He shook his head slowly. “You’re wearing far too many clothes to be truly enjoying yourself.”

Her chin tucked in as she glanced down at herself. Her gown had been pushed down and pulled up in all the best ways, and she looked thoroughly decadent.

He liked her this way, he realized. He did not want her on a pedestal. He wanted her rumpled and earthy, pinned beneath him and flushed with pleasure. He brought his lips back to her ear. “It gets better.”

Her dress had already been undone; it required little work to divest her of the garment completely. “This has to go, too,” he said, grasping the hem of her chemise.

“But you—”

“Are completely dressed, I know,” he said with a low chuckle. “We’ll have to do something about that, too.” He sat up, still straddling her, and stripped off his coat and cravat. His eyes never left her face. He saw her tongue dart out to moisten her lips, and then he saw her catch her lower lip between her teeth, as if she was nervous about something, or maybe just trying to reach a decision.

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded.

Her eyes went from his torso to his face and then back again, and Richard sucked in his breath as her trembling fingers reached for the buttons on his waistcoat.

“I want to see you,” she whispered.

Every nerve in his body was screaming for him to rip off the last of his clothing, but he forced himself to remain still, unmoving except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He was mesmerized by her small hands, shaking as they fumbled with his buttons. It was taking her so long; she could barely force the disc through the buttonhole.

“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I—”

His hand covered hers. “Don’t apologize.”

“But—”

“Don’t . . .”

She looked up.

He tried to smile. “. . . apologize.”

Together they managed the buttons, and Richard was soon pulling his shirt over his head.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen a man before. Not like this.”

“I should hope not,” he tried to joke, but then her fingers came to rest on his chest, and it felt as if his breath were being sucked from his body. “What you do to me,” he gasped, and he came back down to cover her, hoping she had not noticed that he had not removed his breeches.

He could not. He’d stepped far too close to the fire as it was. Somewhere in the feverish recesses of his mind he knew that if he removed this last barrier, he would not survive it.

He would take her. Make her his in truth.

And that he could not do.

Not yet.

But nor could he leave her. She was temptation itself, lying beneath him, but that wasn’t what kept him rooted to the spot.