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Chapter Eighteen
Helen and Nicholas ran from the park as fast as their wet clothing allowed, their haste stemming more from their eagerness to reach her bedchamber than a desire to escape the rain. He held his coat over her head until it was time to forge through the inundated street, then he swept her into his arms and carried her across.
“If you’re ever in my arms again, may it only be because you choose to be,” he had said.
So she was.
She smiled as the cool rain pelted her face and neck. Foul as the weather may be, Nicholas’s body radiated warmth. She had made her choice and was rejoicing in it, giggling when he set her down and they ran hand-in-hand down the street to her front door.
Her certitude was so great she found it amusing rather than embarrassing when the butler and the maid were confused as to why, after drying off minimally in the foyer, she informed them she was retiring early but wouldn’t require further assistance.
After she and Nicholas shed coats and boots, they climbed the stairs, and on the way up, she wondered how long it would take for the servants to inform Vassilis and Sirena’s household about the goings-on here, and whether it would change their welcome.
Troubles for another time, she reminded herself, and led Nicholas into her chamber. She had left Adrian’s bedchamber untouched and occupied this modestly sized but lovely one at the top of the stairs. She closed the door to the room—and on her thoughts about tonight’s consequences.
He’d caught her unawares by visiting so soon after her letter, which she’d dashed off in her excitement, without meaning to convey an emergency. Not only was her hair plastered to her head, it was braided rather than styled properly, and her simple blouse and skirts were a far cry from the gown she would have worn if expecting his visit tonight.
I must look as bedraggled as a ship rat.If only I was wearing the apricot gown!
Nicholas finished lighting the candle on her bedside table with the one the butler had given them, and gazed upon her as if she were wearing satin. A small fire burned in the hearth, but it alone didn’t account for the way his dark-honey eyes glowed as he took her in.
“Good God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, bringing her plait back over her shoulder.
She bit back a reply; her pride wouldn’t allow her to voice the denial in her mind. The only man who had flattered her about her appearance was the liar, Patrick Archer. Even Robbie’s brotherly affection hadn’t extended to such compliments, no matter how she tried to dress as pleasingly as his mother said a wife ought to.
But she was far from invisible to Nicholas Irons, who gazed upon her now with awe as he gathered her hands and brought them to his chest.
“Are you cold?”
She shook her head. Her face, neck and hands felt cool, but it was refreshing. Had she ever felt more alive?
His chest warmed the fine fabric of his shirt despite having been soaked by chilly rain. She had pressed her hands into him at the park, fascinated by the muscle that made his chest so different from her own. Wanting to explore him, she tugged at the fabric to free it enough that he could lift it off.
“Oh,you’rebeautiful,” she murmured in utter appreciation.
Moist from rain, the planes of his pecs and the curves of his biceps glistened in the soft candlelight as if oiled.
He lifted his shirt, dangling it from a finger. “I’ll trade this for your blouse.”
She smiled and, with no resistance from him, took the garment.“Giving the goods away before specifying your terms of trade? Is this how you always conclude a contract?”
One muscular shoulder lifted. “Oh, Helen, you know it’s not. But I can hold nothing back. Not from you.”
Exhaling raggedly, she tossed his shirt and stepped into his arms. She smoothed her hands over his chest, and her eyes fluttered closed as his mouth lowered. His lips caressed along her cheekbone and continued toward her ear, where he spoke in a low voice.
“Keep your blouse if you must. Wet and the color of milk, it holds nothing back from me either.”
Gasping, she pulled back and looked down. Plastered against her, the high-necked lace garment was nearly transparent, and her nipples pressed against it.
His thumbs circled her tips. “And I thought you were lovely in that evening gown.”
Captivated by the sensuous heat in his eyes, she arched toward him, her knees weakening while he took his time touching her, drawing out her nipples even more. When her hands moved to his waistband, he stepped closer and finally kissed her again.
She felt him slowly but systematically unbutton the row down her back, but most of all she was aware of the sublimity of having his hard body pressed against her softness and the allure of his taste in her mouth.
When he pulled back to slip the blouse from her body, chagrin overtook her, remembering her clothing was beloved but outdated.
At least I’m wearing a new shift from the modiste.Thank you, she thought, remembering Madame Robillard’s insistence on replacing her unmentionables.
