“Odd that you wouldn’t remove your gloves, that you rejected the notion of my bare hands touching yours when you’re here in hopes that my palms will caress all of you,” he said quietly. “Imagine how much nicer this would be without the silk separating us.”

Suddenly, she imagined it, wildly and provocatively. She rather feared her heart, which continued to beat erratically, might very well give out before the night was done. Her death would certainly serve no one, least of all herself, well. If anything, it would merely compound the guilt she would take with her to heaven. If that was where the angels carried her, although it was quite likely after tonight’s escapade that they’d merely dump her in hell. Which she’d feared until an hour ago. Now, however, she found some comfort in the prospect of arriving there, because she was quite certain it would be his final destination as well. She could imagine him laughing uproariously, delighted by his surroundings, and driving the devil to distraction. She rather wanted to witness all that.

“One can be bedded without removing all of one’s garments,” she informed him as haughtily and learnedly as possible. Lushing had certainly never required all garments be removed, so exactly how was Aiden Trewlove going to caress all of her? With those palms. The one that cradled her hand as though it were a fragile bird. The one that covered a good bit of her lower back.

His grin was saucy and daring. “Where’s the fun in that?”

She almost asked if there was fun to be had in bedding. For her, it had always been more of a chore, a duty, a requirement of marriage. She was here hoping for something more but was at a bit of a loss as to exactly what that more might consist of. Caressing bare skin. Caressing. Bare. Skin. The words seemed trapped in her mind as though they were riding on a roundabout.

From the caressing and holding he’d done so far, she could tell his hands were roughened by his labors, whatever they might entail. But they were also clean, well manicured. He had a scar that ran along the side of his forefinger and onto the back of his hand. Thin, raised, white. He’d had it for a time. She wondered how it had come to be.

Would his seduction involve the exchange of more stories? She rather thought so, rather hoped so.

The music again ceased playing, a signal for others to change partners, while he simply continued to hold her, waiting patiently for when they could begin moving again. In a ballroom, three dances with the same gentleman would be scandalous. Here it was nothing at all. She was neither concerned about it nor worried over her reputation. “How many more dances?” she asked.

“One.”

“And then?”

“I’m going to kiss you until your knees grow weak.”