Page 73 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

Ned frowned, disturbed by her terror. He took a step forward, all his protective instincts bristling. “Who, lass? Who followed ye?”

The young woman clutched the chair so hard her knuckles turned white as her anxious gaze took in the room.

“There’s no one here but me and Rufus,” Ned said, keeping his voice gentle.

“R-Rufus?” she asked, forcing the word past the chattering of her teeth.

The bloodhound shambled forward at the sound of his name, head down and wagging his tail as he pushed his nose against her skirts.

“That’s Rufus,” Ned said, relieved to see the panic dim a little in the vivid sapphire of her gaze. “There was no one else with ye. We’re off the beaten track here; miles from anyone, really. You’re lucky ye found us. There’s nowt else in this direction once ye leave the road.”

She nodded and clutched her arms about herself, shivering in earnest.

“Ye need to get warm,” he said, wondering how to say what was obvious without sounding as if he had nefarious intentions. “Your clothes are wet, and your boots too, but I’ve got no wife here and my housekeeper is gone until the new year. I’ve got no woman here to help ye.” Ned hesitated. “I’m widowed, but… I still have some of my wife’s clothes. If I fetched them for ye, could ye… by yourself?”

He made a vague gesture towards her and wasn’t certain whether or not he was relieved by the blush that stained her cheeks, but she nodded.

“Good,” Ned said, letting out a breath of relief. “Good, I’ll… I’ll fetch them.”

Thankful to have something to do, Ned hurried back up the stairs and opened the trunk where Sarah’s clothes were. He grabbed an assortment of items and went back downstairs with them, to find her struggling with the laces of her boots. She’d already cast aside her sodden pelisse and bonnet, and her wet gloves were steaming before the fire.

“I can’t get them undone,” she said, looking up from her boots, a tremor to her voice that made Ned’s heart clench.

“I….” He stared down at the dainty little feet just visible beneath the hem of her gown. “I can… if….”

She nodded and turned her face to the fire, the flush creeping up her neck suggesting she was too embarrassed to look at him.

Ned set down the bundle of clothes and tucked the quilt from his bed around her shoulders. Then he knelt and took hold of her foot, almost setting it down again when he heard her sharp intake of breath. He froze, staring up at her. She glanced back at him and gave a taut nod.

Moving slowly, as though he was tending something wild that might bolt at any moment, Ned turned his attention to her boots, if that was what you could call such silly bits of nothing. Made of the finest kid, they were saturated and offered no protection from the elements. The laces were soaked too, and the knots too tight to work free. Ned’s fingers were too big and clumsy to undo them and so he slid his fingers beneath the knot on either side and wrenched it until the lace snapped.

“Sorry,” he said, as she jolted. He held up his hands, showing her the large, work roughened digits. “My hands weren’t made for such delicate work,” he said with a rueful smile, hoping to reassure her.

Her blue eyes widened, and she turned away at once, staring back at the flames.

Ned frowned and returned his attention to her frivolous boots. He took off the first with great care and experienced a wash of heat at the sight of the little foot within, clad in the finest of silk stockings. His body stirred, the sudden flare of need shocking after so many years of forcing such feelings to leave him be, for fear of his unanswered desires driving him mad.

Her skin was like ice, the stockings wet and clinging to her. The touch of her slender foot on his thigh sent shivers running over him that had nothing to do with her cold toes. At this point, Ned realised with a jolt of appalled embarrassment that he was only wearing his nightshirt. Beneath the thankfully loose and commodious shirt, his cock was in danger of making itself known, eager to be compensated for all the years of neglect. Telling his suddenly ungovernable breeding organs that they were disgusting and contemptible when the poor woman was obviously in desperate straits, he returned to the job at hand and tried his damnedest to act like a gentleman.

Once she was warm, he’d go and make himself respectable. The icy temperature of the foot resting on his thigh seared through his nightshirt, but he ignored it. The woman gave a little cry of pain as he drew off her other boot.

“Are ye hurt?” he asked, looking up at her in concern.

She shook her head, though her eyes glittered with tears. “N-No,” she said, and he had to lean in to hear her answer it was so faint. “J-Just s-so cold.”

Ned’s heart ached for her. “If I turn away, can ye undo the garters?” he asked, feeling heat sweep up his throat and his nether regions twitch with interest. “The stockings are wet through. You’ll catch your death, and….”

She nodded, blushing just as fiercely as he was. Ned turned his back and tried not to listen to the rustle of silk as she lifted her skirts and removed the stockings.

“The petticoats….” he ventured, wishing his voice didn’t sound so rough.

“Yes,” she said, and Ned closed his eyes at the sound of material slithering to the ground. Don’t think about it, he scolded himself. Don’t even dare, ye miserable cur.

He took a breath, keeping his back to her. “What’s your name, miss?”

“M-Miss Honeyfield,” she said through chattering teeth. “G-Grace Honeyfield.”

Ned smiled at that. The name was so perfect he couldn’t help the way his lips curved at the sound of it. Forcing himself to concentrate, he spoke again.