Lady Sarah had bent over to get a bit of leverage, and that dress . . . the dip of the neckline . . . so close to him . . .

He shifted in his seat again, and this time it had nothing to do with his injury.

“Can you lift it a bit?” Sarah asked.

“What?”

“Your leg.” She wasn’t looking at him, thank God, because he could not stop looking at her. The shadow between her breasts was so close, and the scent of her was swirling around him—lemons and honeysuckle and something far more earthy and sensual.

She had been dancing all morning. Out of breath and dizzy with exertion. Just the thought of it made him so desperate for her that he thought he might stop breathing.

“Do you need help?” she asked.

Dear God, yes. He hadn’t been with a woman since his injury, and the truth was, he hadn’t really wanted to. He had the same needs as any man, but it was so bloody hard to imagine anyone desiring him with his ruined leg that he’d not allowed himself to feel it for anyone else.

Until now, when it had hit him like—

Oh, bloody hell, not a hot desert wind. Anything but a hot desert wind.

“Lord Hugh,” Sarah said impatiently, “did you hear me? If you lift your leg, it will be easier for me to pull the table in.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, and he lifted his leg an inch.

She pulled at the table, but it rubbed against the upper of his boot and caught a little, forcing her to take a step to maintain her balance.

She was so close now he could reach out and touch her. His fingers clamped down on the arms of his chair lest they give in to desire.

He wanted to touch her hand, to feel her fingers curl around his, and then he wanted to bring it to his lips. He would kiss the inside of her wrist, feel her pulse thrumming beneath her pale skin.

And then—oh, dear God, this was not the time for an erotic daydream, but he could not seem to help himself—then he would lift her arms above her head, the motion arching her back, so that when he pressed her body against his, he would feel all of her, every dip and curve. And then he would reach beneath her skirt and slide his hand up her leg to the sensitive crook of her hip.

He wanted to know the exact temperature of her, and then he wanted to know it again, when she was hot and flushed with desire.

“There we are,” she said, straightening back up. It was nearly impossible to think that she was oblivious to his distress, that she could not know that he was within inches of losing control.

She smiled, having got the table into the position she wanted. “Is that better?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.