“I think the word ‘erection’ does not do your manly instrument justice, Alasdair,” she breathed, her eyes luminous as they feasted on his arousal. “I’m thinking something more descriptive like monument or colossus or tarantula would be in order.”

“Gargantua, not tarantula,” he snapped, dropping the candle as he scrambled to find his dressing gown. He could feel her eyes on him, touching his flesh, sending rivulets of molten desire through his veins until he thought he would go mad. Lord help him, he would never survive the night, let alone the few months he expected it would take before she had grown to care about him. He wrestled his dressing gown over a body that cried out for completion, and relit the extinguished candle.

He took hold of resolve that was slipping away with every rise and fall of her breasts, and set his jaw. He had to be strong. He had to be unflinching even in the face of the most tempting woman on the face of the earth. He had to stand firmly behind what he knew was right.

She leaned forward, the loose neckline of her night rail slipping down over one shoulder, exposing the creamy curve of her breast.

He had to be out of his mind.

“Oh. Why did you put that on? I liked you much better without it. You have nice flesh. It looks very touchable.”

He swore that if he squinted he could see the rosy shadowed peek of her nipple through the thin lawn material…good God, what was he doing? He dragged his gaze up to her face.

The pink tip of her tongue ran lightly across her bottom lip. His eyes followed it. The world as Dare knew it darkened and spun for a moment. He wondered idly if he was about to swoon. He’d never heard of a man swooning outside of the battlefield, but then, no man he knew of was so close to going up in the flames of unrequited desire as he was.

“Alasdair?”

He opened his eyes. She was standing before him, a book clutched to her stomach, her breasts straining against the material pulled tight across them. He hadn’t been imagining it earlier; he really could see the blushing crown of each glorious breast. His mouth watered at the thought of the taste of them, of the silky smoothness of her breasts, of the weight and feel of them in his hands, of the scented paradise her body offered.

“Is something the matter? Is it…” For the first time since he had met her five years before, she looked unsure of herself. She made a whispered choking sound. “…me? Is something wrong with me?”

She bit her lip and blinked rapidly, as if fighting tears. The resolve he held on to so firmly began to melt at the sight of his wife, his bright, effervescent, witty Charlotte standing before him believing herself to be inadequate. God’s knuckles, what was he doing to her? She was all but an innocent, and his honor, his determination to be in control of his life was hurting her. How could he be so cruel to her?