Page 25 of A Most Unlikely Lady
If only he could show Ivy that some men could be trusted. At least in this.
But does she even want that?
He was determined to find out. And if she did wish to explore such desires, a shimmer of something bright and warm erupted in his chest at the thought he might be the one to earn her trust. To help restore a piece of joy that had been stolen from her.
What a load of lies I tell myself to justify breaking my vow. She might deserve to know pleasure, but I hardly deserve to be the one who shows her.
Because with Ivy Cavendale, it wouldn’t just be tupping. It could never just be tupping.
Forcing his mind to return to his plan, Edward bought himself time by taking another sip of coffee. ‘You said the man wore the clothes of a gentleman. And he was young, so mayhap he is an eligible lord looking for a bit of fun. While sneaking you into White’s or Boodles isn’t impossible, this is a far easier place to start. A man willing to cross the boundaries of law and propriety by breaking into an orphanage is exactly the kind of young buck sure to seek an invitation to the Widow’s Ball. And despite your fears about my reputation, I have been seen in far worse places than a private ball.’
‘Have you?’ Her arch look rivalled that of Philippa. He wished the duchess could see her protégée now. She would be immensely proud.
Shrugging an answer to her question, he continued. ‘If we don’t see him there, we can try a ride along Hyde Park or stroll down Bond Street, but this is our best chance.’
‘Ah. I see. Your brilliant plan is to escort me around London during the height of the summer season in hopes of not being noticed?’
‘Yes. Exactly.’ He nodded, grateful that she was finally being reasonable.
‘Brilliant,’ she hissed, her tone communicating the exact opposite. Turning from him, she plucked the kettle from the hob and shook it. Finding the contents lacking, she stormed out of the kitchen. He heard the tap running in the scullery. Before he could follow her, she was back, her skirts billowing around her legs as she strode to the hob and plunked the full kettle down. Bending over, she pulled open the stove and fed it a few sticks. Hedid notnotice how the fabric of her skirts pulled tight across her bottom. While her limbs were lean and her lines were sleek, her arse was lush and full. His fingers twitched at his side as his body grew tight. How would it feel to grip her narrow hips and pull that firm bottom flush against him?
Delicious. Sweet. Perfect.
Again, not helpful.
7
First, Worthington made a ridiculous proposal about escorting her to a ball.
Not just any ball. The Widow’s Ball.
A place no innocent young lady belonged.
But exactly the kind of place a scurrilous lord might be. And am I really so innocent?
She didn’t feel innocent. She felt itchy and restless in ways she’d never before imagined.
Perhaps I’m allergic to something in this house. The bed sheets. The soap. A certain Commissioner of Scotland Yard.
Then, he pointed out her height, a fact she was acutely aware of as most men hated looking up to any woman, but most especially a woman like Ivy Cavendale. Not that Worthington had any worries there; the man was as tall as a giant oak tree and just as strongly built.
I don’t care how strong he is. Or tall. Or well proportioned.
He called her plank of a bodydesirable.
Of all the stuff and nonsense.
The last thing Ivy needed was the interest of a man like Edward Worthington.
Only, what might happen if I did capture his interest?
Not a thought worth entertaining. But for the first time ever, it filled Ivy with more questions than fears. Which was unaccountable.
The very idea of attending a ball with him – dancing within the frame of his powerful body, feeling his hands on her skin, letting his scent infiltrate her senses – created a slow burn low in her belly that spread out, getting trapped in highly inappropriate places. The backs of her knees, the hollow of her throat, the apex of her thighs.
Fear. That was what she should be feeling. That was what she always felt when imagining dancing with a lord of the beau monde. His body too close. His breath too hot. His hands too demanding. But that was not what she felt when she imagined Worthington’s chest close enough to her own she could feel the heat of him. His breath skating over the delicate skin of her neck. His hand pressing against the small of her back as their bodies moved together along the strains of a stringed quartet.
I’m ill. This is some kind of strange fever.
