“Ah ha?”
She tugged something out from the gap between the top part of the sash window and the bottom then she twisted quickly. One foot slipped from the sill, and she toppled.
Straight into his arms.
He’d moved on instinct, clasping his arms about her. He received a faceful of fabric. Sweetly scented fabric. He couldn’t place the perfume, he was no expert on the matter. As he adjusted his hold upon her to prevent them from both tumbling onto the rug a new, cleaner scent teased him.
His pulse rushed through him like flood waters down a tiny stream. The scent of skin. Bare, clean skin. He gulped. He held her with a grip just under her rear, his hands joined to create the perfect cradle for her body. And the skin? Well, a gentleman might call it decolletage.
He didn’t feel like a gentleman right now and he was most certainly faced with breasts.
A tap on his shoulder jerked him out of his next line of thought which was definitely lips on skin and the tugging down of bodices.
“Um.” She tapped again. “You can put me down now.”
He released her. So quickly that she wavered and grabbed his arm for support before righting herself. The pink he’d spotted earlier in her cheeks had turned into a full-blown blush, joining almost every single one of her freckles together. Clementine’s throat bobbed and she spread hands down her crumpled bodice and skirts.
Foolish woman.
Did she not know what she did to a man?
He frowned. Probably not. Heck, he didn’t know what she did to a man. Not until he’d held her. She’d always been pretty, but he’d never realized there was more.
More breasts, more hips. More soft skin.
Now she’d drawn his attention to it all, Lady Clementine Musgrave possessed a figure only a blind man could ignore.
“I found something.”
Oh, so had he. Roman cast his gaze up and down her.
So had he.
Chapter Five
Clem clasped the piece of fabric like a lifeline.
If she didn’t, she might be set adrift amongst strange, unwelcome thoughts.
Thoughts likedid Lord Rochdale have to be so strong? Why had his arms felt so good around her? And how on earth did he get to be so strong?
Also did he really need to slide her to the floor like that, making her feel like she’d just been wrapped in wool and rubbed vigorously, making every tiny hair on her body stand on end?
She glanced at his arms. Oh dear.
Heat surged through her. She wasn’t bobbing in some gentle sea of ideas, but a vast, stormy ocean, and each new thought threatened to crash over her head and overwhelm her.
He was practically the enemy.
But he has wonderful arms.
She didn’t even like him.
Yes, but his arms...
Clem huffed out a breath. That was enough. He wasn’t the first man to have strong arms and he would not be the last. She’d experienced arms about her when she’d been engaged five years ago though admittedly Felton’s arms were not even half the size of Lord Rochdale’s. She glanced at the marquis’s chest, safely hidden behind a wall of clothing.
Crash. Another wave.