Free AWAKENING THE SHY MISS by Bronwyn Scott Page A

accept his invitation. What had she been thinking? They were entirely alone except for his silk pillows and decadently dressed divan.
    ‘Please, come.’ His hand skimmed her back, ushering her forward through the curtain, and she nearly jumped from the contact. Surely he didn’t mean for her to go into those private quarters? And do what? ‘There’s water for washing if you’d like to refresh before dinner.’
    It took a moment for her to drag her mind back from a more prurient train of thought. Washing up. Of course. ‘Water would be lovely,’ she managed. The colder the better. The silk had really got to her. Dear Lord, her cheeks were going to start a fire if she blushed any more.
    The water did help. She splashed some on her face, but its cooling effects were offset by the dominating presence of the bed, which was more magnificent up close and fully revealed. It begged the question: what sort of a man slept in such a bed? Her rather fertile imagination knew the answer: A tactile man, a sensual man who would want the slide of silk, the caress of fine cotton, against his bare skin. A man who would do more than sleep in that magnificent bed.
    Evie reached for a cloth, the fine quality of the linen a matter of fact. Dimitri Petrovich was surrounded by the best of everything. She ran the damp cloth down her neck, heat flaring low and sudden in her belly with intimate insight. The Prince did not come to that bed clothed. Neither would he come to that bed alone.
    She swallowed hard, her imagination running riot about what might happen in such a bed, with such a man. To be that woman! It made her previous fantasies of sipping lemonade and talking over the day with Andrew appear positively lukewarm, insipid even, when there was such passion to be had in the dark, to lay naked, entangled in silk and man—that was decadence at its finest. Such images begged the question: were they inspired by silk or by the man himself?
    Evie laid aside the towel and smoothed her skirts, checking her face for smudges in the small mirror. Ink had a rather regular talent for showing up in the most inopportune places like cheeks and chins. She pulled the pins out of her hair and shook it down, running her hands through its tangles. It had become messy over the course of the day. She twisted long auburn lengths into a simple bun at the back of her neck and re-pinned it. There. She looked as neat as she could after a day of sketching in the August heat. Did it really matter how she looked? She needed to keep a practical head on her shoulders even if her imagination wanted to run away with her. This was only dinner for the express purpose of discussing her catalogue system, not a grand ball, and the Prince had already made it abundantly clear the dinner was strictly business. She hoped thinking of him as the Prince would help take the edge off the butterflies. Thinking of him as Dimitri only encouraged them and a host of other hot emotions.
    Evie stepped into the main room, butterflies fluttering just a bit anyway in her stomach. May would say, ‘Business or not, a girl didn’t have dinner with a prince any night of the week’, and Evie’s stomach agreed. The main room was empty, no sign of the Prince. But the flap at the entrance was drawn back and there were sounds of someone outside.
    Evie moved towards the noise, but she’d barely stepped out of doors before she wished her curiosity hadn’t been so insistent—or not. Dimitri stood with his back to her—his bare back, that was. Washing. She was entirely unprepared for the sight of a half-naked prince, especially this one, although perhaps she shouldn’t have been. Common sense should have been her first warning. She should have guessed he’d want to get clean as well. The sounds should have been her second. Water usually meant washing.
    Evie knew what she ought to do. She ought to step back before he noticed her. But her feet, her eyes, the rest of her, had other ideas. They were