Regency Rogues and Rakes: Silk is for Seduction / Scandal Wears Satin / Vixen in Velvet / Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed / A Rake's Midnight Kiss / What a Duke Dares. Loretta Chase

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      He swallowed a groan.

      “You got right into the spirit of the thing,” she said. “You were brilliant.”

      He cleared his throat. “I was being myself.”

      He told himself not to rush his fences.

      He wasn’t easy to persuade. Resisting temptation had never made any sense to him. But there was nothing to be gained by giving in now, in a public byway. Even a dolt like the Earl of Longmore could understand that.

      Do the job and be done with it, he told himself.

      Certainly it was no onerous task. He was used to doing and undoing women’s clothing. He’d done it wearing gloves, more than once. He’d done it in the dark. He’d done it at speeds that might be records for the Northern Hemisphere, while the female hissed, “Hurry, for heaven’s sake—he’s coming!”

      He set to work.

      It should have taken seconds. But there was some sort of tangle, and he was fumbling, and getting nowhere. His fingers felt like sausages. No matter how he tried to get at the hook, he failed, and with each failure his temperature climbed another degree.

      “What’s wrong?” she said.

      “These hooks,” he said. “They’re the very devil.”

      “That fool must have bent them,” she said. “They ought to be easy to manage. We haven’t a retinue of servants, and one can’t always count on having a sister on hand. One needs to be able to dress without help, if necessary.”

      “You must be deuced flexible,” he said.

      Wrong thing to say.

      She went quiet and his mind started painting pictures. Just in case he wasn’t heated enough already.

      He wasn’t used to behaving himself for long stretches. And she was … flexible … and his mind wouldn’t let go of the idea. And she smelled like a woman and lavender and greenery. And he could see a bit of her underthings.

      His head was going to explode.

      “Lord Longmore?” she said.

      He gathered what was left of his wits. “The hook is either mangled or tangled,” he said. “I can’t see what the problem is.” Because he was going crosseyed, from the scent and the warmth of her body and the consciousness of his hands and how he needed to keep them at their job.

      His pulse was racing, sending heat flooding downward.

       Christ.

      “She caught it in the seam stitching, probably,” she said. “She was in a fearful hurry. Couldn’t wait to be done with me. I’m surprised she didn’t leave it to the Frenchwoman. Ecrivier. You saw what that was all about, I don’t doubt.”

      “I should have made the boy do this,” he said. “His hands are smaller.”

      “Go ahead and pull, and don’t worry about breaking the thread,” she said. Her voice sounded shaky. “We can easily mend it. Or better yet, leave it. All you need to do is fasten enough to keep the bodice in place.”

      “It’s only one confounded hook,” he said. “I’m not surrendering to a bit of metal—especially not with Mad Dick looking on, composing Cockney mockery.”

      He squared his shoulders.

      He peeled off his gloves.

      This time, when he touched the back of her dress, she shivered.

      His palms were sweating.

      He bent closer, squinting. He found the bit of thread the hook was tangled with. He pulled it free.

      He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

      He heard her suck in air.

       Well, then.

      She’d noticed.

      And not in the way of noticing a fly landing on her skin, or a dog thrusting his nose into her hand but in that special feminine noticing way.

      The siege machinery had advanced.

      At great sacrifice. But still.

      He cheerfully did up the other hooks and buttons, pulled the cloak up over her shoulders, and turned away to pull on his gloves.

      He’d fought a terrific battle with himself, with his very nature, and he’d emerged victorious.

      He’d advanced.

      “You can come back, you little coward,” he said to Fenwick. “She’s decent again.”

      Lord Longmore drove back to St. James’s Street at death-defying speed.

      As they plunged into knots of traffic, Sophy heard people scream and curse, but they got out of the way.

      She only clung to the side of the carriage and wished he could go faster.

      She could still feel his hands at her back and his warm breath on her neck. She could still hear his voice, so low and husky, at her ear.

      Her willpower had oozed away.

      She’d actually felt her brain melting, and her muscles going the same way, and she had very nearly leaned back into his hands and let him do whatever he wanted to her.

      He hadn’t, apparently, wanted to do anything, luckily for her.

      Luckily, too, she was done with him. He’d served his purpose, and she hadn’t done anything catastrophic, and now all she had to do was get home and pour herself a glass or four of brandy and tell her sisters what she’d learned.

      When they reached the shop, she practically leapt from the curricle.

      She turned to run into the shop when she remembered the boy. Good grief! How could she forget him?

      She turned back. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come along, Fenwick.”

      He eyed the shop warily, but he started to climb down.

      “No, you don’t,” Longmore said.

      The boy paused, looking from her to him.

      “You’ll come along with me,” Longmore said. “I’ll see that you get fed and find a berth. There’s a fine pie shop over—”

      “Absolutely not,” Sophy said. “I was the one who made the promise.”

      “She did, yer highness,” Fenwick said.

      “Would you trust her before you’d trust me?” Longmore said. “You know what that is?” He nodded toward Maison Noirot. “A dressmaker’s shop. All women.”

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