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shivered as she stood there in front of him, dressed only in her petticoats, her arms crossed over her nearly naked breasts to protect her modesty. Being a naughty woman was more difficult than she had expected. The lessons of a lifetime could not be overcome in one short evening.
    All pretense he had made of indifference was gone and he was gazing at her as if he wanted to eat her up. She did not know where to look. He made her feel both eminently desirable and horrifyingly debauched at the same time.
    “Silk stockings with red clocks embroidered on them?” His voice was still hard and sarcastic, but his face was flushed as he reached up and loosened his necktie. “How quaint. Put your foot up on my knee and let me see them closer.”
    It was good to know that she had some small amount of power over him. She put her stockinged foot up on his knee, her skirts lifting with the movement.
    His hands lingered over her ankle. “Very nice. Now take them off.”
    Timorously she reached inside her petticoats to unbuckle the garter holding up her stocking, but Tom stopped her with one hand on her arm. “On second thought, I will take them off for you.”
    Was he offering to put his hands up her skirts? That would never do. She pushed him away. “I don’t need any help. I can take them off for myself.”
    “But I want to do it for you. And I have won the forfeit, have I not?” Reaching under her petticoats, he ran his hands up her leg to the top of her stocking. “You owe me.”
    “Get your hands out from under my skirts,” she hissed, slapping at his hand on her leg and wriggling around to get away from him. “It is not proper.”
    Oblivious to her protests, he unfastened her buckle, removed her garter, and slowly rolled her stocking down her leg and over her foot. “You are not meant to be proper. Give me your other leg.”
    Sarah looked around for someone to protest to, but no one was paying them any attention. All the others were either crowing over their cards, or one half of the couple was undressing the other with much laughter and giggling.
    “Come on. I’m waiting.”
    Modesty had no value here—indeed, it would ruin her. She had to get over her fears if she wanted to stay. Mrs. Erskine would not take kindly to her first customer complaining over her unwillingness to play the game with him. Reluctantly she took her bare leg off Tom’s lap and put her other leg on his knee.
    He reached under her petticoats to the top of her other stocking, caressing the bare skin of her thigh with his fingertips. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
    Her leg was shaking under his feather-light touch. “No.” He was touching her where no man but her husband ought to touch her. She ought not to be enjoying the feel of his fingers on her leg.
    “You are lying again. You really must try to stop. Lying is a nasty habit.”
    She shivered as he continued to caress her gently. “I am not lying.”
    “Your neck is all red and flushed. Your leg is trembling under my hands. And if I were to reach my hand just a little higher, I would find your pussy as wet as any man could wish it. As wet as it was when you were looking at those naughty pictures in the salon yesterday.”
    How did he know that her pussy was dripping into her drawers? She clamped her thighs together, trapping his wrist between them so he could not roam higher. “Don’t touch me there.”
    “Relax.” He unbuckled the garter on her second stocking, unrolled it, and cast it aside. “I am only claiming my forfeit as I am entitled.” His pile of chips was dwindling rapidly, and he eyed it with disfavor, suddenly losing his patience. “I never knew a tart had so many damned underclothes. Come, take off those petticoats of yours.”
    Her petticoats were fastened with distressingly few hooks and tapes. One by one she let them fall at her feet until she was standing in front of him wearing nothing but corset, chemise, and drawers.
    A murmur of appreciation