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She sucked in a breath. “I am very lucky to have a very clever dressmaker.”
“Mmm,” he said, tugging at the ribbon, just enough for it to hint at untying. “Who is she?”
She hesitated, and he regretted the question. He didn’t want to play their information game right now. He didn’t want to be reminded that there were countless secrets between them.
Surprising them both, however, she answered. “Her name is Jane Berry.”
Even that—the tiny piece of information—felt like triumph. “I assume she does not have a shop on Bond Street.”
Adelaide gave a little, secret smile. “No. Her shop is in Croydon.”
Far away from the prying eyes of the aristocracy. “And yet, her designs take London by storm.”
She leaned in and kissed him, quick and sweet and distracting.
Not distracting enough. When the kiss ended, he stroked a hand over her long body, loving the way she arched into his touch, and said, “You trust me here.” He didn’t wait for her reply, instead pausing at the place just above her bodice, where her heart pounded. “But not here.” Wrapping his fingers around the back of her neck, he pulled her close and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, whispering there, “And not here, either.”
She looked away, over his shoulder, as though searching for the right way to answer. “It isn’t specific to you. I trust very few people.”
“The Duchess of Trevescan.”
She nodded.
“Sesily Calhoun. Lady Imogen Loveless. Maggie O’Tiernen. Lucia.”
Another nod.
“Others, I assume,” he said. “All women with skill and talent and a wicked sense of justice.”
She did not nod then. Instead, she stared down at him and said, “Youhavebeen noticing me.”
The way one noticed a candle in darkness. “Every time you enter a room. And one day, I shall earn the rest.”
The words did not tempt her to confide in him, and he did not expect them to, but she rewarded him in otherways, with a flush of awareness across her breast, a flash of desire in her eyes.
He had waited a lifetime for this woman, and he would take the pieces she gave him, every hint of her secrets, and he would put them with his own. And she would trust him one day, because he had earned it from her.
Now was not the time for such a vow, however—not when Adelaide was so quick to hide. Instead, Henry returned to her ribbons, toying with the pretty silk. “When I was with fever... unconscious... I dreamed of these ribbons.”
She watched him. “What did you imagine doing with them?”
“Catching you. Untying you.”
She nodded. “Show me.”
He did, loosening the ties that held the skirts bunched between them. When he was through, he found the seam of the fabric and tugged.
They fell away, draping over his legs to reveal—
Dear God.
“Why, Miss Frampton,” he said, unable to stop his fingers from sliding up her thigh to the bare curve of her bottom. “This is... scandalous.”
Beneath those skirts that were so easily dispatched, Adelaide was bare. “I did not expect anyone to be interested in what was beneath my skirts today.”
“That was your first mistake,” he said, the words coming on a low growl he could not control. “I find myself endlessly interested in what is beneath your skirts.” His fingers chased over the smooth, warm skin of her bottom, to the seam there, skimming over the sensitive flesh, loving the way she gasped her surprise at the touch.
She rocked against him, the heat of her teasing through the fabric of his trousers. “Henry.”
