Page 68 of A Wicked Game

A flash of surprise and confusion crossed his face, but he inclined his head in assent.

“That would be nice. It’s cold out there.”

“There’s a fire upstairs in the parlor. Come along.”

Harriet picked up the lamp and led the way up the stairs, conscious at every step of his big body following behind her. Her pulse gave an erratic flutter at the thump of his boots on the treads.

When she showed him into the parlor he crossed to the fireplace and stretched his hands to the blaze, and for a moment she just stared at him, appreciating the way the fire glow caressed his features.

She could hardly reconcile the image before her. It was so strange to see him here, in such a domestic environment. She’d always thought of him as a force of nature, too large to be contained by four walls and a roof. He ought to be on the prow of a ship, glaring out at the vast horizon, or chopping his way through some impenetrable forest with a fierce-looking blade.

Even in a ballroom he gave the impression of being not quite tame, like the sleek jungle cats she’d seen at the Royal Exchange: well-behaved for now, but prone to unexpected attacks.

She deposited the lamp on the sideboard and poured two tumblers of her father’s favorite brandy from the decanter, proud that her shaking hands didn’t rattle the lip on the glass.

Morgan took his with a smile of thanks, and tapped the rim against hers in a toast.

“To damsels in distress,” he said with a smile.

She rolled her eyes, and a little of her nervousness fell away with his teasing.

“I know, I know,” he said, before she could reply. “You’re far too capable to need my assistance, but let a man pretend. Heroes like myself need to think of ourselves as indispensable.”

She took a sip of brandy, enjoying the way it burned down her throat and settled in a hot, glowing puddle in her belly, and her skin prickled as she realized he was watching her. His dark gaze lingered on her mouth. Self-conscious, she licked her top lip to make sure she hadn’t left a droplet of the liquid there.

His eyes narrowed, and he made a low sound that was nearly a groan.

“God, Harriet, you’d try the patience of a saint.”

She wasn’t sure that he meant it as a warning or an admonishment, but for some reason it warmed her as much as the brandy. He wasn’t impervious to her. She had a power of her own.

He threw back his head and took a large swig of his own drink. The muscles of his throat worked as he swallowed, and Harriet couldn’t seem to look away.

He glanced at her again, then shook his head, as if trying to dislodge a persistent thought, and downed the rest of the brandy in another gulp. His knuckles showed white where he gripped the glass, and it landed with an uncharacteristically heavy thump on the sideboard as he placed it down.

“There. Time for bed.”

He sounded gruff, desperate. As if he couldn’t wait to escape.

She drained the rest of her brandy and placed the tumbler on the side. Her hand was remarkably steady.

“I need your assistance.”

“In what way?”

She slipped the shawl from her shoulders and placedit on the sideboard, then turned, presenting him with her back and the row of tiny buttons that held her ball gown closed. She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“Would you mind? I can’t undo them myself.”

His long exhale suggested he was struggling for patience, or possibly counting to ten, and she bit her lip to quell a smile.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Of course.”

The satin of her ball gown rustled as he stepped close and his knees pressed into the back of her skirts. She sucked in a breath as he lifted a tendril of hair from her nape and repositioned it over her shoulder to give him clear access.

His knuckles brushed the bare skin between her shoulder blades as he opened the first button; her bodice tightened across her breasts as he pulled the fabric before it released with a tiny pop.

She suppressed a shiver.

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