What Happened at Midnight(29)

Lightning flashed again, searing all sight of him from her eyes. She waited for the reverberation of thunder. Another solitary raindrop found her cheek, then another. Then the thunder came, booming around them.

“Worry?” she asked. “Why were you worried? I’ve never been better.”

Mary let the shawl slip down her shoulders.

“Come,” he said, “we’ve got to get you back to Northword Hill.”

But it was too late. The fall of droplets had become a light patter around them.

“No, John,” she said, and it felt as if her voice came from very far away.

She had stopped hoping to be granted her heart’s desire. She was going to start taking it now.

“No?” He picked up the edge of the shawl, looped it around her elbows, and wiped the raindrops from her face.

“No,” she said quietly, raising her hand to his jaw. “I have been looking forward to this part of the evening for the past week. I didn’t get tossed out of my employer’s house with nowhere to go but your arms just so that I could return chastely to the viscount’s home. You’re taking me to bed.”

Lightning slashed down, illuminating his silhouette. He seemed so still—looking at her as if he’d no notion what to say in response. And then the rain truly began, pelting into them. He grabbed her hand—too tight, too close—and together, they ran to Oak Cottage.

BY THE TIME JOHN brought Mary back to Oak Cottage, she was soaked through. He could feel her trembling all the way through the shawl he’d put around her. But despite her shivers, there was something about her that heated him more than any of their kisses.

It wasn’t just the way she removed the soaking-wet shawl, or how she turned to him and undid the buttons of his coat. It wasn’t just the physical thrill of seeing her bodice cling to her skin. After she took off his hat and set it on a hook, she found a clean, dry cloth and wiped the droplets from his face—slowly, tenderly. Their breaths made little white puffs of air in the entry.

“You know,” she said, her voice low, “I’m never going to get dry with my wet things on.”

He swallowed. She turned her back to him. Her gown laced from her neck down to the base of her spine, ending just below the swell of her petticoats. From that angle, she presented a most appealing picture.

“I need your help to remove them,” she continued.

She was right. He held his breath and undid her laces. The rain had hardened the strings to tight knots, and his fingers fumbled against her back—again and again until he loosened her laces enough for her to take the fabric off.

As she moved to do so, he turned away. “I’ll make a fire.”

It was cold, but not so cold that they needed a regular blaze. Instead, he made a small coal-fire in the grate, just enough to cast a little red illumination in the room.

But Mary hadn’t wrapped herself in one of the towels that he’d brought in. “John,” she said, crooking a finger at him.

He swallowed. “Yes?”

“I’m soaked through. All the way to my drawers.”

That brought to mind white linen clasping soft thighs. He groaned and leaned against the wall as she undid the buttons holding her petticoat in place.

“I—I’ll go in the other room,” he offered halfheartedly.

“Don’t you dare. I’ll need you for my corset laces.”

She let her petticoat fall to the floor. “Here,” she said, lifting her hair and turning to him. If it had been a trial to undo her gown, unlacing her corset was torture. The fire cast scant light; he could only find her laces by feel. First, the smoothness of her shoulders—then the stiffened fabric of her corset. He found her corset laces and followed them down to where they’d been tied in a secure bow. These laces, slightly drier, didn’t stick; he managed to undo the knots fairly easily. But then he peeled the fabric from her body. What little light there was in the room seemed to fall on her br**sts, wet and peaked under her shift.

“Christ.” He couldn’t look away. Not from her. Not from this. His own wet clothing seemed suddenly too hot.

She took the edge of her shift in her hands.

John took a step back. “God, Mary. It’s like you’re—”

“Like I’m trying to seduce you?” she said, her voice rich as cream.

“Trying to torment me.”

“Oh, no,” she said, her voice cool. “I have no wish to torment you.” She lifted her shift above her knees, high enough to pull her drawers down. All that creamy white fabric, fresh from her legs. His mouth went dry. He wanted her—wanted her so badly he could hardly speak. And then she pulled her shift over her head. His brain simply ceased to function, to do anything except to desire. He wanted to taste, to touch, to smell. He wanted to take, to possess. He wanted her so much his fists clenched with the effort of standing still.

The darkness only seemed to make her more alluring—to show the silhouette of her nearly naked form in flashes, enough to taunt him with her proximity and yet whisper that if he wanted to know all of her, he’d have to discover her curves not with his eyes but with his hands.

He fought for rationality.

“There’s no need to rush this. I can wait—” He swallowed as she sidled up to him “—a little.” A very little.