Megan Frampton (2 page)

She planted her fists on her hips. Her luscious, curved hips. And raised an eyebrow. Which was not curved, except in the normal way. “Why not, Christian? Because you won’t have your wife appear naked in front of you? Whom should I undress
in front of, then?” She spread out her hands. “Just imagine, you can examine the milk before you’ve bought the cow.”

How did she know he’d been thinking about cattle?

“Think of it as a translation. That should appeal to your …” She scrunched her eyes shut as though thinking. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she finished: “… academic sensibilities.”

He doubted that was the phrase she’d been looking for. And he was hard pressed to think of anything academic when faced with her figure. Which he had definitely not noticed before.

He put the Aristotle face down on the table. Poor Greek shouldn’t have to watch this, after all. And turned to her, crossing his arms over his chest. Trying not to notice just how very female his betrothed looked.

“Fine.” He didn’t have time to stand here debating semantics with her all evening. And they were to be married, after all. If he frightened her, now would be the time to discover that, before the ceremony took place. He picked up a blank sheet of paper and grabbed his pen. “But I will insist on a few rules.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’d expect nothing less. What are they?”

“One: that if either of us is uncomfortable, we can tell the other, and we will stop.”

She nodded. “Sounds reasonable.” A pause. “I won’t be the one to blink, though.”

That sounded like a dare. What did he
really
know about this woman?

“Two: that you will treat this as seriously as it deserves to be treated.”

Her mouth widened in a sly smile. “Of course. As seriously as it deserves. No more, no less.”

“And three: that one of us shall remain standing at all times.”

He’d expected that she would blush, or stammer, or do anything but what she did, which was allow a small, secret smile to cross her mouth. As though she were thinking of things young ladies should not know about. As though she had been thinking of them all along, and his words were just confirming what she’d thought.

But she didn’t utter a word. She just strode to the door and turned the lock with a distinct click, then turned back around to face him, a smile curling her lips up. “Now that
we have a bargain, shall we begin?”

While women’s clothing is meant to enhance feminine curves, men’s clothing does little more than shield the skin from cold and other potential unpleasantness.

It is therefore somewhat surprising to discover, once a man’s garments have been removed, that men’s attractions—albeit not as soft and curved as a woman’s—are just as alluring.

Consider, for example, what lurks underneath a cravat—a strong column of neck, a pulse that races depending on what is occurring elsewhere, and intriguing things such as Adam’s apples that women do not have.

Depending on the man’s physique, removing the shirt reveals a broad, strong chest, rippled with muscle, and powerful shoulders. Arms that are long and lean and also muscular, arms that can hold you close while dancing or carry you to places you never dreamed possible.

We will stop there, for fear of shocking our readers, but let us encourage you to go where your imagination might lead.

Dear Lord, she was really going to do this. Violet willed her hand not to shake as she drew her fingers up towards the top of her glove.

Charlotte had let slip that Christian would be on his own this evening, and Violet had spent the rest of the day plotting how she could see him. Alone.

It was only luck that had brought her here this particular evening. She was supposed to be out with her Aunt Sophy, and Sophy’s baker’s dozen of pugs, but one of the cursed things had started sneezing, and her aunt had barely noticed when Violet slipped out of the carriage and walked to Christian’s family’s door rather than her own, which was right next door.

She knew he’d be keeping company with some ancient philosophers, but they, at least, wouldn’t look shocked when she finally got to do what she wanted to with her betrothed.

Thankfully, Christian’s friend was less clueless than Christian himself, and had taken himself off as soon as she made her presence known.

Leaving them alone. Together. That fact shouldn’t make her anxious, and it didn’t, not really, but she did have an odd fluttering in her stomach as she faced him.

At least now he was regarding her with something more than obligation. Whether it was horror at her brazen behavior or something else, she had no clue.

But she would definitely find out, wouldn’t she? Perhaps they would even break rule three, in the course of things. One could only hope.

