She had one blurry glimpse of his dark face above hers, his expression intent with lust. He toyed with her, seeming to savor her writhing agitation, his own color high and fevered. She clutched at him, hips arching, lips parted in a wordless plea. One of his fingers pushed inside her, just past the entrance of her body, and she jerked in shock.

His touch withdrew, the wet fingertip making sly, lingering circles around the aching peak of her sex. He pushed her legs apart wider, and kissed the tips of her br**sts. His whisper burned against her skin. “If I wanted to take you now, Hannah, you would let me, wouldn’t you? You’d let me enter you, fill you…If I asked you to let me come inside you, and ease you…what would you say, sweet darling?” He began a light, torturous massage. “Say it,” he murmured. “Say it”

“Yes.” She clutched at him blindly, her breath coming in sobs. “Yes.”

Rafe smiled, his gaze smoldering. “Then here’s your forfeit, sweetheart.”

He stroked her in a quick, skillful rhythm, covering her mouth with his to absorb her cries. He knew exactly what he was doing, his fingers wicked and sure. It seemed she might die of the annihilating release. She held and stiffened against it even as the pleasure began to rush, and rush, gaining power and force until she was helpless and consumed and shattered.

Slowly he brought her down, kissing and caressing her twitching body. His finger slid inside her once more, this time slipping easily into the wetness. The feel of the intimate muscles grasping him so firmly seemed to cause him pain. She lifted instinctively to take him, and he groaned and withdrew his finger, leaving her swollen flesh to clench on the emptiness.

Rafe’s face was hard and sweat-misted as he took his hands from her. He stared down at her with unconcealed hunger, his eyes narrowed, his chest heaving. His hands trembled as he reached for the top hooks of her corset busk, the buttons of her dress, the disheveled undergarments. But as one of his knuckles brushed against her warm skin, he snatched his hands back abruptly and rose to his feet. “Can’t,” he said hoarsely.

“Can’t what?” she whispered.

“Can’t help with your clothes.” An unsteady breath. “If I touch you again…I won’t stop until you’re naked.”

Staring up at him dizzily, Hannah comprehended that the release, and relief, had been rather one-sided. He was dangerously aroused, to the limit of his self-control. She pulled the chemise higher over her naked br**sts.

Rafe shook his head, still staring at her. His mouth was a grim slash. “If you want Clark to do the things I just did to you,” he said, “then go ahead and marry him.”

And he left her there in the library, as if to stay there a moment longer would have resulted in disaster for them both.

CHAPTER 11

In Evie’s opinion, the sleighing party had been enjoyable but too long. She was tired, her ears still ringing from all the noise and caroling. Evie had laughed and frolicked with the group, staying close to Daisy, whose husband had remained at the manor to discuss business matters with Rafe Bowman.

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” Daisy had said cheerfully, when Evie had asked if she was disappointed that Swift had not accompanied them. “It’s better to let Matthew clear away his business concerns first, and then he’ll be free to give me all his attention later.”

“Does he w-work very long hours?” Evie had asked with a touch of concern, knowing that the Bowman’s enterprise in Bristol was a massive project involving great responsibility.

“There are days when he must,” Daisy had replied prosaically. “But there are other times when he stays home and we spend the day together.” A grin had crossed her face. “I love being married to him, Evie. Although it’s still all so new…sometimes it surprises me to wake up and find Matthew beside me.” She had leaned closer and whispered, “I have to tell you a secret, Evie: I complained one day that I’d read all the books in the house, and there was nothing new at the bookshop, and Matthew challenged me to try writing one of my own. So I’ve started one. I have a hundred pages written already.”

Evie had laughed in delight. “Daisy,” she had whispered back, “are you going to be a f-famous novelist?”

Daisy shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me whether it’s published or not. I’m enjoying writing it.”

“Is it a respectable story or a naughty one?”

Daisy’s brown eyes danced with mischief. “Evie, why would you even ask? Of course it’s a naughty one.”

Now back in the comfort of her room at Stony Cross Manor, Evie bathed in a small portable tub by the hearth, sighing in relief at the feel of the hot water against her stiff, aching limbs. Sleigh rides, she reflected, were one of those activities that always sounded better in theory than they turned out to be in reality. The seats on the sleigh had been hard and lumpy, and her feet had been cold.

She heard a tap at the door, and the sound of someone entering the room. Since she was shielded from view by a standing fabric screen, Evie leaned back and peeked around the screen’s wooden frame.

A housemaid was hefting a dripping metal can with rags tied at the handles. “More hot water, milady?” she asked.

“Y-yes, please.”

Carefully the maid poured the steaming water at the end near Evie’s feet, and Evie sank deeper into the bath. “Oh, thank you.”

“Shall I come back with a warming pan to take the chill from the bed, milady?” The long-handled covered pan was filled with live coals and run between the sheets just before bedtime.