Page 54 of A Rogue's Rules for Seduction
“As glass, Maggie.” Lord Marwood picked up his wife’s hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, which brought a blush to her cheeks.
“And a poem from Kieran,” added Celeste.
“If you think my words are worthy of sharing the stage with Lady Marwood,” Kieran said with what seemed a halfhearted attempt at modesty.
“Without doubt, I do,” Celeste insisted, wrapping her arms around her husband’s neck adoringly.
Dom swallowed hard as he tore his attention from these scenes of domestic happiness. His gaze collided with Willa’s. It seemed they both didn’t know what to make of other people’s marital bliss when they themselves were lost in a thick fog of confusion, blindly feeling their way.
“Splendid,” Longbridge said, clapping his hands together. “All the thespians will spend the afternoon readying themselves for tonight’s performance. Rehearse as much as you think it necessary—though the more impromptu their dialogue, the better. Meanwhile, those who are part of the audience will assist in preparing the stageand scenery. The ballroom will serve as our theater. Curtain goes up at nine.”
While their host spoke, servants trooped in carrying paint, brushes, fabric, wood, and tools. Willa took a paintbrush, and looked over which of the paints she meant to use.
Dom gratefully seized a hammer, feeling its comfortable weight in his hand. Though most of the work he’d done at the docks had been loading and unloading ships, he’d now and then been pressed into service repairing crates that split during transport. There was something deeply satisfying in putting to rights that which had been broken.
The lioness figurine had been a foolish impulse. He oughtn’t to have made it or given it to her. For all he knew, she’d consigned it to the fire—which wouldn’t have been a surprise. But he’d had to show her that he saw her differently now. Saw her, and appreciated her. And while he couldn’t undo the pain he’d caused her in the past, maybe something small like a little wooden lioness could lead to a better future for her, one where she cherished herself as he did.
The day passed in a flurry of activity. It was a bit of a blessing, as it kept Dom busy and not able to brood too much. Yet the trouble with working with his hands was that it often left the mind, and heart, free to wander.
He hammered nails and sawed wood to construct the scenery, but the pounding rhythm of his hammer didn’t allay his body’s continuous hunger for her. Thank God they’d stopped when they had last night. Because if he’d gotten even a hint of what it would be like to make love to her, no force on goddamn earth would have been able to keep him from wanting more.
Carrying one of the flats, he passed her on his way to the ballroom. They both paused as Mrs. McDaniel and Miss Steele transported a length of curtain fabric down the corridor, making it impossible for anyone else to move until they had cleared the hallway.
“You’ve...” He set down the wooden flat and gestured to Willa’s face. “There’s some paint.”
She rubbed at her cheek but the streak of blue remained. “Did I get it?”
“A little to the right.” When she unsuccessfully tried to remove the paint, he said lowly, “Hold still.”
She did, even when he bent close to her and carefully stroked his fingers across her cheek. The paint had mostly dried, so it came off in flakes, but he went slowly, attentively, as if personally responsible for removing every last trace of the pigment from her skin.
“Can’t have you walking around like some woad-streaked Pict,” he rumbled.
“Striking terror into the hearts of everyone who beholds me.” Her words were breathy and, truthbe told, he was having a hard time remembering how to inhale and exhale calmly. Her flesh was so soft beneath his fingertips, and he could just catch little puffs of air from her mouth on his skin.
He was close enough to see her gaze drop to his bared forearms. At some point, he’d removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, since aristo clothes were rubbish for doing any kind of actual work.
It was a bit embarrassing, the size of his bulging forearms, because they marked him as anything but a gentleman.
Raw hunger flared in Willa’s dark eyes. Her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip.
Jesus fucking God almighty.
“Any... paint left?” she asked, almost panting.
“It’s gone,” he growled.
“Are you... sure? There might be a little remaining...”
“Maybe here...” He stroked his fingers along her jaw, its softness like a flame within him. And then, because he was a mean and selfish bastard, he traced one fingertip down the length of her throat, stopping just above the high neck of her dress.
Her lashes dropped, and she let out a soft, barely audible moan.
His breath came fast and rough, but he’d be damned if he could stop touching her.
If he’d planned that the day’s physical laborwould drain his body’s demand for her, that had been a bloody stupid thing to hope for. Because it was all he could do to keep from pinning her to the wall with his much larger body, tenderly wrapping one hand around her throat, and taking her mouth in a hard, needy kiss.
Judging by the heat in her gaze, she entertained the very same ideas.
