with elaborate designs in green and royal purple. About to announce his presence as he searched for the entrance, he was taken aback to discover what could only be a series of peepholes cut into the fabric.
Fenton’s mission to the ladies’ mending room in the face of almost insurmountable temptation had surely established his credentials as a gentleman. But what gentleman could resist putting his eye to the peephole?
It was spontaneous curiosity, not the conscious intention to spy, that had him gazing upon the incredibly arousing sight of Miss Brightwell, with her hair in disarray, hitching her skirts thigh-high to adjust her garter.
Such a sight would, he felt sure, have robbed far more gentlemanly gentlemen than he of their good manners. Yet good manners demanded that he step away and announce his presence, giving her time to make herself presentable.
Indeed, he was on the point of doing just that—had moved his head away from the peephole and was stepping back—when his practiced eye was caught by a flash of creamy, womanly curves that surely not even the most disciplined of gentleman could resist. Had a marauding tiger been bearing down upon him, Fenton would not have had the power to move.
He returned his eye to the peephole, all concentration focused on the scene before him, all his energy gathering in his loins, like a cannon about to explode. His prick jumped to attention once more and the surface of his skin tingled. With breath fast and shallow he watched the strip of naked flesh lengthen between knee and thigh as she raised her arms to pull off her gown, taking with it the chemise beneath.
He saw slender hips, a triangle of dark hair, creamy, gently rounded belly and a pair of breasts so pert they almost seemed to beckon to him. His own sigh echoed hers as she sank onto an Egyptian sofa with armrests carved in the shape of sphinxes, almost instantly covering her briefly revealed nakedness as she studied the damage done to her gown.
God, how he wanted her.
The gold-flecked gossamer fabric and crisp cotton chemise pooled in her lap. Fenton could see her slipper peeking from beneath the chair and willed her to rise and allow the fabric to fall in a shimmer to her feet.
He shifted position, trying to ease his discomfort, for his prick was ready for action and threatening to part company with the rest of him.
Closing his eyes, he tried to control his heathen impulses. He had promised to act the gentleman therefore he should go.
Yet how could he tear himself away from the most seductive, sensuous sight he’d experienced—ever? He realised that even he who prided himself on his self-control was defeated, and stepped forward to return his eye to the peephole.
Miss Brightwell’s long, dark hair had come loose from its coiffure and a tendril curled around the rosy peak cresting one of her full, pert breasts, surely the most magnificent bosom he’d ever seen. His vision blurred and his cock felt hot and heavy as it strained against his breeches.
He held his breath. The anticipation was killing him but he dare not reveal his presence or the show would be over—and what would be his reward?
He swallowed. Outrage? Or would she melt into his arms if he promised to restore her dignity?
She shifted a little and he caught a glimpse of naked thigh, a shapely calf encased in its white stocking tied at the knee. He’d seen many a Cyprian in greater undress than this, but the fact that he now gazed upon a lady made the blood sting the surface of his skin. He stifled another groan.
If ever a man was close to the brink of drowning in desire…
It was time to bring matters to a head. In the boat, he’d felt her slick with want for a stranger whom she clearly desired considerably more than either Alverley or her intended groom. He’d suckled at her breast while his hands had caressed her thighs slippery with the womanly juices that indicated an unfeigned lust for her mystery lover.
He was that man—the man who
Fenton’s mission to the ladies’ mending room in the face of almost insurmountable temptation had surely established his credentials as a gentleman. But what gentleman could resist putting his eye to the peephole?
It was spontaneous curiosity, not the conscious intention to spy, that had him gazing upon the incredibly arousing sight of Miss Brightwell, with her hair in disarray, hitching her skirts thigh-high to adjust her garter.
Such a sight would, he felt sure, have robbed far more gentlemanly gentlemen than he of their good manners. Yet good manners demanded that he step away and announce his presence, giving her time to make herself presentable.
Indeed, he was on the point of doing just that—had moved his head away from the peephole and was stepping back—when his practiced eye was caught by a flash of creamy, womanly curves that surely not even the most disciplined of gentleman could resist. Had a marauding tiger been bearing down upon him, Fenton would not have had the power to move.
He returned his eye to the peephole, all concentration focused on the scene before him, all his energy gathering in his loins, like a cannon about to explode. His prick jumped to attention once more and the surface of his skin tingled. With breath fast and shallow he watched the strip of naked flesh lengthen between knee and thigh as she raised her arms to pull off her gown, taking with it the chemise beneath.
He saw slender hips, a triangle of dark hair, creamy, gently rounded belly and a pair of breasts so pert they almost seemed to beckon to him. His own sigh echoed hers as she sank onto an Egyptian sofa with armrests carved in the shape of sphinxes, almost instantly covering her briefly revealed nakedness as she studied the damage done to her gown.
God, how he wanted her.
The gold-flecked gossamer fabric and crisp cotton chemise pooled in her lap. Fenton could see her slipper peeking from beneath the chair and willed her to rise and allow the fabric to fall in a shimmer to her feet.
He shifted position, trying to ease his discomfort, for his prick was ready for action and threatening to part company with the rest of him.
Closing his eyes, he tried to control his heathen impulses. He had promised to act the gentleman therefore he should go.
Yet how could he tear himself away from the most seductive, sensuous sight he’d experienced—ever? He realised that even he who prided himself on his self-control was defeated, and stepped forward to return his eye to the peephole.
Miss Brightwell’s long, dark hair had come loose from its coiffure and a tendril curled around the rosy peak cresting one of her full, pert breasts, surely the most magnificent bosom he’d ever seen. His vision blurred and his cock felt hot and heavy as it strained against his breeches.
He held his breath. The anticipation was killing him but he dare not reveal his presence or the show would be over—and what would be his reward?
He swallowed. Outrage? Or would she melt into his arms if he promised to restore her dignity?
She shifted a little and he caught a glimpse of naked thigh, a shapely calf encased in its white stocking tied at the knee. He’d seen many a Cyprian in greater undress than this, but the fact that he now gazed upon a lady made the blood sting the surface of his skin. He stifled another groan.
If ever a man was close to the brink of drowning in desire…
It was time to bring matters to a head. In the boat, he’d felt her slick with want for a stranger whom she clearly desired considerably more than either Alverley or her intended groom. He’d suckled at her breast while his hands had caressed her thighs slippery with the womanly juices that indicated an unfeigned lust for her mystery lover.
He was that man—the man who
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