Page 60 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
A hobby horse stood in one corner near a low table and small chairs and a shelf stacked with books. Two low cots that looked like camp beds stretched from one wall.
Nicholas lay, arms akimbo over his blankets, on one cot; Coralie had curled up on her side on the other bed, her hair in a long blond braid, her breath still and regular. Radley snored in a nearby armchair, and Blythe sat in a wing chair, her feet tucked up under her, her head pillowed against the chair wing.
The dim lamp light cast her in a luminous glow. She’d changed into a night gown and thin dressing gown and taken her hair down.
He went to her and touched her shoulder. When she didn’t stir, he slid an arm under her bottom and the other around her shoulder and lifted her.
Radley was there and the house was guarded. Blythe needed to be in her bed.
In her bedchamber, a lamp burned dimly and the covers had been turned back. He lay her down gently.
Even buttoned up to her neck, she was delectable. Barefoot and with her hair in a long braid for sleep, she looked more like the young girl he’d met so many years ago. On a whim, he toed off his own shoes, cast off his coats, and slid into the bed next to her.
It had been a long while since he’d lain with a woman—too long—but he’d never felt this sort of intimacy. Transitory affection at times, but never this.
She sighed and snuggled closer, and he closed his eyes, inhaling her scent. Despite a whole day of travel, she smelled of clean linens and a delicate perfume.
In contrast to him. He ought to have washed.
It was his last thought before falling asleep.
Blythe struggled awake from a dream, feeling strangely disoriented. Though the room was chilled, she was unaccountably warm.
An arm lay across her waist and slow, steady snoring tickled her ear. The dim lamplight cast enough glow to see the flowers on the bed hangings. Nicholas must have found his way down from the nursery; she hoped the snoring didn’t mean he’d caught a cold on the journey.
She patted the arm draping her, froze, and turned her head.
Graeme. Graeme was here, in her bed, holding her close as if… as if…
What had she done?
The snoring paused, one eye cracked open, and his lips curved. He nuzzled her neck, his bristly stubble sending sensation rippling through her middle and lower.
Her heart pounded. She’d just been dreaming of this. She’d just been dreaming of him.
How…
She’d been in the nursery. Had he carried her down? And then tucked himself into her bed and…
His hand began moving, distracting her.
Closing her eyes, she absorbed the sensation, struggling to think. “Wha-at are you?—”
Lips touched hers, gently, and then more forcefully, and as he pressed against her, she felt it—he was fully aroused.
Alarm warred with desire. She opened her eyes and saw that his eyes had drifted closed and his face had taken on the determined set of a man in the throes of passion.
A memory of Archie chilled her. Graeme wasn’t properly awake. He didn’t even know it was her.
She shoved at him and his eyes flew open.
“Blythe.” His hand lifted. “Shhh,” he said, “Sorry.” He smoothed her hair. “Apologies. So tired.”
He shushed and soothed and his strong fingers massaged her shoulder.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, “you’re safe. The children are safe. I… I carried you to your bed and… There’s a Bow Street Runner in the house. No one will hurt you.”
“I thought…” She closed her eyes. Graeme wasn’t Archie. He’d known it was her he was kissing.
