And then suddenly he was no longer restraining her. She moaned deep in her throat and ceased all resistance. His hands were wrapped in her hair, caressing the skin of her neck and cheek, and her own hands were like small, kneading paws against his chest. Pushing and caressing and demanding more of him. He gave it, kissed her with the passion and violence, and still she did not back down. Now she was pushing him, and he was not at all certain he wanted to let her any farther inside. But at the same time his mind resisted, his body ached for her.
He took a step back, moving toward the bed and taking her with him. He wanted her on the velvet counterpane, her hair spread out beneath her like a fiery halo, and her pale skin an enticing contrast to the scarlet fabric.
He angled directly for his bed, and she went willingly, not seeming to notice where she was or what he was doing. But he knew, and his mind sounded the cannon to cease the charge. He could not do this. He would not.
Her hand slipped inside his shirt, somehow finding the chink in his armor, and he drew in a sharp breath as flesh met flesh. Oh, dash it all to hell, he thought, bending to sweep her into his arms and thus onto the bed. And then she was beneath him, all softness and curves and her sweet feminine smell. He wanted to drive into her, to press his body even more intimately against her, to surrender to his need for her.
At the thought, a shock rippled through him, and he reared up, backing away from her. Slowly she opened eyes hazy with desire, and it took all he had to resist returning to her arms. She blinked, ran a tongue over her swollen lips, and then, thank God, he heard a pounding on the door.
He jumped up, and for the first time since they’d entered the bedroom, his mind was working.
“Alfred William Dewhurst!” his mother bellowed from the other side of the door. “Do not touch that woman! You are impotent, do you hear me? Impotent!”
Freddie looked at Charlotte—sprawled on the bed, her skirts ruched to her knees, her hair in wild disarray, her face flushed with passion—and for once he wished his mother were correct.
CHARLOTTE OPENED HER eyes and looked at Dewhurst. “We’re not finished here,” he promised, then crossed to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. Alone, Charlotte slumped back into the bed’s mattress. Every muscle in her body was trembling and her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid it would break free. What had she been thinking? George, here she’d meant to assault his defenses. Instead he’d battered hers. What would she do if he broke through? What would be her fate if she began to feel for a man incapable of returning any of her sentiments?
She hated him, and yet she burned for him, too. How was that possible? Just like an Englishman, he had to make everything complicated.
Rising, she went to the door of the dressing room between their rooms, opened it, and stomped through, careful to lock her door when she closed it. “Ridiculous, preening flamingo!” she muttered. “I can’t stand him or his peacock mother!”
“What do you have against birds, Miss Charlotte?” Addy asked, rising from the rocking chair near the far window of Charlotte’s room.
“Birds? Nothing. Preening English aristocrats, however, are the bane of my existence.” She flopped down on the bed, throwing one arm over her eye. “And the servants here! Hester never knocks before barging in, Mrs. Pots still hasn’t shown me a menu, and the cook all but chased me out of the kitchen this morning!” Charlotte lowered the arm from her eyes. Addy was not coming to comfort her. Addy always came to comfort her. She looked around and found her maid still standing beside the rocking chair at the window. Charlotte propped herself up on her elbows. “What’s wrong?”
Addy scowled out the window. “I have problems of my own, Miss Charlotte. That man is like to drive me batty as a drunk pig.”
Charlotte frowned, trying to remember if she’d ever seen a drunk pig.
“He walks around here like he owns the place. Like he owns the world.”
Charlotte nodded. “He does, doesn’t he? Ooh, his arrogance is so galling!” She sat up and clenched her fists.
“You ask me, it’s ’bout time he’s put back in his place. Who does he think he is?”
“Who indeed? Vain flamingo!”
“Skinny-legged, pasty-faced fool!”
“What?” Charlotte said. “I actually thought his legs were rather nice.”
“Nice?” Addy rounded on her, turning her back to the window. “They’re skinny as all get out. Like twigs.”
Charlotte shook her head. Dewhurst’s legs weren’t at all like twigs. In fact, they were far too muscular, too finely toned and shaped for her comfort. And what was Addy doing looking at Dewhurst’s legs anyway!
“And his manners leave a mighty something to be desired.”
“Yes, they do.”
“The way he snatched that starch right out my hand this morning. Ooh, Miss Charlotte, if I weren’t a lady, I’d have smacked the holy—”
“Addy! Wait a moment. Are you talking about Lord Dewhurst?”
Addy shook her head. “Please, Miss Charlotte. That there man is your problem. And if I could trade you, I would. I like Mr. Dewhurst.”
“Then who are you talking about? Wait. Are you still angry at Mr. Wilkins about the starch and iron?”
“Oh, now it’s just starch and an iron. Hmpf. We’ll see how you feel when there ain’t no starch nor no iron to be had and your dress is limp as a—”
