He tried not to notice that her hair was loose. He tried not to see that she was wearing her nightclothes. They were demure, yes, but still meant to be removed, and his gaze kept dipping to the silken hem, which brushed the top of her foot, allowing him a tantalizing peek at her toes.
Good God, he was staring at her toes. Her /toes/. What had his life come to?

Auteur: Julia Quinn