He grabbed her ankle and squeezed it tightly. “Miss Hale. For once—for bloody well once—don’t argue. Just do it.” Trusting that she was not as stupid as she acted most of the time, he began his descent, making sure to exaggerate his movements so she could see. He glanced up to ensure she was doing well and realized—purely by accident—his angle provided him a perfect view up her dress.
He looked away. Of course, the chit would pick tonight to wear a gown rather than the trousers he’d met her in. Had she done it on purpose? He glanced up again, this time studying her face. Her expression was intent, her eyes studying the tree. She didn’t appear to have any idea the view she was affording him.
Not that he could see everything. Her dress, though simple and light, was voluminous, and she was wearing a chemise underneath. Still, when she moved just right, when his angle was right, and when her skirts swayed just right, he had an eyeful. His mouth felt dry.
“Why are you stopped?” she asked, tearing him away from his admiration of her firm white bottom rising above her pale garters and stockings.
Feeling like a naughty schoolboy, Stephen looked away and quickly climbed down the last few feet. She came after him, and he took a deep breath and counted backward from thirty-seven to keep his eyes from roving back up. It was the hardest, longest thirty-seven numbers he’d ever tallied.
A moment later, she was beside him on the ground, wiping her hands on the dress. Stephen watched the movement, unable to stop imagining the treasures that lay beneath the thin material.
Looking up at him, she pursed her lips. “What’s wrong?” She looked down at her dress and then back up at him.
He took a step back and—bloody hell—he felt his face flush. “Nothing. Why do you ask?” Damn it! He even sounded guilty.
“Because you’re standing there staring at my gown. Don’t you like it?”
“It’s fine. I—I didn’t even look at it. Not that I was looking elsewhere—” Oh, this was no good. He cleared his throat. “Let’s go inside.” Taking her by the wrist, he led her through the servants’ door and into his home. She went willingly, preceding him as they crossed the threshold.
Stephen watched her, knowing that if he followed her, his resolve would falter and fail.
For a moment, the image of another young, impetuous woman flashed in his mind. Smiling, teasing, moaning in pleasure . . . crying in shame.
Jaw clenched in determination, Stephen closed the door behind him.
Chapter Eight
It wasn’t fair, Josie thought two hours later when she’d gone through every paper James Doubleday had left behind. Westman had told the truth when he’d said that the only thing of interest in the stack of papers was the warehouse address. But it wasn’t fair that they should come so far now, find the key, and then go away empty-handed.
Especially after she had nearly killed herself climbing out of her bedroom window. Much as she’d tried over the years, she’d never gotten past her weakness: fear of heights. She was such a ninny, which was all the more reason to keep pushing herself to overcome her cowardice.
Truth be told, she would have chosen just about any other way out of her house tonight.
But she’d faced her fear, hiding the terror and hysteria she’d felt from Westman, only to end up with nothing to show for it. Why, they hadn’t even found the other half of the treasure map yet! Josie knew it must be here somewhere.
She’d gone through her own house too many times to count. It was not there. There was no other explanation for its absence. The map had to be here, in Westman’s house. She was willing to bet on it. And she had. Involving Westman like this had been a risk, and it was still a risk. She still didn’t know if she could trust him, not only with the treasure, but with the second and more important aspect of her mission—to clear her grandfather’s name.
And then there was that other, rather stickier, issue. The more time she spent with Stephen Doubleday, the more she needed him as her first lover. Certainly, his ridiculous attempts to protect and shelter her annoyed and aggravated her. Certainly, he made her want to smack him when he began to lecture her about what young ladies should do.
But he also made her want to kiss him. His kiss outside the warehouse yesterday had been nothing short of . . . eye-opening. She had never been kissed like that. Never. Her heart had beat so fast and her pulse had raced so hard that she’d feared she would explode. And that had not been the worst of it. The quick shot of arousal that hit the pit of her belly and descended as a slow trickle of heat, lower and lower, had almost undone her.
No boy had ever made her feel like that before.
And she’d kissed quite a few boys. Several men, too. She was not a loose woman—despite the fact that she was now looking for a lover. She didn’t allow men liberties, though her definition of liberty was probably somewhat broader than, say, Maddie’s. But Josie’s grandfather had taught her to be precocious. “Experience life and love to the fullest,” he’d said.
And she was beginning to think that if she didn’t have Stephen Doubleday as a lover, her life would be incomplete. She had to be kissed like that again. What would her life be if she never experienced sensations like those again? It wasn’t that she wanted to marry him. She hadn’t changed that much. She hadn’t all of a sudden decided she wanted to be tied to a man for life. Even Stephen Doubleday, as intriguing and adventurous as he was, was still just a man—overbearing, domineering, and arrogant. Men like that were a shilling a piece among her circle. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life leg-shackled to Westman, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a few hours together.
In bed.
Except that Westman, with all his noble reforms, wasn’t going to touch her. And if he did, she half feared he’d try to force a marriage. And so she’d returned to where she had started.
She put down the last of James Doubleday’s papers and sat back in the desk chair. Nothing about this search for the treasure or her partnership with Westman was easy. Maybe it was the bad luck associated with the treasure or maybe it was just her own impatience, but Josie felt further from finding the answers to her questions than ever.
She’d made Westman go through the books in his library, opening them to check for forgotten slips of paper, but he’d finished some time ago, and was now sitting on the couch across from her, eyes closed.
“That’s everything,” she said. He opened his eyes and Josie saw that they were red with fatigue. He looked so tired. “I’ve looked at each paper twice. I don’t see anything relating to the treasure.”
Westman rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had a very nice nose, Josie thought. It was long and straight and fit his face. But it was not so big or long as to get in the way when he kissed her. She’d kissed men with noses like that before, and the experience had been less than enjoyable. Not like yesterday with Westman. Everything about that had been enjoyable.
