Page 71 of Her Beast of a Duke
The steam wisped around her arms, the bath already smelling like flowers and almonds. It was ever so inviting, but more so was the promise of her husband’s hands on her bare skin.
“You may begin,” she prompted.
Isabella pretended not to notice when his hands trembled slightly as he lifted them to her dress’s lacing.
Slowly, and as methodically as he had tended to Morris the night before, he undressed her. But she did not want to be a task. She wanted to be something that barely kept him restrained, something to unwrap and discover.
His hands skimmed over her spine, the back of her neck, and the curve of her waist. Then, he finished unlacing her corset, and she felt his breath, unsteady and uneven, on her shoulder.
Oh,she thought.Perhaps this is exactly what I hoped for.
He desires me.
When she finally stood in her chemise only, she turned around to face him.
A flush covered his scarred cheeks, and she gazed up at him. He swallowed hard.
“Thank—thank you,” he said, his voice sounding tight. “For helping me with Morris. I wouldn’t have known he was injured if not for you.”
“It was nothing.” She waved away the thanks and instead nodded to the bath. “We both took care of him and had a long night. You deserve a bath, too.”
The breath he let out was shaky and long, and she swore she heard him sayHeavens,underneath his breath, but he let her take his hand.
She didn’t start to pull him toward the bath. No, she wanted to slowly undress him, to marvel at every layer he hid behind, to undo every locked door he shut himself away through.
Her fingers roved over his own hand, feeling every ridge of the scars, mapping pale line from pale line. Some were deeper, pulling at the creases and calluses of his skin, while others were simple lines, long faded and healed.
“I now know why you keep the northern turret locked,” she said quietly, “and I am sorry I trespassed in there and found the portraits of what you looked like before the war. You were not ready for me to see such a thing, but I have been ready to know who you are, who you were, and who you will be, for a long time. You do not have to hide yourself away anymore, Oscar.”
When he said nothing, nor pushed her away, she let her hands slide up his forearms to the buttons of his waistcoat. Her own breath caught as she boldly began to unfasten them.
Her eyes met his, finding conflict there. Desire and unhidden want welled in his green eyes, but she could see the fear he possessed of her intentions.
She wanted him bare to her fully, and she moved slowly to truly give him the chance to refuse.
“I am not afraid of you,” she reminded him. “I have never been, and nothing you do can push me away. Nothing you possess or hide can make me think less of you.”
He still didn’t look entirely convinced, but his face softened at her gentle insistence. Her hands slipped his waistcoat off, letting it fall to the floor. He caught her wrists, halting her from moving to his shirt.
“Stop. You haven’t seen… everything,” he managed to say, but it sounded as though he struggled.
Isabella shook her head. “Scars do not make a man hideous. Yours do not. I am not afraid of you, Oscar. Truly. Trust me, as I trust you.”
After another few labored breaths, he dropped her hands, granting her silent permission to continue.
So, Isabella did, and although she moved tentatively, she hungered for him. She hungered for the expanse of him she was going to uncover. It was not about her curiosity over his scars, but purely the intimacy of his skin, his body, finally, without his dark armor he hid beneath.
Button by button, she undid his shirt, exposing more flesh and finding more scars that told stories of everything he had lived through. When she slid it off, her eyes dropped back to the bandages on his forearms. Again moving slowly, she let her hands fall to the fastenings, a silent question.
He said nothing, only looked back coolly at her, so she unfurled them, finding more scars littering up his arms.
And then he was bare from the waist up, and Isabella could not stop drinking him in.
Her head spun with both the steam in the room and the opportunity of seeing him like this. His body was wide and built so strongly, and his chest rose and fell with his heavy breathing.
Scars of all kinds peppered his torso, like on his hands. Burn marks, slices that spoke of deep gashes, small nicks from smaller blades—but his body told a story, and Isabella wanted to admire every chapter of it. He was a warrior, powerful and rugged. Her husband, who had gone through so much, stood before her. He had almost wept because he could not save every soul.
Her husband thought himself a fighter rather than a savior, yet he was the most honorable man she had ever known.
