Carcel's hand slid upward, past the curve of her knee, seeking the familiar, frustrating layers of linen and lace that usually guarded a lady's virtue. He expected the rough scratch of a petticoat, the tie of a chemise, the barrier of an underskirt.
He found nothing.
His fingers met only warm, smooth, bare skin.
He stopped. His hand froze on her thigh, just inches from the top of her stocking.
"Wait," he said, his voice rough with sudden confusion.
He looked at her, his brows knitting together in the dim light of the study. He squeezed her thigh gently, confirming the lack of fabric.
"Did you…" he started, his voice dropping to a whisper of disbelief. "Did you come here without even wearing an underskirt?"
Ines bit her lip. She couldn't look him in the eye. She looked at the button of his shirt instead. She gave a small, shy nod.
"Yes," she admitted softly. "I… I was in a hurry. Edith was rushing me, and the dress is heavy, and I didn't want to be late, and…"
