Slightly Sinful by Mary Balogh Page A

the door, and flee up to her attic room.
    But she was twenty-two years old and her life and been so barren of excitement, sensual or otherwise. The men she had had a chance to meet, including certain gentlemen who had frequented Lady Flatley's and had thought she was easy pickings just because she was a sort of servant, had always given her the shudders. And when she had chosen very deliberately with her head and agreed to marry Mr. Crawley because she had thought he was very different from all the others, she had found him to be a coldhearted villain.
    She wanted to do this. She longed for it-with him, with Jonathan Smith. There were no illusions, no promises involved. There was no future. Just tonight. She could not bear to unlock the door and go away. If she did, she was sure, she would congratulate herself for the rest of her life on her good sense and pretend that she did not regret that she had not found the courage to do what she wanted to do.
    She was terribly attracted to him.
    It took only a few seconds for these thoughts to tumble through her mind. Then she drew a slow breath and turned back into the room. Perhaps she would regret this tomorrow, but she would think of that when tomorrow came.
    The trouble was, she thought as she looked at him and saw naked desire in his darkly handsome face, that she did not know how to go about this. If she had not left the bed, she would not have thought about her ignorance, but here she was stranded at the other side of the room, not knowing what to do next.
    She smiled at him.
    "You will have to help me out of my dress and stays," she told him.
    She went to sit on the side of the bed again, her back to him, and tipped her head forward.
    He did not say anything, but she felt his fingers work at her buttons and pins and laces. She held her dress to her bosom as both it and her stays opened along the back and she felt the cool evening air against her bare flesh. He eased her dress off her shoulders, and she shivered as his hands caressed her back.
    She stood up then and released her hold on her dress. It slithered down her body, taking her stays with it, and she stepped free of them. All that remained was her skimpy shift, which the stays had molded to her body, and her stockings. She sat down on the bed again and rolled them down and off her feet. At the same time she was aware that he was pulling off his nightshirt and tossing it onto the floor on top of her dress.
    She turned and looked down at him. He looked very broad shouldered and well muscled and masculine despite the fact that he had been an invalid for almost two weeks. He was gazing back at her with dark, intense eyes. She was terribly afraid suddenly of the barely leashed passion that seemed to sizzle between them, but of course it was far too late now to change her mind.
    Besides, there was a fascination, an overwhelming attraction all mixed in with the fear.
    "Let your hair down," he told her. But before she could lift her arms, he caught at her hands. "No, let me take it down."
    Geraldine had dressed it for her since she had had time to spare before the evening's revelries and had come into Rachel's attic room for a chat and possessed herself of Rachel's brush without a by-your-leave. She had produced a work of art, which had pleased Rachel, as she had wanted to look pretty for the evening's visit to Jonathan's room.
    He took his time about drawing out pins and unraveling braids. She dipped her head down so that their faces were close all the time he worked, and her freed hair fell about them like a curtain. A few times he interrupted his efforts by drawing her closer and kissing her softly-on her eyelids, on her nose, on her lips. Her breasts felt tight and almost sore. There was a heavy pulsing low in her abdomen and down between her thighs that she recognized as the physical effects of desire.
    All this felt terribly sinful, she thought. It was also unbearably erotic. If he did not finish with her hair soon she