Page 18 of The Scoundrel and the Lady

She blinked several times.

This was going to work. She was going to toss her hands up in defeat at any moment. “I couldn’t have my tailor do it else it would reveal our scheme before we even begin. But you must be properly measured to be fitted with the appropriate clothes.”

She opened her mouth, then promptly closed it.

It would not do to show his satisfaction, so he schooled his features to keep from grinning.

“Can I not simply bring you measurements from my modiste?”

He shook his head. This should frighten her away from this silly quest. “I’m afraid not. Men and women have different measurements for their clothing. You will be wearing trousers, and I suspect those measurements differ considerably from what you need to buy a new gown.”

She bit her bottom lip.

He’d bested her. There was no way she was going to allow him anywhere near her body with this measuring ribbon.

“You’re right.”

It was on his tongue to accept her concession, but then he realized she hadn’t conceded at all. Instead she’d agreed to his request.

She stood and opened up her arms. “Let us begin, then.”

Damnation.

She was plucky, he’d give her that, and obviously committed to whatever she expected this experiment to do for her brother. But he doubted she’d endure this entire process. He had the piece of parchment his tailor had given him with the required measurements and how to take them. More than likely once he got to the more intimate places on her body, she’d balk and run out, finally having come to her senses.

Merritt set down the paper and pencil on the table, then held open the tape and began. He started at her neck, wrapping the tape gently around her throat. She tilted her head up to give him better access. The milky complexion of her skin beckoned him, but he ignored it. This was no time for admiration of the female form. She had effectively turned this into a competition, and Merritt never lost once he decided to play.

He continued measuring her—the length of her arms, the apex of her arm down to her waist, the breadth of her shoulders—and she had remained perfectly still, barely breathing as best he could tell, through the entire ordeal. He hadn’t thought it would go this far, but he’d be damned if he’d concede the wager. He knelt in front of her, grabbed her ankle, and pressed the tape there, then began the long journey up her leg. His mouth went dry and the familiar ache of desire thrummed through his veins. He’d always been attracted to women with long legs, and it seemed Iris’s might go on forever.

When his palm slid past her knee, she clamped a hand onto his.

“I beg your pardon.”

He looked up at her and into her wide green eyes. “Lady Iris, I can assure you that this is the proper way to measure for trousers. I am not trying to take advantage of you in any capacity. But if you are uncomfortable, we can stop, and perhaps you have another candidate in mind for my tutelage?”

Her mouth set and she shook her head. “Continue.”

“I’ll do this as quickly as possible, and then it shall be over.”

She took a shaky breath then nodded tightly.

He slid his hand all the way up to her inner thigh. Despite her pantaloons, he could perfectly make out the curve of her legs. Desire, hot and thick, surged through him. Her warmth radiated around his hand. And her breathing had become shallow, tighter. His touch, his presence was affecting her. But not in the way he’d expected. He stopped short of reaching her center, knowing it would frighten her, but more than that, it would quite obviously tempt him. And perhaps her, too.

Ridiculous. Iris Bennington was nothing like any of the women he’d ever been attracted to before. Yes, he admired the length of her legs, but she was too talkative and bossy. Not to mention she was a lady in every sense of the word. Which meant that any dallying with her would come with significant expectations on her part. He had no desire to marry a woman who’d been born into the aristocracy. He didn’t want to be that deep into their world. He intended to find a sweet country girl when the time came, so wanting Iris for anything other than her assistance with his sister was absurd.

Yet, there was undeniable desire weighing heavy in his own trousers. He shifted his weight and withdrew his hand from beneath her skirts. He’d merely add half an inch to compensate for not going all the way up her inseam. He stood directly in front of her then.

“Lady Iris,” he said when he noted her eyes were squeezed shut.

She peeked one open. “Are you finished?”

“Not quite, I still have a few more, but I am done with your legs.” Long, curvaceous legs that would wrap oh so nicely around him. Damnation.

“Very well, let us continue, then.”

“Your hair—”

“Yes, I know. My hair is the color of boiled carrots.”

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