Page 39 of The Dare Before Christmas

Barnaby jumped, fighting a blush, not having realised he’d spoken aloud, nor quite so vehemently.

“N-No trouble at all,” he stammered, forcing his attention to the garter, which was pink and lacy, and… good God, how many frills and ruffles and brain-melting bows did a woman need?

He was going to die from an excess of flounces and furbelows. Gingerly, trying hard not to touch her skin, he tugged at the garter, undoing it with trembling fingers. He let out a sigh of relief as it came loose, except then he had to take her stocking off.

He set the garter aside and steeled himself to peel back the stocking, delicately trying to get hold of the lacy welt trim at the top, but his fingers were all thumbs, and he could not pick the fabric up without the risk of pinching her. Barnaby held his breath as he slid his fingers beneath the fine fabric, trying to ignore the feel of her skin, which was like trying to ignore a lightning bolt as desire shot directly to his groin.

Behave, behave, behave. You’re a gentleman, Barnaby Godwin, damn your eyes.

Except his eyes were suffering too, riveted to the exquisitely shaped, naked leg that he revealed as he drew the stocking off.

Get on with it before she freezes to death, you blithering idiot!

Ah, yes. He was supposed to be warming her up. Working quickly, he stripped off the other garter and stocking as Victoria shivered, blithely unaware of the war being waged within the man kneeling before her. Barnaby took the towel and gently began rubbing her feet to restore the circulation. To begin with, Victoria winced, closing her eyes, but by degrees she relaxed, and Barnaby watched her face as her expression softened. Little by little, her trembling stopped, and she gave a deep sigh of pleasure.

“Oh, Barnaby, that feels so good,” she said, the words followed by a sound he could only describe as a soft moan.

Barnaby wanted to moan too, with pain and baulked lust, because he was going to go bloody mad.

“I’m glad,” he said, his voice sounding far deeper than usual. He stilled, wondering if he ought to stop now. If only he could get out of the room without doing anything he ought not, then there would be no harm done.

“Don’t stop.”

Barnaby’s gaze snapped to Victoria’s, for the words had been sultry and breathless and made his heart kick about in his chest and the rest of him get ideas that were very dangerous indeed.

“Victoria, I really ought to—”

“Not yet,” she insisted. Her face was flushed now, and he supposed that was usual after being so cold, but her eyes were dark, fixed upon him with such a look, and then she licked her lips, leaning towards him, reaching for him.

“I really ought to—” he said desperately.

“I know,” she whispered, her mouth so close to his that her breath fluttered over his skin, and he shivered. “In a minute.”

She kissed him, and he did not know what his brain looked like now, but melted wax would have been an ambitious step up. His good intentions went up in smoke as she pulled him closer, winding her arms around his neck. Barnaby pressed closer, pushing her back into the chair, moving into the space between her legs. His hands gravitated to her knees without conscious thought, for he had no thoughts, he was nothing but feeling, and as he touched her skin, his breath hitched, and he moaned.

Victoria was not helping matters, or she was helping exceedingly, he wasn’t sure which, for her hands had slid up the back of his neck, into his hair. She opened her mouth, welcoming him in, gliding her tongue over his as he had taught her to. Oh, he ought not to have taught her that, but it was too late now. She was using those sweet skills against him, and his hands were moving up her thighs, the feel of her silken flesh beneath his fingers so good that he wanted, needed more.

“Victoria,” he gasped, burying his face in her neck, breathing in the delicious scent of her.

“Don’t stop,” she commanded, dragging his mouth back to hers.

Barnaby swallowed a groan, his hands slipping beneath the bunched-up skirts and petticoats to where she was warm. He stroked the generous curve of her hips before returning to her thighs, tracing that delicate skin at the juncture with his thumbs. She gasped, and he waited for her to say no, to push him away, but the dreadful girl did nothing of the sort, only kissed him harder. So he did it again, his thumbs dipping lower, finding the feathery soft curls nestled in that most female place, and any thoughts of leaving this room without touching her had dissolved like honey in hot water.

The sound of a door opening, and a soft burst of laughter was the only warning he had.

“Alfie, stop that, you wicked man, I told you, I already looked and they’re not… oh!”

As though plunged into a nightmare of the sort that would haunt him for the rest of his days, Barnaby looked up, his hands still burrowed beneath Victoria’s skirts, to see his Aunt Hester staring at them with an expression he suspected was the twin of his own. Complete, undiluted horror.

“Aunt!”

“Barnaby!”

Barnaby hurriedly helped Victoria rearrange her skirts and stood, shielding her from Axton’s view.

“Well, I’m blowed, didn’t think the boy had it in him,” the duke said, because for reasons Barnaby could not even guess at, he was there too and… and holding his aunt’s hand.

“Why is Axton holding your hand?” he demanded, partly because it gave him a moment to regroup, but mostly because the duke was known to be a wicked bastard, possibly mad, and he’d already hurt Aunt Hester enough for one lifetime. If the old goat was trying it on….