2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I ’ve never seen a more perfect arse in my life .

Admittedly, Will’s experience wasn’t as extensive as it could have been, as he’d only ventured outside his home village of Wilmslow half a dozen times, and none of those were for arse-appraising. But this one, the round, plush globes covered in some pale blue fabric that looked like the dressmaker had stripped it from the sky itself, had to be in the top twenty in the nation.

He had better things to do, as they’d finally arrived at the inn for the night, and he needed sleep before starting his apprenticeship the next day. He’d descended from his makeshift bed in the inn’s stable loft when he heard someone rummaging about, expecting to find a drifter searching for something of value in the carriage.

Instead, he’d discovered her .

The woman rummaged around the plush coach, oblivious to his existence as she huffed her frustration. He was a lecher to watch like this, with only the low light from his lantern illuminating the empty stable. But the Bumbletwits were apparently lax in their supervision, and someone needed to be responsible.

He should say something, alert her to his presence, but the perfect arse was swaying , for heaven’s sake, shifting around as the lady kneeled on the bench of the carriage. Good lord, now he was thinking about her on her knees, and he was without doubt a lecher, observing England’s Most Perfect Arse and sporting a cockstand.

Will shifted on his feet, clasped his hands in front of his tented breeches, and thought of his grandmother’s false teeth. Mucking out the stalls. That time he helped his neighbor deliver a goat.

There, now he was under control again. He’d need to converse with his cock later about the best times to make its presence known. He cleared his throat.

The woman looked over her shoulder with a start, and Will’s knees nearly buckled.

If her arse was one of the finest in England, her face may be the most enchanting in the world.

A slow smile spread across her full lips, a dimple popping in her plump cheek. “Hello, there.”

He croaked, winced and coughed, then spoke again. “I’m Will, Will Shipley, the blacksmith who—”

“I know who you are.” She turned, then leaned back on her heels so her thighs pressed against the fabric of her gown and grinned. He nearly lost consciousness. “I’m Adelaide Kimball.”

Good lord, she was a vision. Her eyes seemed to absorb the gentle lantern light, the irises sparkling. The hue fell somewhere between ocean blue and the green of a summer meadow, shot through with gilded bands. A lock of hair trailed around her cheek, teasing the soft flesh. He wanted to capture the luster he saw, cast a trinket of gold, copper, and garnet, then pin it above her ear.

Once, when visiting a friend in Bristol, he’d lingered at the window of a fine jeweler, delighting in metalwork’s delicacy, the shine of precious jewels. One in the center had held his attention captive, an oval lapis lazuli set in a simple gold setting. The stone didn’t require any filigree to enhance its beauty; such ornamentation would only detract.

Her gaze trained on his was like holding the lapis in his hand. He could set sail in those blue irises, brilliant and deep and so unattainable she may as well be behind a thick sheet of glass.

He cleared his throat again. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. It’s not safe.” The sun had long since descended, and she should be in her room by now, most likely the finest in the establishment. Not poking around the stables.

“I’ll only be here a moment. I’m searching for something, a book.” Her lips twisted as she blew out a breath. “I was reading it earlier, but I can’t find it now. I wondered if it fell between the cushions.”

He paused, tilted his head. He’d never heard an accent like hers. Hints of clipped London consonants between stretched American vowels. If he didn’t intervene, she might be out here until dawn, that perfect arse in the air, and he’d have to stay up all night staring at it, and that would be…

Bloody delightful, actually.

“Let me get it.”

She looked him over, then glanced at her surroundings inside the carriage. One tawny brow arched. “Will you fit?” A blush erupted on her milky cheeks and she dropped her gaze, her lashes fluttering. Heat poured through his belly as he thought of settling his hips between her thighs, watching as she stretched—

What in the hell had gotten into him? It had been far too long since he’d bedded a woman, and he would need to remedy that after the carriage and Miss Kimball departed. He pretended he’d missed her inadvertent slip, nodding gruffly.

He extended his hand to help her down, and the moment her palm fell into his, he knew he’d done himself in. Her skin slid over his like silk, or cashmere, or some other material he had never touched but had heard was luxurious. This woman probably had a maid dedicated to keeping her fingernails clean.

Will couldn’t remember a time when his skin wasn’t cracked or calloused, when a burn or cut wasn’t healing. But torn cuticles and soiled palms meant work, and work meant food on the table for his mum, with a few shillings leftover to stash in the box tucked in his bag, money to fund his dream. A dream that would be one step closer to becoming a reality when he reached Saltford.

Oh lord, he hadn’t released her hand. Now she stood in front of him, the side of her mouth curled up and her dimple flashing. The surrounding air seemed to crackle with electricity, energy aching to be unleashed.

He was a dead man.

Will dropped her hand, wiped his palms on his thighs before bending low to climb into the conveyance. Fine, her question about his fit was fair, as he had to twist his shoulders until he was nearly sideways just to get through the threshold. His head scraped the ceiling, and he grunted as he folded himself over, sticking his rear end in the air partway out the carriage door.

He hoped she enjoyed the show.

“Have you found it?” She did a poor job hiding the humor in her tone, and he supposed he couldn’t fault her for it.

His knee slipped off the cushion, and he landed hard on the floor. When he flinched to avoid having his forehead ricochet off the exposed wood, he spotted it. He turned and lifted the volume bound in supple red leather. “Is this it?”

The book slid in his fingers as he turned and flipped open to the bookmarked page. And oh. Oh. An illustration covered the pages, a plump woman with her mouth wrapped around a man’s cock, her eyes closed in ecstasy as another man fucked her cunt from behind.

His gaze shot up to meet hers. Her lips parted as she sucked in a breath, and he prayed she had something to say that would save this moment from becoming an utter disaster.

“It’s not mine.”