Unveiled (Turner #1)(45)

He could have adored her knees until dawn came. He would have, had the rest of her not been so compelling. Her thighs, trembling at his touch. And then he rearranged her drawers and discovered the damp curls between her legs, the folds of her sex, wet with desire. He parted her and ran his thumb along the seam. She was rosy-pink there, too. The scent of her feminine musk overwhelmed him.

It would take so little to make her his. His thumb paused on her flesh. Belatedly, he realized that he’d been tracing his own wants against her skin—a figure eight, lying on its side. Eternity. Infinity.

Sanity returned, greatly unwanted. She’d asked him for a little defiance. Ash was getting carried away by the fervor of the moment. If he were to unbutton his trousers and take her, it would be shabby recompense for the gift she’d given him. From what she’d told him, he doubted she had much experience with the sweeping feel of passion. She was too overwhelmed to deny him. But then, she hadn’t precisely said yes, either.

Ash wanted to beat his head against brick in frustration. It would probably be the only thing that would banish his lust, and then, only if he did it hard enough.

Her eyes opened. “Ash?” she said shakily. “Why did you stop?”

“Darling, if you think about where I was about to proceed, you’ll have a pretty good notion. I promised you a voyage, not a tumble.” Still, he was caressing her. He couldn’t take his hands off her.

She swallowed shakily and then sat up, as if only now noticing precisely where his hands lay. “Oh. Oh.” She looked up into his eyes. “I would have…I would have let you, you know.”

“You still would let me,” he said. “That’s not the point. I won’t take you merely because it’s allowed of me. I want you. All of you. Not just the portion of you that I managed to overwhelm.”

She stared at him. “I don’t understand you.”

Ash pulled his hands from her. A futile attempt to dissipate the raging want inside him. It didn’t work—especially not with Margaret looking at him so sweetly. His body screamed at him to complete what he’d begun, to simply take her before her thoughts coalesced into objections.

“I want you too well to desire anything except your wholehearted participation,” he ground out. “Chastity…is hard. But—damn it—it’s necessary. For now.” He covered her hands with his and laced up her corset. When he was finished he stood and helped her to her feet. Her legs were unsteady. His own weren’t much better. Still, they worked together to arrange her clothing into a semblance of unwrinkled order. After he’d retied her sash, she turned to him.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“For calling a halt?” His body was still regretting it. He didn’t want her thanks, damn it. He wanted a medal for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.

“For everything,” she said solemnly and walked to the door. There was an unsteady waver in her step—a tiny compensation for the pleasure he’d given up. He’d done that to her, and that thought made him fiercely possessive. Perhaps that was why he trailed after her, why, when she turned to take her leave, he kissed her once again, hard and bruising, so that she would remember him while she lay in bed tonight.

When she pulled away, he watched her go.

God, he ached all over. He needed a cold bath. He needed a good right hand. Preferably, the one before the other.

He let out his breath. It was only then that he saw Mrs. Benedict standing, frozen, down the gallery from him. She must have ascended the stairs moments before. Her eyes were narrowed, and she looked as if she were about to do murder. Oh, hell. She’d seen Margaret leave his chamber—alone, with her dress rearranged. She’d likely seen that last kiss.

“That wasn’t what you think,” he said.

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “I’m not a fool, Mr. Turner.”

“At least,” he amended truthfully, “it wasn’t exactly what you believed.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Ash shrugged helplessly. “You’ve seen her. You’ve listened to her. Can you blame me?”

Mrs. Benedict tapped her hand against her skirts. “Yes,” she said shortly. “I can. That poor girl has had enough to contend with without—” She grimaced and cut herself off.

“Without what?”

“Without your taking what little she has left,” Mrs. Benedict said. Her voice had dropped, almost quiet, but there was nothing in her tone of softness. Instead, she spoke with a fierce promise. “Of all the girls for which I take responsibility, she is the one I most wanted you to leave in peace. You have no notion what you’re doing.”

“I have some idea what she has suffered.”

Mrs. Benedict’s lip curled. “I doubt it. I’ll be having my key back, then. If you please.” She said those last words in a tone that left no doubt: he had no choice in the matter.

“I can’t.”

She drew herself up—sheer bravado, for a woman who came not even to his shoulder—and marched towards him. “There is no can’t,” she scolded, her palm outstretched. “You will, or I shall—”

“I gave it to Miss Lowell,” Ash confessed.

That brought her to a standstill. “You what?”

“I gave the key to Miss Lowell. I thought—well, I thought she ought to have it.” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know why. It just…seemed like something she ought to have.”