Page 11 of The Virgin and the Viscount

“I would offer to feed you while you continue to cover yourself up, but alas I’m afraid I am too lazy to do so.” He gave her a cocky smile.

“I should have stayed in the carriage. A highwayman would certainly have better humor than you.” She looked down to hide her confusion. She hadn’t expected him to be funny. Or kind. Or to come to her rescue, yet he had done all of those things. “I was not asking you to feed me.”

He looked around the room, then moved to the far corner where an old dressing screen leaned against the wall. He pulled it over to the bed and set it up, then moved to the other side. “Now you are safe to eat without hiding behind the covers, and I won’t be able to see a thing.”

“Are you certain? Where will you sit?”

“The floor.”

She sat up in the bed, still clutching the fabric to her chest, then reached around the screen to grab a bowl and chunk of bread. “Sullivan?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Chapter Two

It was official. Someone was most assuredly trying to torment him.

He didn’t even have to ask why. He knew that whatever anguish fell upon him, he deserved it. Still, why did the punishment have to come in the form of the spirited and now very naked Matilda?

He sat on the floor with his food and stretched his legs in front of him. He was cold, chilled to the bone, mostly because his clothes were damp and he hadn’t yet taken everything off. He’d have to wait until the lamps were doused and Tilly was asleep lest he scandalize her further. He leaned his head against the wall, then looked across the room to the screen that now blocked the bed.

The very old, and it would seem, rather threadbare screen. Damnation. Though he couldn’t see Tilly, at least not her skin, the shadows lit by the fire to the right of the bed left very little to his imagination. His mouth went dry and he told himself to look away, but his eyes would not obey.

His eyes followed the curve of her neck down her back and saw the hint of her hip and the gentle slope of her bottom. Her slender arm moved from her bowl of food, cradled in her lap, up to her mouth. Then her arms were up and he had an unobstructed view of the soft rounded curve of her breast with the hard pointed bud.

He swore, then banged his head quietly against the wall behind him.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “How is your stew?”

She moaned. “Delicious and warm.”

Now, not only were his trousers damp, but they were pressing against his most urgent erection. Splendid. This is what he got for trying to do the honorable thing. It had obviously been too long since he’d been with a woman. And he couldn’t very well do anything about his arousal, not with her and certainly not to himself while in the room together.

“Finish up so we can get to sleep. I want to get back to London as soon as possible tomorrow,” he said, his tone harsher than he’d intended.

“I’m done.” Again her pale arm reached around the screen and set down her dish. “Sorry I was keeping you up. Are you so old you require more sleep?”

“Something like that.” He stood and set his own dishes aside, then removed his shirt and hung it on the chair to dry with his jacket. “Let me know when you’re covered and I’ll douse the light.” Thunder rumbled in the distance. That storm wasn’t finished with them yet.

Her body shifted on the creaky bed and there was a rustling of covers, then she said, “I’m covered.”

He quickly extinguished the lamps, and dropped his trousers and drawers. He padded over to the bed and moved the screen back to the corner of the room. Then he went about setting the extra bedding on the floor.

“Thank you again, Sullivan.” Her voice breached the darkness. “For everything.”

“Anytime, Freckles. Just so we’re clear, I sincerely doubt any highwayman would have given you the bed.”

She chuckled and the rich, velvety quality of her voice slid against his skin like a caress.

He fought a groan and the desire to wrap his fist around his hard length. “Get some sleep, Tilly.” He rolled over, tried to fluff the pillow, but there was no number of bedding or pillows to make the hard wood floor any softer.

It couldn’t have been an hour later and he was still awake trying to find some comfort. Thunder banged loudly, rattling the window in its frame. Rain pelted against the glass in a staccato rhythm. Lightning lit up the room, one flash after another. In a moment between bangs of thunder, he heard the whimpering.

She was afraid. His heart tightened as if she’d reached into his chest and squeezed it. Years of bearing the brunt of her disdain had allowed him to develop defenses against Tilly’s wit and criticism. He could hold against an angry Tilly, an irritated Tilly, even an apathetic Tilly.

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