“I need help,” she murmured, a pretty blush filling her face, already suffused with color from her bath, and leaving those full cheeks the crimson hue of a bright summer berry.

And damned if he didn’t have a taste suddenly for sweet fruit.

He swallowed hard.

“Myrtle,” he said, her name a desperate entreaty, roughened and hoarse.

She presented him her back.

It didn’t help.

Val closed his eyes.

She’d said she’d not ask him to help her dress, and yet she stood before Val, with her back presented to him, and a swath of silken skin, pink from the heat of her bath, on display.

A feast for the eyes he’d no right indulging in.

And yet—he swallowed another hard swallow—Val was helpless to look away.

Helpless to do anything but stare. And perhaps it was because he’d been so long without a woman—it had been years since he’d bedded one, and even then, it had been his wife, and then no one after her—but desire coursed through him, heating his veins, and his body went hard.

“Will you?” she asked, a slight quiver contained with her voice that was normally steady and cheerful, hinting at the fact that Myrtle was as unsettled as Val himself.

Touching her would be folly; touching her while she remained in a state of undress would be an even greater one. And yet, to leave her partially naked would be the greatest one of all.

Wordlessly, he closed the distance between them and reached out with methodical intent to help with the fastenings on her dress.

“Don’t you have any other gowns?” he asked, his voice emerging harsh from the desire he fought, his fingers shaking slightly, and he gave thanks that she could not see their tremble.

“Most were packed, and the ones that are here do not fit as well as this. This is my sister’s.”

“Have you considered how impossible it is going to be for you to get yourself out of this without the assistance of a maid?” Or me.

Except it was the wrong question to ask. It had been the absolute worst suggestion he could have made. For a whole host of reasons.

One being the image that his question immediately conjured in his own mind: Myrtle arriving on his doorstep, presenting her back to him once more, and him slowly, ever so slowly, undoing pearl button after pearl button, exposing inch after inch of her silken skin.

He tamped down a groan.

Myrtle turned. “You are right. This doesn’t make sense as far as a dress selection.” And then, as she stepped away from him, the fabric she held against her chest sagged in the back, falling about her bare shoulders.

Val closed his eyes and gave silent thanks as she sprinted off, heading for the door, when suddenly Myrtle stopped.

She cast a hesitant glance his way. “Will you come with . . . ?”