That particular fact seemed to underscore the intimacy of their situation and reminded her of the ramifications of what they were about to do. But he spoke again, giving Irene no time to think about how nervous she was. “I hope the bathtub meets with your approval?”
“The what?” She watched him nod to something behind her, and she turned to find that her room possessed an adjoining bath. Through its open doorway, she could see copper pipes and a white, enameled tub. “Heavens, when I came in, I didn’t even notice it.”
“You wound me, Irene. It took me all afternoon to find an appropriately discreet hotel that possessed a private bath.”
Laughing, she turned and looked at him again. “Thank you. That was a very chivalrous thing to do.”
He didn’t laugh with her. “Not so chivalrous,” he said, looking into her eyes, and her laughter faded at the intensity she saw in his. “I’m hoping you’ll share it.”
At those words, Irene’s heart slammed hard against her ribs, and the butterflies in her stomach transformed into a flock of panicked birds. He seemed to sense it, for he reached through the doorway and cupped her face, his palm warm against her cheek. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.” She nodded, confirming it to herself as well as to him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything in my life, Henry. So . . .” She paused a moment. “What happens now?”
“There are several ways we can proceed. If you’re hungry, I can order dinner, and we can dine first.” His hand slid to her neck, his fingertips lightly caressing her nape. “Or you can put that tub to good use, have a bathe, and then change into more comfortable attire. I’d suggest a loose-fitting gown that doesn’t require a corset. Or . . .” He paused, and his fingers stilled. The intensity of his gaze deepened, darkening his eyes to smoke. “Or you can allow me to undress you.”
Irene didn’t need any time to decide which course she preferred, and as his hand slid away, she caught it in both of hers, then lifted it to the top button of her walking suit. “I think,” she said, “I prefer the third option—”
His mouth was on hers before she could even finish, his hand pulling out of her grip, his hands caressing her face as he kissed her. The kiss was both tender and hot, and her lips parted at once, opening to him and to whatever experience he was giving her tonight.
Henry tasted her mouth in soft, lush kisses as he began maneuvering her backward into her room, and he tried not to think about the fact that he was pushing her across the Rubicon. Once they were both inside her room, he kicked her door shut behind them, and deepened the kiss even more, inflaming his own lust to blot out his conscience, his past, and any inconvenient contemplations of right and wrong.
But this strategy for dealing with his conscience had its own drawbacks, for within seconds, he was fully aroused, and if he kept up this pace, tonight would not be the extraordinary experience he wanted for her. He had to slow down.
He broke the kiss, working to balance between the two opposing forces within him as he began to unbutton her jacket. It was slow going, for his hands were shaking with the effort to contain his moves. Of course, she noticed.
“You’re not nervous, too, are you?” she whispered, sounding surprised.
“Are you joking? Of course I am,” he muttered, sliding her jacket down her shoulders and tossing it aside. Then he looked at her again, raking his hands through his hair and drawing a profound, shaky breath. “I’m nervous as hell.”
For some reason, that made her laugh.
“Go on, then,” he said as he started on the buttons of her shirtwaist. “Laugh at my expense. You do seem to enjoy that particular sport.”
“Well, yes,” she admitted. “I am fond of teasing you, it’s true. But I do like that you’re nervous.”
“Why, in heaven’s name?”
“Because it proves you’re not always as in control as you pretend.”
He suspected she wouldn’t say that if he lost his control as completely as he wanted to and let what was raging in him have free rein, and he was glad she’d chosen to let him undress her. Had she slipped into a loose-fitting garment with nothing underneath, he feared it would have been his undoing, and her deflowering a short, very unromantic experience. As it was, the act of unfastening buttons and untying ribbons enabled him to curb, bit by bit, his own urges, and by the time she was down to chemise and drawers, he was prepared to concentrate fully on what was most important: arousing and pleasuring her.
For the first time since he began to undress her, he looked into her face. She was flushed, her breathing quick—a good sign she was already partway there, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. He cupped her chin, and kissed her, then drew back again. “It’s all right if you tease me and laugh,” he told her as he reached behind her head and began pulling the pins out of her hair. “For before the night is out, Irene, I will have my revenge.”
“Heavens,” she murmured, her lashes lowering. “It seems I shall need that sol volatile after all.”
Despite her light words, he felt the tremors running through her, though whether it was due to apprehension or anticipation, he couldn’t be sure. Probably both.
He turned to toss the pins onto the dressing table beside him as his other hand raked through her hair, bringing it tumbling down around her shoulders, just as it had been that night in the library, just as it had been in all his dreams of her since then.
He grasped a handful of gold silk in his fist and pulled her head back. He kissed her, his free hand undoing the buttons at the neck of her chemise. He wanted to touch her breasts, cup and suckle them, but the modest neckline of her garment prevented it. He trailed kisses along her throat and over her collarbone as he moved both hands to her waist. He grasped the hem of her chemise, then moved to draw it upward, but suddenly, she grasped his wrists to stop him. He tilted his head, pressing a kiss to her ear. “It’s all right. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid. It’s just that . . .” She paused, then gave a little laugh. “We both know I’m not experienced in these matters, but surely I’m not the only one whose clothes come off?”
“No. But it’s probably best if I stay dressed as long as possible.”
Being Irene, she couldn’t just accept this explanation. “I don’t think that very fair.”
It wasn’t fair, no, but it was far easier for him to hang onto restraint if he kept his clothes on. He wanted all of this, every second of it, to be something she would treasure, without regret, and putting her hands on his body, he supposed, was part of that for her. He’d have to bear the tension. “Very well,” he said and spread his arms. “If you wish to undress me, I won’t object.”
