A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)

Her trousseau.

Wrapped in the towel, she padded across the room and undid the buckles on the trunk. Carefully laying aside all her journals and papers, she removed the rolls of white cloth padding the plaster cast. For the most part, these bulky cylinders of white were embroidered bed sheets and tablecloths and pillowcases. But there were other items, of a more personal nature.

Lacy chemises. Gauzy fichus. Bosom-lifting corsets. Silk stockings and ribbon garters.

She’d forgotten these things, tucked inside her trunk for years now. It had seemed she’d never have a use for such sensual, indulgent attire. She’d all but given up on the idea of marriage.

After this journey—heavens, after last night—marriage seemed less likely than ever. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use these things, or that she must deny this side of herself. The items in this trunk were elegant and sensual, and they were hers. Whether or not she had a husband to display them for.

She unfurled a pristine white chemise, low-cut in both the front and back and worked with lace at the neckline. Setting aside the sprig of dried lavender tucked inside for freshness, she drew the sheer fabric over her body and stood before the mirror.

Twisting to view herself from different angles, she ran her hands down her torso, pulling the sheer fabric tight. Until the wine-colored buds of her ni**les showed through, and the dark triangle between her legs as well. She skimmed her hands down her body again, enjoying the soft heat of her flesh beneath the cool fabric. The gentle curves of her br**sts, belly, and hips. As she watched her own hands stroking over her skin, her pulse quickened.

This body wanted.

This body was wanted, by him.

In the bedchamber, Colin stirred and mumbled in his sleep. Minerva jumped, then pressed her hands to her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

She donned a pair of sheer silk stockings and tied them with pink ribbons. She called the maid back in to lace her into a French divorce corset that lifted and separated her br**sts to quite flattering effect. With reluctance, she put on the blue silk again. But the effect was much better with her pristine, lacy chemise peeking out at the top. And she found an embroidered white overskirt in her trunk, rather like a pinafore. It covered most of the wine stains.

Her hair was still damp, so rather than pin it all up, she merely gathered a few locks from the front and secured them with tortoiseshell combs. The rest of her hair hung loose and heavy about her shoulders.

“Good morning.”

She turned to see Colin tangled in the sheets, propped up on one elbow and rubbing his unshaven face with the other hand.

“Good morning,” she said, resisting the urge to make a girlish twirl and beg for his approval.

He blinked and focused his gaze. A smile crooked his lips. “Well, Min. Don’t you look pretty.”

Giddy joy fizzed through her. It was a simple compliment, but a perfect one. She would have doubted him, if he’d called her “lovely” or “beautiful” or “stunning.” But “pretty”? That, she could almost believe.

“Really?” she asked. She wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

“You’re the picture of a fetching country lass.” His gaze raked over her body and lingered on her enhanced, lace-framed cle**age. “You make me want to find a hayloft.”

She blushed, just as she supposed any fetching country lass would.

He yawned. “How long have you been out of bed?”

“An hour. Perhaps more.”

“And I didn’t wake?” His brow wrinkled. “Remarkable.”

The maid brought a breakfast tray. While Colin rose from bed and went about his own toilette, Minerva feasted on coddled eggs, buttered rolls, and chocolate.

“Did you save me any?” he asked, strolling back into the room some quarter-hour later.

She looked up, saw him, and let her spoon clatter to the table. “Now, that’s just unfair.”

Fifteen minutes. Twenty, at most. And in that time, he’d bathed, shaved, and dressed in a spotless pair of new breeches and a crisp, laundered shirt.

Perhaps she looked ‘pretty,’ or ‘fetching.’ But he looked magnificent.

He adjusted his cuff. “I always keep a few items of clothing here. No coat though, unhappily. I’m stuck with the same one I’ve been wearing.”

It was petty of her, to take that as some consolation. But she did.

“Now.” He sat down across from her and plucked a thick slice of toast. “About last night.”

She flinched. “Must we discuss last night?”

He buttered his toast in slow, even strokes. “I think we must. Some apologies are probably in order.”

“Oh.” Nodding, she swallowed hard. “I’m sorry for taking advantage of you.”

He choked on his bite of toast.

“No, really,” she went on. “You were exhausted and more than a little drunk, and I was unspeakably shameless.”