Page 24 of Dare to Love a Duke
“I’m so very sorry.” Sincerity was heavy in her voice.
“My thanks.” Melancholy hovered close, eager to enfold him in its gray embrace. For all of his father’s disapproval, the late duke’s presence had been a constant. There were things that could be relied upon—the best sip of wine was always the second to last, the curve of a woman’s neck never failed to delight, and the Duke of Northfield sat at the head of the dining table every Sunday supper, glowering at Tom with displeasure.
How could he miss a man who let him know at every turn that he was a disappointment? Yet he did, and the loss was an open wound, seeping blood.
He mentally bound the wound with a hasty field dressing. This night was not for sorrow. There would be time enough for that later.
“Now, I’ll honor our agreement.” He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over a chair.
A smile touched her lips as her gaze turned avid. “When you do that, your shirt pulls across your muscles in a most agreeable manner.”
It wasn’t the first time a lover had complimented his physique. All that time at the pugilism and fencing academies apparently reaped physiological dividends. But it washerpraise that made a little firework of gratification go off within him.
When she merely stared at the breadth of his shoulders, he prompted gently, “This bargain requires participation from both of us.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat, and then her brow furrowed as she seemed to decide what aspect of herself to reveal. “England is not my home. That is, I wasn’t born here. I’ll never return to the land of my birth.” She said these last words with the finality of someone who had long ago resigned themselves to a hard truth.
A host of questions begged to be asked, swirling in his mouth, but he and Amina had made no provisions for queries, so he only nodded. He tucked away her revelation, setting it in his mental cabinet of wonders to be studied and admired later.
Blood shot into his groin as she bent down and raised the hem of her skirts to reveal a pair of sleek ankles. Ribbons from her slippers crisscrossed up her stocking-clad calves.
Downstairs, he’d seen women in all states of dress, from fully clad to entirely nude. The sight had been arousing, but the modest display of Amina’s lower legs made his whole body tight with a fiercer hunger.
She untied the ribbons before slipping off her shoes, which she set neatly aside, before letting go of her skirts. Then she straightened and looked at him with expectation.
He searched once more for something of himself to give to her.
“For the first twelve years of my life,” he said, his fingers already working to undo his neckcloth, “I lived in Ireland. My mother’s home.”
He’d been teased mercilessly at Harrow for his accent, but instead of working to erase it, he’d held firm to his brogue. Like hell would he let anyone’s ignorance shape his feelings about himself.
The neckcloth came loose, and he dropped it to the floor. The chill air of the room touched the flesh of his throat, and it was only then that he realized the fire wasn’t lit. He’d been too focused on her to notice.
Amina stepped closer, and his breath caught as she ran her fingertips down the length of his bare neck, to linger at the hollow at the base of his throat. Sparks danced along his skin where she touched, all sense of coolness gone.
“The night we met,” she said on a whisper, “was my first night as manager of the club. Being merely a server wasn’t enough for me. I made certain that I became indispensable to our former proprietress, so that when the time came for her to step down, there’d be no doubt as to her choice of successor.”
“Ambitious,” he murmured.
“Always.”
A rush of pleasure coursed warmly along his veins.Thiswas what he craved, this knowledge of who she was beneath the layers of her persona. And it pleased him to know of her determination and drive, a person who took what she wanted.
He lowered his eyelids. “Garters and stockings next.”
“Now you make my disrobing decisions?” she asked, her voice dry but her lips curving upward.
“Merely providing suggestions. And, if you’ll permit me, I offer my services to assist you in undressing.”
She laughed throatily. Her words dry, she said, “Never had an abigail.”
He’d unclothed many women and was well versed in the intricacies of their garments—but none of that signified now. Amina was all that counted.
Smoothly, he lowered to one knee. She lifted her skirts once more and it was like the curtain going up on a play he’d been desperate to see. Excitement vibrated through him.
He settled his hands on her calves. Taut muscles moved sleekly beneath the openwork silk of her stockings. As he skimmed his fingers upward, her breath caught—and his did, as well. His pulse throbbed heavily in his groin as he stroked past her knees, reaching higher up her skirts, until he came to her garter. They were sapphire blue, dotted with embroidered pink flowers.
A little spike of gratification rose up. Here his knowledge of women’s clothing was useful. He undid her garters quickly, and they fell in gentle curls onto the braided rag rug.