Her stomach fluttered just a bit more.

She slid her finger down, peeling the buff-colored glove from her hand. And then drew the glove completely off, tossing it to the floor. Hoping her hands weren’t shaking. “A lady,” she said, as much to distract herself from the enormity of what she was preparing to do as to educate him, “appreciates the ritual of undressing, as well as dressing.” She slid her left index finger into the bottom of her right glove. “Clothing that covers you can uncover you as well.” She began to inch the fabric down, and gazed up at
him through her lashes. “I believe your friend Gilbert mentioned unwrap—”

“Forget what Gilbert said,” Christian interrupted, his low voice sounding strangled in his throat. “His conversation was not appropriate for a lady.”

He could be such a prig. She’d hoped this might make him unbend, but it appeared he was as rigid as ever. Not for the first time, she wondered just what made her fall in love with him.

Oh, right. He was darkly handsome, witty—when he wasn’t being a prig—very intelligent, and really, really tall.

An ideal gentleman. For her, at least.

And she knew he could be passionate—he certainly was when he was discussing what he was studying. She just wanted some of that passion turned to her.

“Should I continue?” she asked, tilting her head as she met his stare head on.

“Go ahead,” he said in a brusque tone, his intense, blue eyes unwavering, daring her to call a halt to what she was doing. Which she would rather die—or stand naked in front of him, whichever came first—than do.

“Since you ask so nicely,” she said wryly, as she lifted her chin, “and it is for your sister, after all.” She resumed drawing her glove down and dropped it on the floor to meet its fellow.

“Normally,” she said, “a lady would have a lady’s maid to assist her in disrobing. Instead,” she continued, throwing him a look that she hoped was daring, not desperate, “you will have to assist me. I trust that will not be an onerous task; you must have done this before … haven’t you?”

She was counting on that, actually, since she had only a hazy notion of what would occur between him and her. Eventually.

Hopefully, now, in fact.

She turned to the side and gestured towards the buttons at the back of her gown.

His expression hardened. “You are my betrothed. You should not—we should not be doing this.”

Violet’s heart sank. He sounded so—so stern. Was he repulsed by her behavior? Appalled by her forwardness?

And if he was, how could they possibly have a happy life together? Despite how
much she loved him?

In for a penny, in for a pound
, a naughty voice whispered inside her head.

“On the contrary, Christian.” She slid her fichu off her shoulders. “There is every need to do this, as you say. I am not at all uncomfortable. If
you
wish to beg off …” she said, her voice trailing off in a clear challenge. She let the fichu fall from her fingers onto the floor. And saw him swallow.

“No, I do not. I thought perhaps …” His mouth drew into a thin line. “I realize I do not know you well at all, Violet.”

Of course not, you idiot. That is the purpose of this exercise
.

But she didn’t say any of that. “Seeing me unclothed will definitely aid you on that score, Christian,” she said, feeling her heart pound in her chest as she looked him up and down. “Unbutton me.”

* * *

Christian couldn’t believe Violet—the girl he’d teased when she was small, then treated like one of his sisters, at least until recently—was standing in his study, ordering him to undress her.

Which meant he actually looked at how she was dressed, and what her clothing might be covering, and—well.

He began to move towards her, his damned, traitorous cock already starting to swell. And she hadn’t gotten close to getting naked.

This was not what he’d planned when he proposed. And Christian was very, very good at predicting the future. His, at least. He’d agreed to his father’s choice of a bride because he assumed the meek, somewhat plain girl he’d—well, not grown up with, but knew, at least—would not in any way incite those feelings he’d experienced when young. Women and his desire for them tended to impede his scholarly studies. Passion, he had decided long ago, was for the women he
paid
for, not the woman who would eventually become his wife. That he would no longer patronize those women when he was married was something he had resigned himself to once he proposed. He would not dishonor his wife by infidelity, he would just … compartmentalize what they did together. Like a task
one could not avoid, but one did not particularly look forward to.

