Page 85 of A Governess Should Never… Tempt a Prizefighter (The Governess Chronicles 1)

He grinned, shut the door to the members’ area and scratched a hand across the hair on his chest. Matilda flapped a collar.

Heat coiled around her.

“Well…” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps you could show me how this pool will ease my aches. Can I bathe in my chemise?”

The request was shameless, wicked and sinful but Matilda no longer cared. This was Seth, the man who had carried her to her bedchamber, who’d saved her from kidnap and who filled her every thought.

His throat bobbed, head tilted, skin gleaming with moisture. “Matilda, I warn you, if you strip to your chemise, I will kiss you.”

“And I shall want you to,” she whispered, knowing it to be the truth.

His jaw firmed. “And if we kiss on this occasion, Matilda, I will not cease.”

“And I shall not want you to.”

His breath hitched, rumbled. “And if I do not cease, then fair warning, I will never let you go.”

“And I shall not want you to,” she whispered once more, conscious of what she was saying, that she wished for a lifetime of adventures with this man.

A kickof pure blinding lust struck Seth, harder than any hoof, halting his breath and scorching his skin. The humid air shimmered with anticipation and want, each knowing the other’s heart but perhaps afraid to reveal such sentiment in words.

He swallowed to ease the knot of tension.

“The pools are heated by a parallel series of hot pipes from the latest Walker coal-fired boiler.”

Clay-brained addle-pate! Why the hell had he said that? He ought to have whispered words of devotion and passion…

“It’s wondrous, Seth.” And she spun, commenced unfastening the buttons at her throat, which put paid to any more words from him whatsoever. “And I can smell herbs. From the pool?”

“Yes,” he more or less grunted.

Ribbons were loosened and he assisted in pushing the cotton dress from her shoulders.

Palming her hair to the side, he kissed her arched throat as a last warning of what would ensue.

A breathless sigh assured him; nails lightly dug at his bared waist, tormenting him.

He sought the calm mien he invoked for a prize bout – the Seth who never lost his control – but that man had never been confronted with Matilda Griffin in solely silk paraphernalia and fragile chemise.

Creamy skin abounded, her coal-black hair the perfect frame.

Petticoats dropped to coat the floor, no stockings to bother with, but the short stays about her midriff still restricted.

“May I?” he growled, elegant diction beyond his capability.

She smiled her acquiescence and he tugged laces, then wrenched, kissed the skin above her chemise – smooth and with the scent of meadows.

The corset fell away, in harmony with his breath.

Crisp white linen hinted at curves, shadows beneath implying treasure beyond his most feral imagination.

And oh, how he had imagined. Night after anguished night.

Five steep steps led into the round pool and he grasped her hand, aware his own attire hid little of his aching need – but Matilda, with a light blush, kept her eyes raised.

The water still retained its warmth, yet it did nothing to ease Seth’s strangled breath and thrumming pulse.

As Matilda drifted down the steps, her chemise floated up in the water and she laughed, patting it down. “How wonderful,” she whispered, swirling fingers and gathering palmfuls to sluice her arms.

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