Page 16 of Prince of Scandal

Just as he’d suspected, Georgiana King’s breasts were complete perfection…and if the other men in the congregation saw them, if they dared ogle her or make comments, he would be forced to uppercut each and every one into the middle of next week.

This delectable widow would wear scandalous attire for him and him alone.

Ashton leaned down so he could speak directly into her ear. “I am going to waltz you to the small powder room beside the storage antechamber at the end of the hall. Then I’ll guard the door until you have righted the issue.”

Mrs. King nodded and bit her lip, actually appearing docile for once. “Thank you. I thought…I thought it was secure.”

A snort escaped. But now was not the time to debate the foolishness of too-small gowns and makeshift fichus when buxom curves would always have their way.

Keeping her shielded from view as best he could, Ashton carefully maneuvered them around the throngs of people and along the side wall of the hall. Fortunately, the rest of the congregation wasn’t paying them too much attention; they were more intent on discreetly and blushingly caressing their dance partners, and ensuring there were no collisions.

It seemed to take a thousand years to reach the powder room, and his glance returned repeatedly to the fichu, willing the flapping piece of muslin to stay in place for one more minute. By some minor miracle, the tiny room was empty, but the door was warped from dampness and wouldn’t shut.

“Quickly now,” he said brusquely, as she rushed inside and he planted himself sideways in front of the gap like a palace sentry. Partly for Mrs. King’s reputation, and partly for his own sanity, before his thoughts got any lewder. But his disobedient gaze kept returning to the woman. Damn, she was exquisite, even when wrestling with a fichu and muttering unladylike curses as the fabric refused to behave.

Mrs. King sent him a miserable, pleading look as the fichu slipped down for the third time. “I…could you possibly help? I need to keep one end still on my shoulder while I tuck the other into my bodice. I do apologize. Baring my bosom at the Brundall church fete is certainly not on my list of deeds to accomplish.”

Ashton sighed and stepped into the powder room. Thankfully she was a widow and not some innocent unwed miss, or he would be leg-shackled before morning. Not to mention exposed as a prince, once more the center of a scandal.

Leg-shackled to Georgiana King? There were certainly worse fates for a man…

He gritted his teeth at the wayward thought, and glanced over his shoulder to check if anyone had seen them or was following to investigate. But all he could see were Brundall residents reveling in their unexpected dancing opportunity.

“Stand still,” he commanded, removing the fichu entirely and starting again. First, he secured one side of the delicate muslin under her chemise and stays at the back, then gently tugged the fabric forward so there was enough to tuck into her bodice. “By the by, madam, someone should blister your ears for wearing a gown several sizes too small for such bountiful curves.”

Mrs. King brightened as she attended to the left-hand side with nimble fingers. “Bountiful? Do I detect a touch of admiration there?”

Damnation.

“It is disappointing you hold your figure in such scant regard, forcing it into too-small garments when they should be sewn to fit just so,” he replied repressively.

“Why, Mr. Latimer,” she purred, arching her back as she fixed the right side of her bodice. “Should you wish to act as my tailor, I should be happy to submit to a full body measure.”

A growl rumbled in his chest. “That saucy tongue! I ought to…”

The luscious blond went very still and peeped up at him from under her lashes. “You ought to…what, sir? Heave me out a window? Call for the reverend and a dose of holy water? Or something else entirely?”

Ashton glared at her, his fists clenching at his sides as he resisted the overwhelming urge to touch her, despite the fact that they stood in a church hall powder room and could be discovered at any minute. Never had he wanted anything the way he yearned to teach this naughty minx a lesson her backside would not soon forget. “You are playing with fire, Mrs. King.”

“Then stop dilly-dallying and burn me up, Mr. Latimer.”

Unable to stop himself, Ashton tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Then he trailed a slow, lazy fingertip down the back of her neck where the muslin didn’t cover her skin. Pleasingly, she whimpered and leaned into his touch. “You are far too impatient, little one.”

“Of course I’m impatient,” Mrs. King replied with a very disgruntled pout. “I find you exceedingly attractive and wish to be your companion. I think you might be amiable to that, so why can’t we just get on with it? Retire to an antechamber? A coatroom?”

Ashton frowned. A coatroom? Only a worthless scoundrel would lure a young woman into such a place. There was no way she could be properly prepared to receive a cock, the risk of being caught was terribly high, and it certainly wasn’t the man’s reputation that would suffer. Why would her late husband have done so, especially when it didn’t appear Mrs. King was an exhibitionist? She’d been mortified by the fichu reveal, not aroused. Damnation. It was hard to feel regret over Mr. King’s death. What a sack of excrement. Actually…if her experience included coatrooms and getting on with it, it would be utterly unsurprising if she’d not been pleasured as a wife should be. While Mrs. King was bold and wicked and mischievous, there was a certain awkwardness, almost an uncertainty about her, too.

That did it. He would have this woman, over and over. Until her rodent of a husband was scrubbed from her mind in a spring tide of pleasure.

Ashton leaned forward. “My dear Georgiana,” he said softly. “Under no circumstances will we just…get on with it. When we shortly commence our affair, it will be in a quiet, private location where I may take my time. You’ll be free to moan and whimper and beg while I toy with your naked body, and I will indeed explore every splendid inch. However, when at last I permit you an orgasm and you scream my name to the heavens, no one will burst through the door and ruin the moment. Am I making myself clear?”

Mrs. King stared up at him, her eyes glazed, her bosom rising and falling as she took tiny, panting breaths. “Oh God. I…ah…oh God. Please.”

“I repeat, am I making myself clear?” he asked harshly.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, her cheeks pink and tone so deliciously submissive that he almost made a mockery of his own words and pressed her against the powder room wall for a long kiss. He needed her to understand, to feel the strength and dominance of the man she would very soon belong to.

“Good girl. Now take my arm, and we’ll return to the dancing. I still hear cheers and giggles and clomping feet—the good folk of Brundall are definitely extracting their sixpence worth from this fundraising waltz.”