Page 44 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

A less selfish woman would halt the course they were on—not touch him again, set them both free, protect their hearts like he was protecting her body. But she was more villainess than heroine, after all. And good god, she wanted him. Any piece she could have.

He rubbed the back of her sleeve. “Come on, we’ll get you out of these clothes.”

Her stomached flipped as she leaned back a little into him, the scent of wool and coal and oak tickling her nose and sending shivers of desire down her spine.

“And I’m supposed to be the naughty one.” Her voice was husky and thick and so unlike her, well, or at least the her she usually was, or how she always pretended to be. He bent down and his lips brushed her ear as she reached for the door handle.

“No one said that title was yours alone. I’m sure we could find some way to compete for it.”

* * *

David sat on the bed, fiddling with his thumbs, not analyzing the back of Amalia’s head as she sat in front of the small vanity, removing her jewelry and feathers.

A man can only take so much anticipation. Once he’d settled on this disastrous course of action, which would result in his heart being smashed to bits, he’d been ready to tear off every stich of lace and fluff and flounce on her, no matter the price.

He snatched up her discarded gloves and packed them in her case. And squeezed out her bandage and hung it over the low fire to dry. And fiddled with the pillows. Twice. The least he could do was make himself useful.

“You know, if you decide being a Pinkerton isn’t for you anymore, maybe you really could invent the position of male lady’s maid. You have the skills. You could start a union.” Amalia rolled up her skirts and displayed her boots. She bent over, arms dangling above the laces.

“Domestic workers should be unionized, but I don’t think I’m the one to do it.” He craned his neck as she lifted a leg in the air, her gown slipping towards her thigh, revealing stockings and the top of her garters. Her red garters.

“It’d make a fun story.” Amalia swayed a little as she worked to reach her foot again. And failed.

Lace edged garters. With little black bows. “Fun?” He tugged at his collar. Summer was not his friend.

“People would love to read about a wicked widow or divorcee and her male lady’s maid going on an adventure.”

“I didn’t know you wrote fiction.” He took pity on her and forced himself across the room, to kneel in front of her. With quite a bit of regret, he lowered her leg into his lap.

“I don’t, but I’d read something like that.” And she didn’t smooth her skirt. “Many times. In bed.”

He rubbed his eyes. Nope, everything occurring was real and he was awake. Well, when in Rome... He scooted closer. “I don’t doubt it. I’m just not sure it’s legal.”

“Not if Comstock gets his way.” Amalia wriggled her leg at him in silent demand. “People like him have no imagination.”

His fingers shook as he untied Meg’s lopsided knots from the morning. She’d not be leading the domestic workers either. “You seem to have that in spades.”

“Us Truitts are just more creative than most.” Amalia glanced over her shoulder, giving him a knowing smirk. The woman could still flirt like no one’s business.

He finished the first shoe and made quick work with the second, making the mistake of leaving her stocking foot in his lap, which she glided across, up his thigh until he caught it between both hands.

“Clearly.” Fire, his body was on fire. Need. To. Stay. In. Control. Or tip the scales because if he lost control, he’d lose any last semblance of decorum and propriety and self-preservation. He stroked her foot. “So, Miss Creative, what are you imagining now in that mind of yours?”

“Um, I don’t know.” Her breath hitched. And was she panting? Score one for him.

“Really?” He rubbed her ankle. “I’m a bit disappointed. I thought you were braver than that. I mean you kissed me that first night on the terrace.”

“That I did. And I came to your room. Each time.” Amalia tipped her chin in a defiant manner. “And right now I’m being very brave. I’m being threatened and I haven’t once been all ‘woe is me,’ except maybe during the rat, but that got to you as well.” With a definite flounce she stood and dropped her skirt, before turning around, throwing her curls over her shoulder, and indicating to her buttons. “Don’t tell me it didn’t. You could barely get rid of the thing.”

“Maybe.” So many buttons. If only he could rip.

Bad David. Ever since he read that first book in Berlin, the one with the illustrations, he’d had quite a few rather interesting flights of fancy regarding his first time. But none could top the current situation. Nor really any situation with Amalia.

“Not maybe. Though we should probably be on alert. I don’t have many friends in this town. And the ones I had, well, their husbands weren’t exactly admirers. They used to give Elias an earful.” Amalia turned around and for the first time, a shadow fell over her face.

/> “If they weren’t, that was their loss. And your former husband’s if he didn’t properly defend you. As if he’s one to talk. I recall him being rather stiff and dour.” He paused in his folding to emphasize the point. “He’s heroic and everything, but putting the two of you together is like trying to cross a...a...race horse with a hunting dog.” He laid the pieces of her outer dress on a bedside table, the iridescent beads glowing in the firelight. “That isn’t insulting, is it?”

“I suppose not, provided I’m a filly and not a bitch.” She turned her back to him once more so he could untie...well...everything that needed untying. All of which would have to be tied the next morning. Again. Women’s clothing was exhausting.

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