Damn. He really did sound like a cold fish, as his sister always said. He did like females, and what he and they could do together, but that activity was … distracting.

He could not afford distraction.

“Well?” Her voice, impatient and breathless, broke him from his thoughts.

Although if passion and his wife were in the same package … that would bear further study. And perhaps be worth the distraction after all.

But meanwhile, there was a woman in front of him, a woman who was demanding that he help her remove her clothing. He did not normally take kindly when people told him what to do, but in this case …

“Move your hair,” he commanded. He steeled himself for the feel of her skin. She loosened the pins of the low knot as she swept it up onto the back of her head. The nape of her neck was so delicate.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said in a low voice. He couldn’t resist—his fingers lingered on her skin just above the first button of her gown. Soft, as he’d expected. He felt her tremble as he slid his finger to undo the button.

“What do you want to know?” Odd that he hadn’t noticed how soft and low her voice was. Or maybe it was the situation that was changing it; after all, the last time they’d spoken, he’d proposed, and she’d said yes. Not much conversation after that.

And, he reflected, he hadn’t kissed her. Had she expected that? Was she disappointed in him?

Was he disappointed in himself?

“Do you paint?” Stupid question. He didn’t care one way or the other, but he’d heard ladies boast of their painting skill.

“Badly.” She chuckled. “My governess despaired of me, I was horribly naughty.”

“What did you do?” The thought of her being naughty was more intriguing than she probably intended. And that he should think about. Not if he wanted to concentrate on the task at hand.

Distracting. Entirely distracting.

“Oh, I sneaked off to play with the villagers’ children. Boys, mostly,” she said, twisting her head to give him a sly look from under her lashes. “I find boys have better
games than girls do.”

Christian’s throat was thick. “What kind of games did you play?”

She turned back around. He bent his attention to her buttons. Not to the thoughts of what games they could play. At least, that was what he was telling himself.

His fingers fumbled nonetheless.

“Hide and seek, blindman’s buff. The girls only wanted to play house.”

“And you weren’t interested in playing house?” He’d reached the last of her buttons, but kept the fabric pulled together. If he could just will himself not to react when the dress was removed from what appeared to be an enticingly lovely body.

She shot him another one of those looks. Which went directly to his groin. “Not that kind.”

Christian’s fingers coiled around the fabric. She couldn’t possibly know what she was saying, could she? Of course, his cock was interpreting her conversation perfectly. “I’ve finished.” He dropped his hands and stepped back.

“Thank you,” she said, in that soft, low voice. She pushed the dress off her shoulders and wriggled so that it went cascading down her body.

If Christian were to continue writing the fashion column, he would have something to say about how ladies’ gowns managed to disguise, most successfully, what the shape of a woman’s derriere was. Because if Violet’s bosom was impressive, her bottom was equally so—lush and curved, like a juicy peach.

His mouth went dry as the gown dropped fully away from her body onto the floor. She stepped out of it and picked it up, folding it over her arm. Wearing only her corset and her shift, she walked to the sofa where he took an occasional nap.

He didn’t think there would be any napping today. Not with his heart beating so fast in his chest.

She laid the gown on the arm of the sofa, as casually as she’d tossed her gloves. She drew in a deep breath before she turned back to face him. The breath did wonders for her bosom. Which was already a wondrous thing, he decided.

Now he wasn’t sure which of her parts he most preferred—her bosom or her bottom. Both would require further study.

“A lady’s underthings are dictated by the kind of gown she is wearing.” She
gestured towards her clothing. “For example,” she said, “an evening gown, such as what I had on, is more revealing than a morning or day dress. My underclothes will therefore also be more revealing.”

“I see,” Christian replied.

“I see you see,” she said, nodding towards her bosom. “That is a great relief to me, Christian. I wasn’t certain you knew I was female.” There was that mocking tone again.

Oh, he knew. And so did specific parts of his anatomy.

Damn. This was not going at all according to plan.