ŷ������

The writers had all gathered, waiting. Hero always made it a point to arrive last. Outside, wind rattled the windowpanes. There was a low rumble of thunder in the distance. The air was positively electric.

Hero strolled in.

“Ladies first,�� he said with a grin. She didn’t sigh because she was distracted by something particularly wicked in his grin today. She saw a certain light in his eyes. It went without saying she knew all the sparks and dimensions of Hero’s gaze.

Heroine sat up straighter.

A meeting progressed in which nothing remarkable happened, or so Heroine assumed. Her attention had been drawn to the exposed vee of Hero’s chest. Once again he was eschewing fashion and modesty and not wearing a cravat. How positively scandalous.

It put her in mind of that night. That one glorious night. She clasped her hands in her lap.

About halfway through the meeting he slowly shrugged out of his jacket. That night he’d allowed his shirt to slide off his shoulders, down his muscled arms and falling to the floor, exposing the broad expanse of his chest. Today he set the jacket on the chair and carried on with the meeting wearing nothing but his shirtsleeves and a waistcoat that highlighted how his chest tapered from his broad shoulders to his waist . . . and lower.

Heroine’s cheeks flamed at her wicked thoughts of Hero, naked. She bit her lip, hard.

Of course he took his jacket off, she thought; the temperature seemed to have spiked ten degrees. Yet when she glanced around, no one else seemed bothered. Sophie even pulled her shawl tighter around her. She ought to see a doctor about that, for she herself was just about burning up.

Hero stretched his arms, and she could have sworn she saw the ripple of muscles under the thin white linen of his shirt. Her mouth went dry. She was suddenly parched.

She missed him. Oh, did she ever. She missed his voice and his smile and discovering the real Mr. Hero. She missed his touch and a whole lot of very unladylike things.

Hero rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, exposing his forearms. Good Lord, she was now all agog over his arms. Who was the Nodcock now? But those arms had held her—no one else ever held her. Those arms had pulled her close and made her feel loved and cherished, if only for one night. She decided then and there that Hero would be the only man to know her thus. No matter what happened, there would be no one else.

The heat increased, her skin felt feverish. She was certain her cheeks were pink and that everyone would know she was thinking such wanton thoughts.

Perhaps she did make a mistake. Perhaps she had been too picky and particular about the exact proper circumstances in which love ought to happen. It was a wild thing, wasn’t it? Who was she to impose all the rules and strictures on love?

The meeting concluded and Hero walked out. She felt the loss intensely as she watched his retreating form while still stuck in her chair.

The other writers trickled out and Sophie dawdled gathering her things. The Writing Girls chattered about society gossip and the latest Paris fashions and other things Heroine was only paying half a mind to.

In the distance thunder rumbled again. It would rain. Perhaps that would cool her heated skin. But even the thought of cool raindrops tumbling on her scorching skin made her breath hitch. She had become far too sensitive lately.

And then Hero returned.

“I forgot my jacket,�� he drawled, leaning in the doorway. She fought hard for a gulp of air. God, she loved it when he leaned like that. Her mouth went dry. Words eluded her.

“Oh, goodness, is that the time!�� Sophie said. “I have an appointment with the modiste.�� Heroine was too tongue-tied to point out that she hadn’t even looked at a timepiece.

“Yes, I promised Roxbury . . .�� Julianna said, hot on Sophie’s heels as they pushed past Hero.

“Wycliff is expecting me . . .�� Eliza said, and she too followed the others out of the room, leaving Heroine and Hero alone. Quite alone.

“Hello, Heroine.�� His voice was low, and it sent shivers up and down her spine. Goodness, she had better steel herself if he only had to say Hello,
Heroine and she nearly went to pieces. She’d do well to remember that he was probably going to marry lady Lydia to save his newspapers.

But she had to reply to his hello; it would be rude not to. Heroine, both Old and New, was nothing if not polite.

“Hello.�� Her voice had never sounded so breathless, as if she had dashed through Hyde Park with a vile seducer and nefarious murderer in hot pursuit.

“How are you?�� he asked. The question was politeness itself, and yet he managed to imbue each word with a hint of wickedness.

“I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?�� she replied politely. Young ladies were polite. Young ladies also did not imagine handsome partially clad men closing the door and ravishing them upon the tabletop. Oh very well, this one did. What had become of her?

“Oh, I’m good. Very good,�� he said, sounding wicked, very wicked. She longed to fan herself.

“Good,�� she echoed, as her brain was not up to the task of forming complex thoughts or sentences. It was still focused on him, leaning, against the doorway. She could see the muscles of his chest outlined through the thin fabric of his shirt. That vee of exposed skin taunted her, begged for her to touch. With her mouth.

“Might you need someone to escort you home?�� he inquired.

Oh I love this book, the hero was really clueless that heroine like him :D

I haven't read it but I think I know the author.

Don't know it:( Sounds good, though.

I have no clue.

I'm also clueless.

LOL! I don't usually stump so many of you.

The book was Seducing Mr. Knightly by Maya Rodale.

I thought all four of the Writing Girls books were really cute, but this one was my favorite.