Tiggs rushed forward. “My lord, may I take your wet coat and umbrella?”
Nicholas handed the items to the butler. Amelia spotted her maid and asked for a pair of boots.
“You can have the boots,” Nicholas said, “after you put on dry clothing.”
“I don’t have time for that.”
Bloody hell, but she was making him work for this. “At least help me up the stairs so I might change then,” he said. The request was so uncharacteristic of him that his butler dropped the umbrella with a loud thwack on the marble floor. Nicholas could feel his neck turning red with embarrassment at asking for assistance, but he held his head high.
“Of course,” Amelia said, as he’d known she would. She’d never refuse anyone in need. It was an admirable quality, and one he didn’t like exploiting. Of course, he liked her coming down with a fever even less.
“Go stoke the fire in your mistress’s chamber and lay out dry clothing,” Nicholas instructed O’Malley. “And tell my valet to do the same.”
Nicholas approached the dreaded stairs and put one hand on the banister. Amelia kept her arm about his other side, providing support. Negotiating the first step was awkward, but once they got the rhythm of it, they moved well together. He found it was actually easier to ascend the steps with her at his side. They turned toward the master bed chamber, and she went with him through his door. His valet took one look at the two of them and made an excuse to depart. Nicholas made a note to give the man a raise. And he’d be even more generous if he managed to see that O’Malley was scarce as well.
The fire was roaring in the hearth, and he and Amelia stepped in front of it. “That does feel much better,” she said, moving away from his side to spread her heavy wet skirts.
“You’re shivering,” he said. “Take a moment to change out of your wet clothes before you go.” He worried she would treat him like a child and ask if he would be alright without her—something he deserved after the way he’d behaved for the past quarter hour—but she left his side without any coddling. She used the door adjoining their chambers to exit and when she’d passed through, he heard her calling for O’Malley.
“Where is she?” she seemed to ask herself.
His valet definitely deserved a raise in wages. Nicholas stripped off his own wet coat—mostly wet from Amelia leaning against him in her soaked garments—then went to his boot jack to tug off his boots.
“Oh, damn.” He heard Amelia curse in the neighboring chamber.
“Need help?” he asked, opening the door to peer into her chamber. She was still in her wet clothes and seemed to be struggling to unfasten the bodice of the dress herself.
“Could you pull the bell again?” she asked. “O’Malley isn’t here, and my fingers are so cold I can’t manage the pins myself.”
“I’ll do it,” he said. The look she gave him mirrored the shock he’d felt when the words had come out of his mouth. But then perhaps he was only shocked he’d said the words aloud because surely undressing her again was what he’d intended all along. It was almost all he’d been able to think about since the night before.
“I’m sure O’Malley—”
“I won’t have you shivering while we wait for her to return. This might be difficult to believe, looking at me now, but I have undressed a woman or two. I know how it’s done. Turn around,” he ordered.
She gave him her back, and he made quick work of the fastenings. She was able to slide the sleeves off and then shrug the bodice off. Her back was to him, but he could see she was wet to the skin. Her shift was transparent, showing the outline of her pale upper back.
He reached for the knot of her skirts. It was wet, and he had to work at the tight fabric.
“It’s not difficult to believe,” she said.
“What’s that?” He was concentrating on the blasted knot. He almost had it.
“That you’ve undressed your share of women. That’s not difficult to believe, not with your looks.”
Nicholas freed the knot and tugged it loose, causing her skirts to fall to the floor. Of course, that still left the bloody petticoat. He started on that string, which was blissfully tied in an easy bow. One tug and the petticoat was out of the way. “That was before,” he said. “And a long time ago.”
“Before what?” She turned to look at him, and he couldn’t help but drop his gaze to her chest. The stays pushed her breasts slightly upward so that the rounded tops were plump and inviting at the neckline of that sheer shift.
“Before the war,” he said, unable to follow the conversation. “Your underclothing is wet,” he said, reaching behind her to loosen her stays. The action caused her to step closer, meaning that she was close enough to kiss as her stays fell away. That left her in only her shift and stockings, and one pull would rid her of the shift.
“I should put on a dry chemise,” she said, her voice little more than a murmur. “O’Malley put one on the bed.”
“Then we’d best get you out of this one.”
She nodded, and before he could reach for the ribbon at the neckline, she did. She pulled, and the garment slipped down. He followed its progress as it slid off her arms, down her pale breasts, over her belly and rounded hips, and then down those shapely legs to a puddle on the floor. For a moment, Nicholas forgot he was a cripple. He forgot his fears of rejection. He was a man, a husband, and his wife stood before him in nothing but stockings tied with pretty green garters. His hand went around her bare waist, and he noted her skin was still too cold. He pulled her close to warm her, at least that was his rationale. But as soon as he’d touched her, he’d wanted nothing more than to feel her body pressed against him. He wanted to warm her. He wanted to touch her.
He wanted.
He wasn’t certain who kissed whom first, but their mouths came together in a searing kiss that sent a jolt of heat straight through him. There was no wondering if she felt as he did in that moment. Her tongue tangled with his and her arms came around his neck as she stood on tiptoe to press closer to him.
She wanted too.
He deepened the kiss, his hands moving over her warming flesh, tracing the curve of her lower back, the flare of her bottom, the swell of her hip. Then his hands were cupping her breasts, and she was moaning as she had the night before. The sound of her pleasure made him hard, made him want more. He ran his thumbs over the hard points of her nipples, circling them until she seemed to writhe against him. Her tongue stroked in and out of his mouth in an imitation of an act he missed more than he could say. How long had it been? Years now since he’d had a woman in his bed—hell, since he’d touched a naked woman.
Her skin was warmer now and heating rapidly under his touch, and he slid one hand away from her breast, down her belly, and to the soft thatch of curls between her legs. He heard her quick intake of breath and then felt her short nails dig into his shoulder. She wanted him to touch her there.
His fingers slid into the curls and the heat of her was like its own fire. “Yes?” he asked, his fingers itching to explore further.
“Yes,” she said, her voice eager and low with desire.
He stroked over the lips of her sex, feeling the wetness there already, knowing he was responsible for it and that she desired him. Well, she desired his touch. He slid one finger inside her hot channel, and she let out a startled, “Oh!” Her muscles clenched around him, and her head fell back. He managed to hold onto her, but he couldn’t support her and himself if she lost herself in pleasure. And he intended for her to lose herself in pleasure.