Page 43 of Desperate Proposals
Evelyn watched, mesmerized. His hair was falling in his face again, but she found she could not find fault with it this time… it seemed only natural. As did the lines of his shoulders, his wiry arms, his back. It suddenly struck her as incredibly erotic, this annoying MP on his knees before her. It was strange, to think of something so seemingly unremarkable in that way. But then again, Evelyn was not accustomed to regarding men in their underthings. Feeling confused by her thoughts, she shifted in her seat.
Alas, adjusting her position did nothing to curb this new, mounting sensation within her. In fact, something about the way her bottom shifted the linen of her nightgown and rubbed the heavy weft of the couch’s upholstery beneath it only made her even more aware of herself. A blush burned across her cheeks, spreading down to her chest.
He noticed, for something in his eyes changed; he looked at her with such smugness that she really ought to take offense. But she couldn’t, because right now she wanted nothing more than to be close to him.
This must be why young ladies always had a chaperone at their heels.
“Oh,” she repeated aloud, this time in response to her own realization, surprised to be arriving at this conclusion only now, at the spinsterish age of thirty.
Suddenly Mr. Hartley stood up, and he lifted her into his arms with surprising ease.
Evelyn gasped.
“Laid out on your bed, I believe, is what you expressed a preference for?”
Evelyn was taken aback. “It seems correct,” she offered blandly, doing her best to ignore the heavy beating in her chest.
“Well,” he said. And then his mouth was against her neck.
Oh. Pleasure emanated outward from the spot, electric upon her skin. She bit her lip, lest she do something humiliating, like moan.
But when he set her down, she very nearly cried out. How dare he do such a wonderful, thrilling…thing, and then so quickly withdraw his mouth! Evelyn bit her lip again. She would not beg. Even as she longed for him to repeat it.
He seemed inclined, however, to do naught but stand there, watching her. Waiting for something.
Propping herself up on her elbows, she held his gaze, defiant and proud. It may be her first experience of this nature, but she would not be cowed by his fierce gaze and finely wrought form.
Though she could not bear the lull any longer.
“Well?” She raised an eyebrow.
“You were going to bare yourself to me.”
“Oh.” She blushed. Removed from their little exchange on the couch, her words sounded lewd, rather than practical. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
She pushed herself up a little more, then reached down for the hem of her garment.
But Mr. Hartley darted forward and caught her hand. Her entire body thrummed, and she slowly lifted her gaze to meet his.
“Not just your skirts,” he rasped. “I want to see you. All of you.”
His eyes were so dark, his tone so serious, that Evelyn dared not argue. She swallowed and nodded.
After a moment’s thought of how to go about it, she turned away, then hitched the bottom of her nightgown up to her waist. She had the peculiar thought that undressing herself felt odd; Dutton was usually there to assist her in the mornings, with crisply pressed drawers at the ready so that Evelyn need never linger overlong in the nude.
After a steadying breath, Evelyn gathered up the fabric and hoisted it over her head.
She’d occasionally found herself caught up in her thoughts as of late, wondering how he would see her. Never before had she cared much about what others thought of her, but this was different. This was her husband. Her eyes fell to the softness of her stomach, and she remembered the woman in front of the archbishop’s palace in London that summer. The way she’d said that Evelyn was well-fed—with such derision, as if it would be preferable for her to starve.
The soft rustle of fabric brought her back to the present. In her bedroom, on her wedding night.
Evelyn looked over her shoulder, and her heart caught in her throat.
Mr. Hartley had removed his woolen undervest, his trousers, his drawers. He stood nude before her, more real than the plates of Italian statues found in the art books in Methering Manor’s library. More dynamic, with blood in his veins and a challenge on his face. A thatch of dark hair and then his manhood, thick and erect.
Wordlessly, she turned about, baring herself to him, watching his face. What was she searching for? Appreciation? Desire?
When he did not speak, Evelyn lay back on the bed and shut her eyes.
