Had she leaned back into Gwen’s fingertips? Gwen could not make her touch any less of a caress than it was—the most she could hope for was that it had not occurred to Isobelle that behind Gwen’s careful movements was a tempest begging to be set loose. That every gentle touch was a deeper impulse restrained and packed carefully away.

“My own mother would be mortified by me, I feel sure,” Isobelle said dryly, with a sigh that made her shoulders rise into Gwen’s hands and fall again.

“Sometimes I think most mortification is just envy in disguise.” Gwen’s voice was low, intimate. “We’re embarrassed by those who are more free than we are because secretly we wish we could be so free, too.”

Gwen’s hand moved again, this time to trail across the back of Isobelle’s shoulder to rest against the ties at the top of Isobelle’s chemise. The firelight outside limned the edges of everything in rose gold, including the curve of her neck, the fine velvet hairs on her skin, each shift and movement of the delicate muscles in her throat as she swallowed.

Isobelle’s head turned a little, her features lit in profile, giving her skin a flushed, heated quality. If only Gwen dared to touch that cheek, the parted lips, and discover how much of that fire was hers, and how much came from the light filtering in through the open shutters.

“Gwen,” Isobelle said, her voice low, a strange note in it cutting straight to Gwen’s core and making her pulse quicken. “I . . .”

A sudden burst of raucous laughter from outside interrupted her and made them both startle and leap apart, like lovers caught embracing. Distantly, Gwen recognized the voice of Lambton, the potter and farmer who lived on the north edge of the village. He’d be telling one of his raunchy jokes, full of double meanings that the little kids never got but the older ones did.

Gwen turned away, too scattered by the shattering of that moment, the loss of that sight of Isobelle all lit by firelight, dress falling off one shoulder, lips parting to say her name . . . Gwen cleared her throat roughly, trying to bring herself back to reality.

Don’t do this, Gwen. But the admonishment she’d intended for herself sounded weak, more like a desperate plea than a command. Don’t risk what you have with her. Too much is at stake for you to be so foolish.

“You should be good from there,” she said aloud in a brisk tone, turning back toward the chest to retrieve her own dress.

Isobelle hadn’t moved, and she stood clutching the loosened dress to herself like Aphrodite gathering seafoam around her naked form. “Will you need help with yours?” she asked, her voice carrying a quiver that gave it an uncharacteristically nervous quality.