A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(69)

Twisting to view herself from different angles, she ran her hands down her torso, pulling the sheer fabric tight. Until the wine-colored buds of her ni**les showed through, and the dark triangle between her legs as well. She skimmed her hands down her body again, enjoying the soft heat of her flesh beneath the cool fabric. The gentle curves of her br**sts, belly, and hips. As she watched her own hands stroking over her skin, her pulse quickened.

This body wanted.

This body was wanted, by him.

In the bedchamber, Colin stirred and mumbled in his sleep. Minerva jumped, then pressed her hands to her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

She donned a pair of sheer silk stockings and tied them with pink ribbons. She called the maid back in to lace her into a French divorce corset that lifted and separated her br**sts to quite flattering effect. With reluctance, she put on the blue silk again. But the effect was much better with her pristine, lacy chemise peeking out at the top. And she found an embroidered white overskirt in her trunk, rather like a pinafore. It covered most of the wine stains.

Her hair was still damp, so rather than pin it all up, she merely gathered a few locks from the front and secured them with tortoiseshell combs. The rest of her hair hung loose and heavy about her shoulders.

“Good morning.”

She turned to see Colin tangled in the sheets, propped up on one elbow and rubbing his unshaven face with the other hand.

“Good morning,” she said, resisting the urge to make a girlish twirl and beg for his approval.

He blinked and focused his gaze. A smile crooked his lips. “Well, Min. Don’t you look pretty.”

Giddy joy fizzed through her. It was a simple compliment, but a perfect one. She would have doubted him, if he’d called her “lovely” or “beautiful” or “stunning.” But “pretty”? That, she could almost believe.

“Really?” she asked. She wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

“You’re the picture of a fetching country lass.” His gaze raked over her body and lingered on her enhanced, lace-framed cle**age. “You make me want to find a hayloft.”

She blushed, just as she supposed any fetching country lass would.

He yawned. “How long have you been out of bed?”

“An hour. Perhaps more.”

“And I didn’t wake?” His brow wrinkled. “Remarkable.”

The maid brought a breakfast tray. While Colin rose from bed and went about his own toilette, Minerva feasted on coddled eggs, buttered rolls, and chocolate.

“Did you save me any?” he asked, strolling back into the room some quarter-hour later.

She looked up, saw him, and let her spoon clatter to the table. “Now, that’s just unfair.”

Fifteen minutes. Twenty, at most. And in that time, he’d bathed, shaved, and dressed in a spotless pair of new breeches and a crisp, laundered shirt.

Perhaps she looked ‘pretty,’ or ‘fetching.’ But he looked magnificent.

He adjusted his cuff. “I always keep a few items of clothing here. No coat though, unhappily. I’m stuck with the same one I’ve been wearing.”

It was petty of her, to take that as some consolation. But she did.

“Now.” He sat down across from her and plucked a thick slice of toast. “About last night.”

She flinched. “Must we discuss last night?”

He buttered his toast in slow, even strokes. “I think we must. Some apologies are probably in order.”

“Oh.” Nodding, she swallowed hard. “I’m sorry for taking advantage of you.”

He choked on his bite of toast.

“No, really,” she went on. “You were exhausted and more than a little drunk, and I was unspeakably shameless.”

He shook his head and made noises of disagreement. He washed his toast down with a quick sip of tea.

“Minerva.” He reached across the table to touch her cheek. “You were . . . a revelation. Believe me, you have absolutely no reason to apologize. The shamelessness was all mine.” His eyes grew troubled. “I don’t think we should continue this journey, pet. I told myself I’d see you to Scotland unharmed. But if we continue sharing a bed, I’m at serious risk of harming you. Irrevocably.”

“How do you mean?”

One eyebrow lifted. “I think you know what I mean.”

She did know. He meant that he wanted her, more than he’d wanted any woman in his debauched, misspent life—and he wasn’t certain he could honor his promise not to seduce her.

Her pulse pounded. With exhilaration, with fear. “But we can’t go back now. We can’t just give up.”

“It’s not too late,” he said. “We could be back in London tonight. I’d take you to Bram and Susanna’s house, and we can tell everyone you’ve been their guest all this time. There may be some talk, but if my cousin throws his name behind you—you won’t be ruined.”

She stared at the tablecloth. The thought of simply turning around and returning to Spindle Cove, without ever reaching Edinburgh . . . she’d been prepared to go back ruined and disgraced. But she didn’t know that she could live with going back defeated.

And how could she return to her old life, and just pretend none of this ever happened? Impossible.

“Min . . .”