Page 49 of Ravishing Camille
But you should be.
* * *
When they arrived at home and the footman pulled open the coach door, Pierce gave him a quick look of dismissal and got out. As Camille emerged, he swept her up into his arms and marched to the front door.
Brisbane was there. “Sir! How can I help?”
“I want a bucket of ice. Hot soup, crackers, jams and brandy. And tell James he is to go to bed.”
Brisbane frowned. “As you wish, sir.”
He took the stairs at a clip as Camille murmured her displeasure. “You needn’t do this. I can walk.”
“I’m not letting you go.”
“Pierce, please.”
“No.”
She curled her arms around his shoulders more tightly. “Thank you.”
“Open the door,” he told her when they stood before his.
She checked his gaze, but she swung it wide.
He strode inside and went straight through his sitting room to his bedroom.There he sat her down on his mattress and lifted his cape from her shoulders. First came her shoes and her gloves, then the remaining pins in her hair. He met her gaze. “Shall I call for Ivy or can I undo your gown and corset for you?”
She lifted her chin, her look with a dawn of thanks and wonder in it, too. “No. You.”
He shifted, sitting behind her to unlace the elaborate ruined French silk. He’d buy her dozens of gowns, hundreds to take the place and erase the menace of that man.
“Stand a moment,” he told her when he could not do her service without the full of her back available to him to remove the cloth. When she stood and he sent the supple fabric to the floor with a brush of his fingers, more of her bare skin was exposed to him. He hurried to unlace the ridiculous contraption that encased her. At the sight of her flawless skin and the dip of her waist against the subtle flair of her hip, he swallowed hard on desire and worked rapidly.
She swayed with his virulence and clamped a hand to her bosom to retain the corset to her chest and save her modesty. He slowed. God knew, he had no desire to hurt her more. And the sight of her curling her shoulders away from him told him she needed to maintain her reserve.
So as the thing gaped wider, he shot to his feet.
“Don’t move.” Off he went, eyes straight ahead, to his dressing room and pulled from a padded hangar the onyx and silver Chinesehan-futhat served as his robe. Gazing to her right, he handed it to her. “Step out of that ugly thing and put this on.”
He could hear her swallow, but she took it and let the frilly cream and pink undergarment drop to the carpet.
“Now lie down. Yes,” he said, catching her question as she tipped her head. “There. Up on the pillows. I’ll return.” Spinning, he disappeared back into his dressing room to tug off his evening coat and waistcoat, cufflinks, shoes, stockings, black trousers and white shirt. In a rush to get back to her, he pulled out of his top drawer one set of the white linen shirt and pants he wore for daily meditation. Donned them. Belted them at his waist. Then padded barefoot back into the room.
At the corner, he stopped. She had watched the entryway for his return. Mute, she met his gaze as he returned to her. He settled beside her against the headboard, legs along her own and gathered her into his arms. With a sigh, he drew her near. The hard points of her full breasts pressed warmly against his chest and he ignored the implication of what they told him. She put her palm to the v of his bare skin beneath his throat—and though he told himself he shouldn’t, he welcomed her caress. When she burrowed nearer to him and she put one leg over his own, he caught sight of her long white lacy garters and the clocked white hose she wore. He knew she moved to better balance herself against him and he warned himself that this was her way to accept his shelter and his protection. That it was also the way his raging erection fought with his logic and his good intentions had him putting his lips to her forehead and praying for strength.
“When Brisbane returns,” she said, “tell him to send Ivy to bed as well.”
The implications were manifold. One would be that the household might get the same impression that those outside the theater had. She had been mortified by that and frankly, so had he. He would guard against that for her sake. “The servants will know you are here with me.”
“I want to be.”
“Camille,” he said and lifted her chin, “I mean to make you feel better. Not seduce you.”
“You do make me feel better. Best, if you don’t force me away until I want to go. And seduce me?”
Oh, the way she delved into the depths of his eyes and sought his good intentions helped him affirm in his own mind what this night’s affection would become.
“No, you won’t do that,” she said with confidence, then sank again to his chest and snuggled there.
