Page 41 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

Matthew absorbed this with surprise. The pieces rearranging in his head. He’d assumed her boldness was based on experience, but it seemed it was actually defiance. Could her confidence be armour?

"And your late husband?" he asked, feeling a surge of jealousy.

Florence went very still.

The silence stretched. One heartbeat. Two. He watched her face: the flicker behind her eyes, the slight tightening of her jaw. She was making a decision.

"There was never Mr Archer," she said finally.

Matthew frowned. "I don’t understand."

"I'm a woman who needed freedom to move through the world without a chaperone or a husband's permission." She turned her head towards the window. "Mrs Archer is a convenient fiction. Archer is my family name."

He turned that over in his mind. This revelation was doing something complicated with his mind. She was inexperienced. She’d been rejected for being prudish. And yet, she’d pleaded with him to take her to bed.

And she’d never belonged to any man.

"So you've never been married."

"No."

Her expression softened.

"You wanted to know me intimately," she repeated his words.

A pause, then he leaned back and stared at her. "I think," he licked his lips, feeling the bulge grow in his trousers, "I’ve made that very obvious."

Her full lips thinned into a line, making the damn dimple appear again. She dropped her gaze to his mouth then back up to his eyes.

"And yet, you wouldn't take me." She held his gaze, biting her bottom lip. She then crossed her arms but spread her legs open a little wider.

A low groan escaped his throat. For an inexperienced chit, she knew how to drive him mad with want.

"Last night was different," he managed.

"How?"

"You were upset. Vulnerable."

He stopped. The memory had his cock straining against his trousers now, the outline of his erection pressing visibly against the fabric. He made no move to hide it. Let her see what she did to him. "I wasn't going to take advantage."

Her eyes dropped to his lap. Stayed there.

He watched her throat move as she swallowed. Watched the flush on her cheeks deepen, spread down her neck, disappear beneath her bodice. When she looked up again, her eyes had gone dark. Hungry.

"And now?" she asked. Her voice had gone husky. "Am I still too vulnerable?"

"You tell me."

She uncrossed her arms. Slowly. Deliberately. Her hands settled on her knees, fingers pressing into the fabric of her skirts.

"I feel," she said carefully, "like a woman who knows exactly what she wants."

"And what's that?"

She held his gaze. Then, without breaking eye contact, she slid off her seat and onto her knees on the carriage floor.

He forgot to breathe.