Her eyes widened as she took him in. “You look wretched!” she said in surprise, and then clapped a hand over her mouth.
What a thing to say,she chided herself.Badly done, Margo.
He did, though. His face was pale, and his eyes looked bruised. He looked as though he hadn’t slept all night. He appeared to have shaved already that morning, and with an unsteady hand, because he was bleeding slightly near his left ear.
He didn’t say anything. He was staring at her in a fixed, motionless sort of way.
Oh—no. He was staring at her bosom.
Something that had gone tense inside her relaxed. He still wanted her. This was not over yet.
If she’d been the proper lady Aunt Lavinia had tried to compel her to become—the kind of lady who wasn’t sent down from finishing school—she’d have blushed and lifted the bedsheet over her breasts in a flurry of modest exclamations.
Actually, she supposed, a proper lady would not have gone to bed with her brother’s best friend at all.
But she was not, and she had, and she absolutely did not lift the bedsheet over the part of her body that had transfixed Henry. Instead, she trailed the tips of her fingers down one freckled curve.
Even from across the room, she could see the bob of his throat as he swallowed.
She let her hand fall to her lap, where the linens puddled. She nudged the sheet down on her hip. One inch, then another. Then she slid her hand over to the cool empty space on the mattress beside her.
“Would you like to come back?” she asked. “We could breakfast together. It will be warmer if you sit beside me.”
“I—” he said. “I—”
She grinned. She thought he might be blushing. He was mildly scandalized—what a delight he was—if only she could persuade him to come back! She nudged the sheet down her hip a little farther, baring at least ten more freckles. He seemed to like them.
“You should get dressed,” he said, and he plucked up the wrinkled green mass of her traveling gown, strode across the room, and dropped it on her lap.
She blinked. That had taken a turn.
Her stomach felt suddenly strange, a nauseous flip, almost as she’d felt when the post-chaise had toppled the day before.
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose I shall.”
“I’ll go outside.” His voice sounded choked. “While you dress.”
He spun and headed for the door. Margo unfolded herself from the bed. The cottage seemed suddenly freezing, and her dress and chemise were not totally dry. Where the fabric touched her body, she felt clammy and wrong.
After an absurdly long time for a man who was still bare-chested—was he trying to ensure she was dressed when he returned?—Henry reentered the cottage. He nearly bumped into her, so close had she positioned herself to the door.
“Do you regret it?” she demanded.
She winced internally. She’d meant to approach the subject with a bit more tact. He’d made her nervous, that was all, with how long he’d taken to come back inside.
“I’m—sorry?”
She groaned and whirled away. “Last night! Do you regret it?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer, just spun back and advanced on him. “You needn’t come over all fussy and proper. You haven’t ruined me. I ruined myself years ago.”
“Margo, I—”
“There’s nothing wrong with what we did, you know! Free and consensual—is that not what you said yourself?”
His mouth was serious, so bloody serious. There was no trace of the Henry who had laughed into her skin. “I did. I know. I should not have done—”
“Don’t start with your shoulds and should nots!” She felt angry and stupid, stupid for thinking he would come back to bed, for thinking there would be a next time. “It was not the first time I had done that, you know. I am responsible for my own choices.”
“It was for me.”
