Bertie handed him the pouch. “You’re a babe in the woods. Misdirection, like I said.”
Sinclair jerked her closer by the wrist he still held. “You cheeky little . . .”
His words died as his gaze met hers, his gray eyes full of longing. Bertie’s breath went out of her, as did any laughter.
“Damn you, Bertie,” he whispered. Sinclair leaned to her as he spoke, the end of his whisper touching her lips.
His warmth undid her. Sinclair’s kiss was light, gentle, belying the strength in the hand that slid to the back of her neck, pulling her close.
Bertie felt herself floating to him, rising up on her tiptoes, seeking him. He kissed her bottom lip, suckling it. As when he’d suckled her fingers, she felt a bite of slight pain, then a flood of fire. Bertie dug her fingers into the sleeve of his coat and held on.
Sinclair pulled back and brushed a lock of hair from her face. His cheekbones were flushed, his eyes, half-closed, gray like smoke. He was a beautiful man, unmarred by the few scars that creased his face, leftover from fighting days.
He touched the buttons at the top of her bodice, and one slid out of its buttonhole. Bertie held still, not daring to breathe, as another button opened, and another.
“Too prim,” he said, his rough fingertips on the skin of her throat. “Prim doesn’t suit you, Bertie.”
“I’m a governess.” She could barely speak. “I’m supposed to be prim.”
His answering smile, small as it was, made her burn. “If I bought you gowns, they’d be bright and frothy, swirling around you like gossamer.”
Bertie’s mind filled with a vision of herself spinning away, laughing, in light silks like Eleanor wore, floating as she went. Sinclair would catch hold of the loose skirts and pull her back to him, laughing his sinful laugh.
He smiled now, and licked the hollow of her throat.
Taste of sweet, sweet woman. Sinclair’s blood heated as Bertie’s bosom rose under his touch, the placket opening for him, her scent intoxicating. She was a sweet, plump armful, something to curl up against in the nighttime. Everything about her was strong, a woman Sinclair could hold on to, and yet soft and feminine, a woman for wanting.
Sinclair kissed her throat. Warmth, that was Bertie. When she’d taken him into her hiding place under the street, what should have been tomb cold had seemed plenty hot. Her warmth permeated him now, as it did his house. Coming home hadn’t held this kind of joy in a long time.
Her body was a fine place, flattening against his, her breath on his cheek. Sinclair gently eased the bodice apart and kissed the softness of her breast, swelling over her corset. Bertie’s fingers slid to his hair, tightening as she drew a quick breath.
Sinclair licked her skin, kissed it. He tasted her longing, and at the same time, her innocence.
He moved his kisses down to the space between her br**sts. She was nothing but heat, and he licked that heat into his mouth. Need wound through him, so much need—his c**k was hard with it. He wanted to unbutton her bodice to her waist, unlace her stays, spread his hand across her bare back.If he took her, maybe on the floor of this severe drawing room, would he be finished with her, sated and done?
He didn’t think so. Bertie was different. She’d give him her cheeky smile, and he’d never let her out of his life.
Sinclair licked between her br**sts again, tasting the salt of her skin, then he lifted his head and kissed her lips. He couldn’t get enough of her, savoring her while his need soared.
When Sinclair finally broke the kiss, he had no breath, and he didn’t care.
He cupped her shoulders, rubbing his thumbs over the flesh he’d bared. “Bertie.” The name itself was cheeky. “Roberta.”
“That’s me,” she whispered. Her eyes sparkled.
“We should button you up again.” Sinclair touched his forehead to hers. “But I don’t want to.”
Bertie’s grin flashed. “Mrs. Hill might fall over if she saw.”
Sinclair nodded. He wanted to laugh at the image of the stately Mrs. Hill falling stiffly to the floor, but it was all he could do to draw air into his body. He held on to Bertie, knowing he’d be the one on his backside if he let go.
Bertie traced his cheek. “You’re a good man, Basher McBride.”
“No, I’m not.” Sinclair caressed her again. “I follow rules because I have to, but that doesn’t make me good.”
“You are. You just don’t know what to do about it.”
Sinclair turned his head and kissed her fingertips. “Oh, I know what I want to do about it.” He licked her forefinger. Who cared about breathing?
“I’m right that you’re a good man,” Bertie said softly. “Don’t tell me I’m not. I’m the one who’s bad. I stole from you, I followed you home, and I stayed, when it was clear I shouldn’t. So I’m going to make this easy for you.”
She twined her hand around his, lifted his fingers to her mouth, kissed them, and gently withdrew from his grip.
The heat in Sinclair’s veins flared, and then plunged into the coldest temperatures as Bertie turned and walked away.
“Where the devil are you going?” Sinclair’s voice was harsh, his breath trying to desert him again.
Bertie swung back, buttoning her bodice. “I’m only going up to my chamber, before Mrs. Hill gives me a lecture.”
Sinclair coughed, and made his chest expand with a normal inhalation. “You enjoy confounding me, don’t you?” He came to her, trying to remain in control as he reached for her placket and started doing up the buttons for her. “Here, let’s fix you. I won’t have Mrs. Hill come down on you because of me.”