Page 38 of The Dare Before Christmas

“There’s no one about,” she said, grinning at him.

Reluctantly, he walked in, closing the door, and then went to the banked fire, building it up for her until it was blazing merrily.

Victoria stood before it, stripping off her gloves and her damp cloak. Her fingers were blue and painfully stiff.

“S-So cold,” she said, teeth chattering.

When Barnaby had kissed her, she had not noticed her discomfort, had not even thought about it, but now she realised how chilled she was after so many hours in damp tunnels and the hidden room, not to mention the snow.

Barnaby tugged a heavy wingback chair close to the fire. “Sit down,” he told her, crouching before her once she had, and untying the wet laces of her boots. He tugged off one boot, and then the next. “Victoria, your stockings are wet through, and your feet are icy.”

“I k-know,” she said, clutching her arms about herself.

Tutting, Barnaby got up and went to the bed, stripping off the counterpane and settling it around her shoulders.

“You must take your wet stockings off,” he instructed before turning his back.

Victoria tugged her skirts up and tried to pull up the legs of her drawers to get to the garters, but the mass of her skirts got in the way, and it was too awkward. She glanced up at Barnaby, who faced determinedly away from her. With a sigh, she stood, reaching for the tie of her drawers and tugging until it gave way. She wriggled them down, leaving them in a heap on the floor before sitting again, her numb hands fumbling to undo her garters, but her fingers were blue and painful, and she gave up with a huff.

“I can’t undo the garters,” she said irritably. “My fingers are too cold.”

Barnaby turned back to her. “You can’t sit around with wet feet.”

“They’ll dry, eventually.” Victoria shrugged.

“Yes, by which time you’ll have pneumonia,” he said darkly.

“Well, in that case, you undo them.”

Barnaby stared at her. “What?”

“You undo them!” she said in frustration, tugging the counterpane closer around her shoulders. “Or they’ll just have to dry by themselves. I’m too c-cold to move.”

Barnaby’s brain stalled at the idea of putting his hands under Victoria’s skirts.

“Er….” he said, which was not helpful.

She looked up at him, huddling deeper into the chair and shivering harder. Hell, the poor girl was frozen to the marrow. He ought not to have let her linger in the snow. They’d had quite a day, what with hidden tunnels and getting trapped. It had been cold and damp, and then walking through a foot of snow back to the house as more fell around them had only made things worse.

Well, he was not about to let her fall ill after the day they’d had. He looked about the room, seeing the washbasin, and hurried over to take two of the fresh towels stacked neatly beside it. Determined to be all business, he went back to Victoria and knelt before her, moving a fancy piece of fabric out of the way. He lifted it and almost choked. Frilly, frivolous, lace-edged drawers. She’d taken her drawers off. God help him.

Unbidden, a memory returned to him from last summer. One evening, he’d sat out in the garden with a large candle lit so he could read and enjoy the lovely night. But he’d forgotten the candle and the next morning there was nothing but a puddle of wax in the blazing sunshine where the candle had been. He rather thought that was what his brain looked like now. It certainly felt that way, his good intentions slipping away, desire sliding through his veins like hot brandy, sweet and intoxicating. Feeling dazed and not entirely in his right mind, Barnaby tried to carry on, spreading one towel over his thighs and setting the other down. Then he took hold of her cold foot and placed in on his thigh, wincing at the icy sensation even through the layers of the towel and his trousers.

Barnaby cleared his throat. “I’ll… I’ll undo your, er, garters, then.”

Victoria nodded, apparently too distracted by how cold she was to care.

“Right,” he said, still staring at her foot. Lord, but it was dainty, so tiny, her pretty ankle slender and…. “Right,” he repeated, and took hold of her skirts.

Carefully, he lifted the first layer and folded it back into her lap before reaching for the next, steeling his nerves for the struggle to come.

“You’ll be there all d-day,” she said through chattering teeth, before reaching down, grabbing a handful of material and tugging the lot up in one go, exposing her legs to mid-thigh. Barnaby almost groaned. He wasn’t ready, had not prepared himself mentally for the onslaught. The fabric all billowed up in her lap, the excessively feminine froth of petticoats and lace rustling madly and wafting the scent of orange blossom and vanilla and woman in his direction. If this was a test of his fortitude, he had the strong suspicion he was going to fail. Badly. He was done for and going directly to hell.

Though he tried to keep calm, Barnaby’s heart gave an excitable thud behind his ribs, and he told himself sternly to behave and keep his mind on the job. Except the job was the garter tied just above her knee, and she had exposed her slender legs in front of him. He would have to touch her thigh. His mouth went dry. If her skirts were pulled just a little higher, he’d see that secret, most feminine place, and—

“No.”

“What?” Victoria asked him.