And there, in the simple, unbridled confession, he discovered the last, fragile thread of his control. He was too close to her. He should move. Should place distance between them. Instead he said, “Where?”
He knew he was asking too much of her—this innocent girl who knew the human body but had no knowledge of it. But he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t have her. But he could have this.
Even if he would burn in Hell for taking it.
Hell would be a welcome respite to the torture he suffered now. Here.
“Where would you like to touch me, Pippa?” he prompted after a long silence.
She shook her head, hands spread wide, and for a moment, he thought she might give up. Go home. Disappointment flared, hot and frustrating.
And then she said, simply, “Everywhere.”
The single word robbed him of strength and breath and control, leaving him shattered and raw. And desperate for her.
Desperate to show her pleasure. Some way. Any way.
“Come here.”
He heard the roughness in his voice, the urgency, and was shocked that she was so quick to do his bidding, coming to stand mere inches from him. Her dress was a collection of layers, the topmost fastened by a thick green belt. He pointed. “Open it.”
God help him, she did, as though it were the most normal thing in the world, the edges of the gown falling open to reveal a finer green fabric beneath. “Take it off.”
She shrugged out of the outermost layer, letting it pool at her feet, her breath coming faster. His, as well. “All of it.”
She turned her back to him. She was saying no. Strength where he was weakness. Frustration flared, and he reached out, stopping just short of touching her, of tearing the cloth from her body and replacing it with his own.
Of course she was saying no. She was a lady. And he should not be near her. He was the worst kind of villain, and he should be flogged for what he had done. For what he demanded.
The heavy green wool of her dress lay on the floor at his feet, and he crouched to retrieve it, fingers brushing the fine fabric in desperation, as though it were her skin. As though it were enough.
It had to be.
He cursed himself, promising Heaven and himself that he would pack her back into this dress and send her home, but it was too late.
A layer of linen joined the heavy wool, the soft fabric brushing against his knuckles, still warm from her body. Scorching. His breath caught at the sensation and he froze, knowing with the keen understanding of one who had fallen before that this moment would be his destruction.
Knowing he shouldn’t look up.
Knowing he couldn’t stop himself.
She was clad in nothing but a corset, pantalettes, and stockings, arms crossed over her chest, cheeks flaming—the red wash an irresistible promise.
He fell to his knees.
She couldn’t believe she’d done it.
Even now, as she stood in this marvelous, wicked room, cool air running across her too-warm skin, she couldn’t quite believe she’d removed her clothes, simply because he’d ordered it in that dark, quiet tone that sent strange, little flutters through the pit of her stomach.
She should research those flutters.
Later.
Now, she was more interested in the man before her, on his knees, hands fisted on his long, lovely thighs, eyes roaming over her body.
“You removed your clothes,” he said.
“You asked me to,” she replied, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.
One side of his mouth rose in the half smile, and he ran the back of one hand across his lips, slow and languid, as though he might well devour her. “So I did.”
The flutters became more pronounced.
He was staring at her knees, and she was suddenly, very aware of the condition of her stockings, a plain, cream wool, chosen for warmth rather than . . . well . . . than this. No doubt they were hideous in comparison to the silk stockings he was used to women wearing in his presence. Miss Tasser likely had stockings in a score of colors, all laced and lovely.
Pippa had always been practical about her undergarments.
She pressed her knees together and tightened her arms across her chest, uncertain, wishing he would reach out for her. When he didn’t, she wondered if she somehow disappointed him—she wasn’t as beautiful as the women he was no doubt used to, but she’d never thought of herself as being unpleasant-looking.
Why wouldn’t he touch her?
She swallowed back the question, hating the way it whispered through her, making her cold and hot all at once, and said, “What next?”
The words came out sharper than she’d intended, but they served their purpose, bringing his attention instantly to her face. He stared at her for a long moment, and she was distracted by his eyes—more pewter than grey, with little black flecks, framed by long, auburn lashes.
As she watched, his gaze flickered to the large chair several feet to her right, then back to her, slow and languid. “Sit.”
It was not what she’d expected. “Thank you, I prefer to stand.”
“Do you want your lesson or not, Pippa?”
Her heart leapt at the words. “Yes.”
The half smile came again, and he inclined his head toward the chair. “Then sit.”
She moved. Sat as primly as possible, back straight, hands clenched tightly on her lap, legs pressed together, as though she were not alone in a casino with one of London’s most notorious rogues, wearing nothing but a corset and pantalettes. And her spectacles.
She closed her eyes at the thought. Spectacles. There was nothing tempting about spectacles. She reached up to remove them.
“No.”