pulled out this comb,” he said in a low voice shockingly close behind her, “would your hair tumble down?”
Clara pushed her shoulder blades back, straightening her spine. Adopting the most dismissive tone she could muster, she addressed him crisply. “Thank you for your visit, Mr. Robertson.”
When he didn’t answer or depart, she tried again. “I bid you goodnight.”
“I’m yours to bid, am I? Why send me away? Don’t you want to feel my hands on your body again?”
Instinct drove her to deny this, but first she had to fight herself. Panic rose as she realized that she didn’t want to.
The acknowledgment was more than an admission about her reaction to Mr. Robertson; it was also a blatant rebellion.
Against every rule in her life.
Clara leaned backwards towards him as he moved forward to claim her. Exploring her slowly, he caressed her shape.
Moving a half-step closer, he pulled her completely against him. His splayed fingers caressed her abdomen, then he spread his huge hands there as if cradling her womb. She quivered, pressing against him.
When his hands reached the edge of her corset below her waist, her breath hitched. His exhale slid across the back of her neck.
Why am I permitting this?Clara thought, panic returning.
Because I want to.
His hands stopped short on their journey north, resting against the underswell of her small breasts. Clara closed her eyes in frustration, and she couldn’t suppress her whimper when his fingertips dented into the mounds.
She recognized the pleasure pulsing from her nipples to her clenched thighs. She knew how to touch herself, to come secretly in her bed.
But the feelings aroused by Mr. Robertson were altogether more profound and intense. She wantedhimto touch her where she knew it would feel good.
She pulled her shoulders back, raising the tips of her breasts in supplication. His hand moved slowly up and around her breast.
Clara’s head fell back against him as his hand continued its inexorable journey, caressing her through her blouse, lightly at first, then with increasing boldness.
“Your eyes are closed, but mine aren’t. I see you,” his voice broke. “Look at your nipple pushing against the fabric. I want to touch you,please.”
Her knees buckled, and she let Mr. Robertson support her.
“Yes.”
His blunt middle finger barely touched the side of her engorged nipple through her blouse. She clutched her skirts, wanting more, and he traced the circumference.
“Tell me you want me, Clara.”
