Regency Rogues: Unlacing The Forbidden. Louise Allen

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      Rhys sighed and moved his mouth gently against the head of the woman in his arms. This was the way to wake up. Warm, rocking gently, arms full of soft, curvaceous femininity.

      She smelled of roses, whoever she was. He must try to recall her name in a minute; it was ungentlemanly to forget in the morning. Not that he could recall the night before either, but he supposed it must have been good. His body was certainly awake and interested.

      When he pulled her more tightly against his groin she snuggled back with an erotic little wriggle that inflamed an already insistent erection to aching point.

      ‘Mmm.’ Rhys nuzzled the silky fine hair and let his right hand stray lightly across her body. They were both dressed, after a fashion, although their bare feet had obviously made friends in the night. Perhaps she had pulled on her gown again afterwards for warmth, because under the fine wool he could feel uncorseted curves and the sweet weight of an unfettered breast. As his thumb moved across the nipple it hardened and he smiled.

      His companion stirred, stretched, her feet sliding down against his. She yawned and he came completely awake. He was in the chaise, on the ship, heading for France and in his arms, pressed against his insistent erection, her breast cupped in his hand, was Lady Althea Curtiss.

      Rhys bit back the word that sprang to his lips and went very still. Was she awake? Had she realised? Probably not or she’d be screaming the place down, or, given that this was Thea, applying that sharp elbow where it would do most harm. He let his hand fall away from her breast, lifted the other from her hip, arched his mid-section as far back as he could. If he tried to slide his arm from under her, she would probably wake.

      Damn it. Thea, the innocent, respectable friend whom he had already shocked with that embrace. If his wretched wedding tackle would only take the hint and calm down, that would be a help; he was as hard as teak.

      Rhys thought about Almack’s, tripe and onions, Latin verbs, tailors’ accounts. It didn’t work. His brain, apparently having lost all its blood in a mad southwards dash, was disobediently musing on just where Thea had acquired those curves from and when she had begun to smell of roses and how that mousey mane of hair could be so silky.

      ‘Rhys?’ His name was muffled in a yawn.

      ‘Yes. Roll off my arm, would you? I’ve got pins and needles.’

      ‘Sorry.’

      Merciful relief. In the dim morning light Rhys grabbed for a blanket and hauled it across his lap as he sat up.

      Thea sat up, too, stretching her arms in a way that made him moan as her bosom rose and fell. ‘Are you all right? Shall I rub it better?’

      ‘No! I mean, no, my arm is fine now.’ Rhys gave it a shake to demonstrate and grabbed for the door handle. ‘I’ll get out and let you get…get ready. Yes.’ He landed on the deck and bundled the blanket back into the chaise. Damn it, he sounded like a gauche seventeen-year-old. ‘I can see the shore clearly. We’ll be landing soon, I expect.’

      ‘Oh, good.’ Thea’s voice came faintly through the closed door. ‘I won’t be long.’

      Hell’s teeth. Rhys tottered to the main mast, took a firm grip on a rope and dragged cold sea air down into his lungs. What have I agreed to? That isn’t little Thea in there, that is Lady Althea, all grown up…and out and… Stop it. He was, for Heaven’s sake, a sophisticated man with considerable sexual experience. He was a notorious flirt. His wits were normally perfectly capable of dealing with any female. So why couldn’t he cope with this one? It would be better when she was up and dressed and looking like Thea again in that drab dress with her cheerful, intelligent, blessedly ordinary face smiling at him. And her corset on, please, God.