She lowered her hand from her face then, not wishing to appear wounded and elicit more of his concern. Her fingers hovered, shaky for a moment between them. She was unsure where to go, where to land. As though compelled by a force outside of herself, she settled her palm flat on him, fingers splayed on the center of his firm chest. His heart beat strong and a bit fast. A lump grew in her throat.

Touching him like this, alone together in the shadowy interior of the carriage, she felt small and feminine and soft in a way she had never felt before. Her softness to his unyielding solidness . . . she simply wanted to sink into him, to take all of him in, to let herself be swallowed up and consumed by him.

Such thoughts were wholly foreign to her. She had never felt this, never imagined she could. She supposed this was what happened to women and men alike when they cast aside their reservations. Desire, the overriding pull to fornicate, was a powerful thing indeed. The scientist in her was intrigued to follow this through and see for herself what all the hullabaloo was about. For research purposes, of course.

And yet she could not deny that the woman in her was equally intrigued. All her most basic parts were sending forth loud signals. The very core of her pulsed with a deep throb that begged for relief, for pressure.

Only this man was not one for dalliance. At least not with her. She let out a sigh. Unfortunate that. On multiple levels, he was not an acceptable candidate on that score. For starters, he far outranked her. Then there was the fact that he was . . . attached to a lady already. A very likeable and lovely young lady. And he did not like Nora. Perhaps she should have begun with that. He might have granted her pardon to stay with him and the Birchwoods, and he might have treated her to a special day, but it did not alter that he found her to be a duplicitous female. That was forever between them.

He lifted a hand and touched her then, his fingers gently stroking her nose. “Doesn’t appear bruised.”

She shivered a little. Breathing became too difficult. She could not help herself then. She had to move, had to do something to answer the deep throbbing. She shifted, wiggled against him.

A hissed breath escaped him and she felt her eyes widen in her face. Her fingers stirred, the tips exerting the slightest pressure on him. Their gazes locked, held interminably, and she felt like she was drowning. How could any one person have such dark, lush lashes?

His hands moved then, landing on her hips, fisting in her skirts. “So much bloody fabric,” he muttered.

A ragged breath escaped her, expelling from her lungs, easing the tightness in her chest but doing nothing to cure the throbbing.