and toss it on the end of the bed behind her.
“I think,” she said, setting to work on undoing his tie, “that it’s more an understanding of what men appreciate.”
A keen understanding. He put his hands on her waist as she began working on getting the studs removed from his shirtfront. “If you’d turn your imagination to the design of men’s clothes, we could both be appreciative at once.”
“I’ll work on it,” she said, letting her fingers work on their own as she lifted her gaze to meet his. “Are you willing to be my model?”
“Would that mean that I’d have to let you undress me several times a day?”
“At least a dozen,” she replied, a wicked little smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “Perfection is rarely achieved on the first fitting.”
He slid his hands slowly downward, caressing the satin curve of her hips. “Would you be dressed like this every time?”
“I could catch my death of cold.”
“I’ll keep you warm,” he promised, moving his hands up and back to explore the curves of her backside. “Are you chilled now?”
Her breath caught. “Not in the least,” she whispered, her voice throaty as her fingers slowed and the light in her eyes deepened.
Ah, so easily pleased.
He dragged in a lungful of air and reminded himself that distracting her would only delay the shedding of his clothing. He moved his hands back to her waist and left them there. With a motion of his head, he indicated the dress on the floor behind him and asked, “Do you make gowns like that for other women?”
She sighed, smiled at him, and went back to a more diligent effort on his studs, saying, “I’ve tried, but everyone seems to prefer to go around dressed like onions. Layer upon layer upon layer.”
“Surely brides beat paths to your door.”
“Actually, not,” she replied, tugging his shirt from his trousers. “Brides are usually skittish things. They want twice as many layers as matrons do.”
And some of them, from the tales of woe he’d heard, kept adding the layers. Clearly his Caroline enjoyed wearing as few of them as she possibly could. If only he’d known that this morning in the carriage. “Just out of curiosity . . . The brown thing you were wearing earlier today, is it constructed in the same way?”
“All of my outfits are,” she supplied to his delight as she turned slightly to take his left wrist in hand. “I’m not an onion.”
“No, you aren’t,” he agreed, placing his hands on her creamy shoulders so that she could dispose of his cuff links. He’d have preferred to put his hands on her breasts, but since that would distract and slow her . . . He moistened his lower lip with his tongue. “Do you design corsets like this one for other women?”
“For some reason, they prefer more utilitarian structures,” she explained, meeting his gaze as she blindly tossed his cuff links onto his jacket. “I’ve never been able to fathom why. They’re hideously uncomfortable.”
“And not the least bit inspiring,” he added as she slipped her hands under his shirt and over his shoulders to push the linen aside.
“Are you inspired?” she asked softly, ever-so-knowingly, as he dropped his arms and let the shirt fall to the floor next to her gown.
She leisurely trailed a fingertip down the center of his chest. “I’ve been inspired since late this afternoon,” he confessed, his body aching from the sweet torture. “Acutely so since you walked into the dining room this evening.”
“I thought you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed,” he said tightly as she tantalized the skin along the top edge of his trousers. “And just as a point of information? I’ve been painfully inspired since that dress puddled on the floor.”
She grinned. “In other words, you wish I’d hurry?”
“And a very perceptive woman, too.” He caught her hand and stepped away from her touch, saying, “Stay right where you are.”
Caroline fingered the ends of her
“I think,” she said, setting to work on undoing his tie, “that it’s more an understanding of what men appreciate.”
A keen understanding. He put his hands on her waist as she began working on getting the studs removed from his shirtfront. “If you’d turn your imagination to the design of men’s clothes, we could both be appreciative at once.”
“I’ll work on it,” she said, letting her fingers work on their own as she lifted her gaze to meet his. “Are you willing to be my model?”
“Would that mean that I’d have to let you undress me several times a day?”
“At least a dozen,” she replied, a wicked little smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “Perfection is rarely achieved on the first fitting.”
He slid his hands slowly downward, caressing the satin curve of her hips. “Would you be dressed like this every time?”
“I could catch my death of cold.”
“I’ll keep you warm,” he promised, moving his hands up and back to explore the curves of her backside. “Are you chilled now?”
Her breath caught. “Not in the least,” she whispered, her voice throaty as her fingers slowed and the light in her eyes deepened.
Ah, so easily pleased.
He dragged in a lungful of air and reminded himself that distracting her would only delay the shedding of his clothing. He moved his hands back to her waist and left them there. With a motion of his head, he indicated the dress on the floor behind him and asked, “Do you make gowns like that for other women?”
She sighed, smiled at him, and went back to a more diligent effort on his studs, saying, “I’ve tried, but everyone seems to prefer to go around dressed like onions. Layer upon layer upon layer.”
“Surely brides beat paths to your door.”
“Actually, not,” she replied, tugging his shirt from his trousers. “Brides are usually skittish things. They want twice as many layers as matrons do.”
And some of them, from the tales of woe he’d heard, kept adding the layers. Clearly his Caroline enjoyed wearing as few of them as she possibly could. If only he’d known that this morning in the carriage. “Just out of curiosity . . . The brown thing you were wearing earlier today, is it constructed in the same way?”
“All of my outfits are,” she supplied to his delight as she turned slightly to take his left wrist in hand. “I’m not an onion.”
“No, you aren’t,” he agreed, placing his hands on her creamy shoulders so that she could dispose of his cuff links. He’d have preferred to put his hands on her breasts, but since that would distract and slow her . . . He moistened his lower lip with his tongue. “Do you design corsets like this one for other women?”
“For some reason, they prefer more utilitarian structures,” she explained, meeting his gaze as she blindly tossed his cuff links onto his jacket. “I’ve never been able to fathom why. They’re hideously uncomfortable.”
“And not the least bit inspiring,” he added as she slipped her hands under his shirt and over his shoulders to push the linen aside.
“Are you inspired?” she asked softly, ever-so-knowingly, as he dropped his arms and let the shirt fall to the floor next to her gown.
She leisurely trailed a fingertip down the center of his chest. “I’ve been inspired since late this afternoon,” he confessed, his body aching from the sweet torture. “Acutely so since you walked into the dining room this evening.”
“I thought you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed,” he said tightly as she tantalized the skin along the top edge of his trousers. “And just as a point of information? I’ve been painfully inspired since that dress puddled on the floor.”
She grinned. “In other words, you wish I’d hurry?”
“And a very perceptive woman, too.” He caught her hand and stepped away from her touch, saying, “Stay right where you are.”
Caroline fingered the ends of her
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