“You call me ‘Saint Sheridan.’ Isn’t that the very definition of doing what’s expected?”
“If you were really Saint Sheridan,” she said dryly, “you wouldn’t have landed us in this mess in the first place.”
He chuckled. “True.” Then he sobered. “Now, I know this may be a bit embarrassing, but you must tell me exactly what your mother said was going to happen tonight.”
She looked at him as if he were thickheaded. “I just told you what she said.”
“That’sall?Nothing about the actual particulars?”
“No. Why?” He could see a bit of panic in her eyes. “Don’tyouknow what’s going to happen? Because I don’t know enough to instruct you in the matter.”
He stifled another laugh. “Yes, I know what’s going to happen. It’s just that most mothers . . .”
She stared at him expectantly.
“Never mind. How about we try this? Once we proceed to the . . . bedding part of the evening, I won’t do anything without preparing you for it first. Will that make it less nerve-racking?”
“Yes, I think so.” She threw her head back. “But honestly, how should I know? I’m not even aware of what I’m supposed to do.” She squirmed on his lap as if trying to find a better position.
He groaned. “Well, to start with, don’t dothatfor the moment.”
“Why not? Did I hurt you?” With a look of horror, she tried to leave his lap, but he wouldn’t let her.
“It’s fine. All I meant was that since I’m aroused, your wiggling about on top of me is making me want to lay you down on the floor and ravish you too soon.”
“Oh.” She settled back on his lap, but more gingerly. “I arouse you?”
“You know that you do. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have ‘landed us in this mess in the first place,’ as you put it.”
She cast him a shy smile. “I don’t mind the mess so much.”
That made him breathe easier. He hoped she meant she wasn’t sitting there wishing he was Juncker. “If we do this right,” he said, his voice gravelly from the effort of restraining himself, “you won’t mind the mess at all. With any luck, you’ll end up enjoying it.”
“How do you know? Have you done this before?”
“A lady isn’t supposed to ask a gentleman that,” he said.
Her eyebrows lifted. “A gentleman isn’t supposed todothat, except with his wife.”
“Good point.” He ran his hand lightly down her still-clothed back. “Let’s put it this way—I have occasionally behaved less than gentlemanlike. Certainly less than saintly.”
He began unbuttoning the tiny buttons of her nightdress. There were several of them, going down to her waist. And undoing them with one hand was more difficult than he expected. Especially when her breath was coming in thick, shuddery gasps that resonated well below the waistband of his trousers.
“How . . . how often is occasionally?” She stared down at what he was doing. “Have you . . . ever had a mistress?”
“No. Can’t afford one.”
She stiffened. “Oh, trust me, if a man wants a mistress, he can always find a way to pay for her.”
As a shaft of ice pierced his heart, Sheridan halted the unbuttoning. “Do you know that from experience?”
With a sigh, she nodded.
He fought for calm. “Who was he? Juncker?”
She blinked at him. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“What the devil areyou?”
