From Chapter 1...
Lizzie scowled at the
bedpost. She should have poured that last glass of ratafia over
Robbie’s head. That would have livened things up. Ha! She pictured
the looks of horror that would have adorned the assembled ton if
Lady Elizabeth Runyon, sister of the Duke of Alvord, pattern card of
respectability, had caused such a scene.
At least she would
have gotten Robbie’s attention. She’d wager next quarter’s pin-money on
that.
She looked at her
mirror again. It was very daring standing here naked. She
straightened, letting go of the bedpost. Perhaps she should be daring
this Season. Wanton, even. Playing by the rules hadn’t gotten her what
she wanted--whom she wanted--so she’d break them.
She put her hands back
on her breasts. She sighed. The poor little things barely filled her
palms--they would be lost in Robbie’s larger hands.
Mmm. She half-closed
her eyes, biting her bottom lip. Robbie’s hands. His long fingers, his
broad palms. On her skin.
She felt very daring
indeed. More than daring--hot. She rubbed her thumbs over her
nipples. The harp string started vibrating again. She licked her lips,
arching her hips, spreading her legs slightly so the breeze might find
and cool her where she most needed cooling.
What would it feel
like if Robbie touched her there?
Her hand slid down her
body.
“My God!”
A male voice, hoarse
and strained. She screamed as her eyes flew open. Robbie’s reflection
was staring at her in the mirror. Robbie’s very naked reflection.
She spun to face him,
grabbing the bedpost to keep from falling. The room shifted
unpleasantly, then righted. She blinked. Yes, Robbie was still there,
still naked, standing just inside her window.
She had never seen a
naked man before, except in paintings or statues. She stared.
Art did not do reality
justice. Not at all.
Then again, perhaps no
artist had ever had a model quite as splendid as Robbie.
He looked so different
from the civilized London lord she had left downstairs. He was larger.
Well, obviously, he could not have grown simply by shedding his clothes,
but it certainly seemed as if he had. His neck, freed from yards of
muffling cravat and concealing collar, was a study in angles and
shadows. And his shoulders...How had they fit into his coat?
She never would have
guessed he had hair sprinkled across his chest. Golden red hair dusting
down to his flat stomach, then spreading out below his navel around....
Oh, my.
She’d never seen that in any art work.
