* * *
She had not thoughtto simply offer herself to him. But when she had realized that his withdrawal the previous afternoon had not been because he was repulsed by her forward behavior and thought her reprehensible, her relief had quickly given way to confusion. Had he truly thought that he had taken advantage of her? And then she’d realized that he would, because he was a man who valued honor—both his and hers.
Honor, however, was the very last thing on her mind. She only wanted to recapture those glorious feelings from earlier. Heat. Need. Pleasure. He’d been correct in his estimation of her degree of innocence, but she wasn’t the typical sort of milk and water miss he would have met in London. She lived on a farm, after all, and knew well how it all worked, at least in theory. And Mavis had shared more than a bit with her.
Whenever Polly had expressed her confusion and dismay at why women would seek the aid of a love spell to win the heart of what was surely a bad man, Mavis had talked of passion, of being swept away by the promise of it all. Even then, it had all been a very abstract concept for her. But now she understood only too well why women would go to such lengths and take such risks.
As he approached her, she backed away. It wasn’t fear. It was choosing the higher ground, metaphorically speaking. She did not intend to engage in such carnality in the kitchen—not when there were perfectly good beds just up the stairs.
“Stove,” she said. “The stove is still lit.”
He altered course slightly, long enough to close all the dampers on the stove so that the fire would die out entirely.
Polly didn’t wait for him, but instead turned and made for the stairs, walking up to the landing. There she paused just long enough to unbutton her dress. The simple garment closed in the front—most of her garments did since that made it easier without having a maid present.
Polly climbed the stairs hurriedly. She was far less concerned about changing her mind than she was about Oliver changing his. She was desperately afraid that his overdeveloped sense of honor and very traditional morals would assert themselves once more for herself, she was only anxious. Anxious to feel, to leave, to experience. She wanted, at long last, to feel passion and desire—and to let those feelings sweep her away in a natural progression to what she could only hope would be a very satisfying conclusion. Based on the kisses they had shared, it could be nothing less.
* * *
Oliver climbedthe stairs behind her, his steps slow and measured. In part, it was to give her the opportunity to change her mind. It was also to enjoy the view. As Polly climbed those narrow stairs, her skirts swished and her hips swayed hypnotically from side to side. The curves of her bottom were perfectly molded beneath the thin fabric and what he would guess was only a single petticoat.
It was a tempting sight and he was already beyond tempted. He was utterly bewitched by her. Seduced. In fact, he was fairly certain she could own him body and soul if she chose to. When it came to Miss Polly Winters, he lacked even the barest hint of his normally well-disciplined self-control.
When Polly disappeared from his sight at the top of the stairs, having ducked into her chamber, he followed close behind her. She stood there in the pale afternoon light that filtered in through shuttered windows. Then she turned her head ever so slightly, glancing back at him over her shoulder as her hands came up to the bodice of her dress. His breath caught, held—anticipation filling him. Then, deftly She deftly released the last of the buttons, the drab gown sagging from her shoulders. With the slightest movement, something impossibly graceful and economical, she sent the fabric puddling to the floor.
Beneath the simple dress, she wore no stays, electing instead to wear a bodiced petticoat of heavy cotton. Serviceable, the garment was still prettily embroidered. Her hands lifted once more, going to the ties that held the garment cinched about her breasts.
"Stop," he murmured softly.
She looked up, her eyes cautious and guarded. "You've changed your mind.”
"No. Not in the least. But I do not wish to rush this, Polly. We are trapped here together by this storm and that gives us the luxury to linger over one another,” he said. And I would take full advantage of that.”
Her eyes widened ever so slightly, her mouth parting in a soft ‘o' of surprise. Finally, she murmured, "I see... does that make it more enjoyable? Lingering, that is.”
Oliver moved closer to her, close enough that he could reach out and cover her hands with his own. She gave every appearance of boldness, but still, her fingers trembled beneath his. "Infinitely so. Let me show you."
Pulling gently on the ties of her petticoat, the corded bodice parted. The thin chemise she wore beneath did nothing to hide the lush bounty of her body. Rather, it acted as a veil, offering teasing glimpses of the pet, rose-tinted peaks, and the enticing, shadowy valley between her thighs."You are so beautiful, Polly. I am not the poetic sort. Flowery praise is not a skill I possess," he picked up a lock of her hair that curled over her shoulder. "You make me wish that I did.”
She sighed contentedly, leaning into him. "I have no need for pretty words and compliments.”
"What do you need, Polly?" He punctuated the question with a kiss to her neck, just below the curl he had lifted.
"To not feel alone,” she admitted. “To feel, for a brief moment, that my peculiarities do not keep me apart from everyone and everything.”
Those words were like a physical blow. It wasn't pity that they prompted, but a feeling of kinship and connectedness. His own strangeness, different from hers, had also set him apart, placing him forever at odds with those from the world he had grown up in, the world he had left behind much to his family's dismay. They had much more in common than simply their overwhelming attraction to one another.
No longer simply consumed with desire for her, he also felt a strange wave of tenderness. There was a need in him to protect her that had been there, strangely, even before he met her. But this was something more. Much, much more.
"Do not feel sorry for me, “she said. "I did not say it to inspire pity.”
He took her hands in his, pulling her toward her tidily made bed."I do not pity you. You may be alone, Polly. But you are unique in your certainty of self. You've never once had to question who you are, have you?”S
he shook her head, appearing strangely shy and seductive all at once. "I've never had the luxury of being anything other than as I am.”
She shivered then and Oliver was suddenly conscious of the fact that she stood before him in only her chemise and stockings. The air was chilled and no fire had been laid get. Yanking back the coverlet, he demanded, “Get in the bed, Polly. Before you freeze. I have plans for us that do not involve chattering teeth—but I do plan to make you shiver"
SEVEN
