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all her pulses pound. Answering wetness trickled between the
thickening lips of her cunt.
    Damn, of all the things. Now she would never sleep.
    He was already disturbing her peace and he wasn’t even conscious.
As soon as he remembered where he belonged, then he needed to leave. She didn’t
need this sort of disruption in her life.
    He simply had to go.

Chapter Three
     
     
    David was very aware of the girl lying beside him. Beneath
the scent of lavender that permeated the bedding, the stench of aged wood and
paint bloomed, like mildew flourishing in the dark. But stronger yet, the scent
of sleep-warmed feminine flesh.
    He couldn’t see her, but her large blue eyes and sweet,
round face, and masses of golden, loosely curling, shoulder-length hair that
fell from its pins as she had bent over him were burned into his mind. Nothing
else resided in his memory. Just the girl.
    He didn’t know how he’d come to be here or what he was doing
here. Something lingered around the periphery of his thoughts, wispy, like
cobwebs. He couldn’t pull it up clearly enough to grasp it. Had he possibly
drunk too much?
    He searched for his last clear recollection. He had been in
his chambers at the Inns of Court. Since the open of Parliament, he’d been
driving himself, trying to get enough promises for votes. Weeks where he was
never without some pamphlet in his hand, frantically reading, while riding to a
string of endless meetings and dinner parties. Staying up at nights, feverishly
writing.
    He’d been debating all morning, one last chance to sway one
or two votes. He finally had the time to steal a brief nap in his private
chamber. But he couldn’t sleep. Two cups of black tea on a stomach gone empty
for hours proved to have been a dreadful idea. It hadn’t settled well at all.
The chamber became hot, so hot, and his cravat seemed to tighten and strangle
him. Air. He had to have air. He had stood and become instantly dizzy and
disorientated, and staggering outside where he had chucked his guts into the
gutter like a common drunkard.
    Someone had come to aid him. Helped him into his carriage.
But there the memory died.
    The bed shifted and rather ancient-sounding ropes creaked.
He opened his eyes and, in the dim light, saw the girl moving in her slumber.
She turned on her side to face him. The deep shadow in the valley between two
very generous breasts drew his attention. Yes, he had felt their softness
brushing against him as she moved to reach across his whole body when she had
bathed him.
    Her face was gently rounded through the cheeks and tapered
to a little pointed chin. A country girl’s face. Her skin appeared velvet
smooth, dewy, like rose petals after an early morning rain. Was it possible for
skin to be that soft?
    He extended his hand with the intent to touch her cheek to
find out, but froze as she moaned, a sound full of such tension. Such angst. He
could feel it within his own bones.
    He felt a disquieting sense of connection. But was it any
wonder that he should feel connected to her? This girl had spoon-fed him and
lain beside him, sharing her warmth. Good Lord, she had bathed him. Had
lingered over the act, her soft, small hands grazing him as she applied the wet
cloth. The cooling effect had been pure bliss. All that time he had felt her
desire as though it had been a force, vibrating on the air, carrying to him.
    She had to be a harlot. How else would he find himself alone
with her here in this depressing little hovel if he hadn’t picked her up
someplace equally squalid? He must have been feeling adventurous indeed.
    However, he knew two kinds of harlot. They were either
hardened and cold or overly bold and lascivious. But this girl’s air reminded
him of a frustrated wife. Sexually repressed yet still dreaming of someone who
would come and release her. Which all sounded like a lot of fanciful drivel. He
must be foxed. And he was too much in need of a really vigorous fuck.
    Jeanne–yes, correct, she’d told