Page 40 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
Her fingers flexed with the remembered sensation of his skin beneath them. Her breath caught in her chest. There lurked a tiny sliver of satisfaction just in the corner of his mouth—as if they waged a battle he had already won. The smile of a victor, triumphant, cocky.
His voice lowered to a velvet murmur. “Come,” he said again. “Let me touch you, Lizzie.”
Her right foot moved on its own, a half-step toward him. She caught herself, paused. “Why?”
“Because it is what I want,” he said. “And it is what you want, despite yourself.” He braced his elbow upon the arm rest, pressing his fingertips to his cheek as he canted his head. “Shall I tell you how?”
Heat crackled across her skin with the advent of a furious blush. “I wish you would not.”
And that—that hadpleasedhim somehow. His shoulders shook in a short laugh, that smug amusement. “How can I not, when it provokes such a delightful reaction?” His gaze dropped to the neckline of her gown, where it was secured with a bit of ribbon that had long ago frayed from too many washings. “The nightdress would have to go, of course.”
“I’m not removing my nightdress!”
“Of course not,” he said lightly. “Iwould.” He tilted his head, considered her. “Or perhaps I would untie that ribbon and slide it down just far enough,” he purred. “Beneath your breasts. So that I can see them. Touch them. Kiss them.”
Her toes curled. “I don’t think that’s…proper.”
“The best things seldom are. I promise you would enjoy it.” Those glacial blue eyes warmed, and as his heated gaze moved slowly down her body, tingles of sensation burst along her skin in its wake. “Iwould enjoy it,” he said, and let a long, tense moment pass before he added, “Of course, I would want you to touch me as well.”
Every nerve sparkled and sizzled beneath the surface of her skin. Probably he could tempt an angel to sin.
“I remember, you know,” he said. “How you touched me when I raged with fever. Your cool little hands on my skin, soothing me. I think of it often.”
“There was nothing improper in it,” she squeaked, mortified. “You just—you settled when I did—”
“Of course I did. I wanted you to keep touching me. Pity you never strayed lower than my chest.” The gentle mockery in his voice scored her. “Suppose I touched you like that?”
A dull ache arose in her stomach at the thought. “I don’t think I would find it soothing at all.”
“No? Let’s find out, shall we.” He stretched out one hand to her almost lazily, one brow lifted, as if curious of whether or not she would accept it. “You’ve already promised me your hand, Lizzie,” he said. “Give it to me now.”
Chapter Seventeen
Luke knew he was treading a razor thin line. If Lizzie had even half an idea of what naughty thoughts were racing through his mind, she would not now be edging closer, her hand lifting toward his. It was an effort merely to keep his hand steady, outstretched, and let hers hover over it like a wary bird alighting upon a branch.
There. Victory.
Her cool fingers touched his palm, so delicately. Tentative curiosity winning out over self-preservation. Her dark brows had drawn down, as if she could not believe her own actions, and he wondered what might be going on inside her head, what excuses she might be concocting for her acquiescence.
None of it mattered. He had won.
There was something undeniably stirring about her small fingers, cool and slightly rough. A working woman’s hands—hands with character, hands that had known labor beyond the wielding of a pen or an embroidery needle. But beneath the frothy rustle of ancient lace at her wrist, her skin was smooth, unblemished. She stood so still as he pushed back the cuff of her sleeve and brushed his fingertips along the pale, sensitive flesh of her inner arm, tracing the pattern of chill bumps that raced his fingers up her skin.
A heavy quiet hung over the room, and the only sound to break it was the uneven rasp of her short, sharp breaths across her dry lips. Probably she didn’t know the tight points of her nipples peeked through the thin barrier of her nightdress. Most certainly she didn’t know how hard he was beneath the velvet of his dressing gown, his cock straining against the fabric.
Her dark eyes had gone hazy, as if she existed one step into some dreamlike world, and as he wrapped his fingers once more around her wrist and reeled her in like a fish hooked upon a line, she came with trembling steps, as if her knees had turned to jelly.
She moved at his direction, the soft weight of her settling upon his left thigh as she curled up like a drowsy kitten against his chest. He slid his left arm around her, toyed with the soft dark curls, and gently tugged her head back against his shoulder.
“Comfortable?” He murmured the question against her temple.
“No.” She startled at his low laugh and wriggled a little, her hands clenching anxiously. “I don’t know what I’m meant to do.” Another restless little wiggle; her hip rubbed his cock through his dressing gown, and the gentle abrasion of soft velvet forced him to smother a groan against the crown of her head. “You’ve got something in your pocket.”
Just the coin, but that certainly wasn’t what she was feeling. She’d raised her young brother practically from infancy. Shecouldn’tbe so unknowledgeable. He swallowed back an incredulous laugh. “Lizzie,” he said, and paused to compose himself. How was one meant to explain such things? “You’ve got a brother. I assume you’ve bathed him a time or two, so you must be aware of the…physical differences between men and women.”
For a moment she went rigid with shock as comprehension struck. “No.”
“I’m afraid so.” God, the horror on her face was precious. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to bend and kiss the tip of her wrinkled nose.
