Page 19 of Scandalous Desires on a Summer Morning
A half-smile touched his mouth, warm and maddening. “Some things, Miss Winton, I fear I simply cannot help.”
She glowered up at him, mortified by how right it had felt to be held in his arms. The entire affair was outrageous—utterly improper—and yet a part of her, traitorous and unbidden, had wanted it to last a moment longer.
She tried to rise again, only to cry out when another spasm went through her calf. The viscount’s firm hands pressed her back with such authority that she could not disobey.
“Please sit, Miss Winton.”
He knelt before her with the grace of a man far too accustomed to command. Maryann sat stiffly, her hands curled tightly in her lap as a man she barely knew, yet who had seen more of her emotions in the past fortnight than any other, placed one strong hand around her ankle and lifted her foot onto his thigh.
She inhaled sharply. “My lord, this is not proper.”
“Neither is tending to a bloodied man in your nightgown at half past midnight,” he said mildly, his voice low and calm. “Let us dispense with the rules, just for a moment.”
His fingers moved to her calf, and she could not suppress a whimper as he pressed into the cramping muscle with deft, sure strokes. She had not expected him to be so skilled. Nor so gentle.
“You’re tense as a bowstring,” he murmured.
“Forgive me if I do not make a habit of lounging about with gentlemen kneeling at my feet,” she replied tartly, but the words trembled with something too breathless to be sharp.
He chuckled, and the sound sent a strange heat rippling down her spine.
“Just breathe, Miss Winton.”
She tried. But it was nearly impossible when he looked up at her through the sweep of his dark lashes with eyes that held quiet amusement and something far more dangerous. Her heart thumped erratically. His fingers worked slowly up the back of her leg, careful not to lift her hem, yet the intimacy of it burned through the thin muslin of her nightgown.
He pressed again, deeper this time, and the knot in her calf began to loosen beneath his touch.
“Better?” he asked, his voice lower now, rougher.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Slowly, her gaze lifted and met his. There was silence. Heavy and sweet and full of things unspoken. And she could not—would not—move. Not when he was looking at her as if she were something worth knowing.
“My lord,” she began, but her voice faltered.
“Yes?” His tone was indulgent, almost teasing. But his eyes… they were no longer smiling.
She didn’t know what she would have said next. Perhaps some desperate plea to ask him what was happening. Perhaps nothing at all. He shattered the madness rising inside when he abruptly stood and offered a curt bow.
“I thank you for your ministrations, Miss Winton. I trust you shall sleep well.”
Then he turned and strode from the library, his steps deliberately measured, as though he wrestled with some internal restraint.
She remained where she was, confused and burning, her breath caught somewhere between mortification and longing. What kind of irreparable mistake had she nearly made?
The ashen lightof dawn filtered through the dark drapes of Maryann’s bedchamber, soft and tentative. She had slept fitfully, her body restless, her mind reluctant to surrender once more to dreams. For when she had last closed her eyes, she had dreamed of the viscount. A wicked, wholly improper dream that had startled her awake, her hand clapped over her mouth in silent mortification.
Maryann had never truly thought of a man kissing her before. Not even during her mild courtship back in Dorset. Then, her thoughts had been of security, of managing a modest household. Never had there been wonder or yearning for kisses… or the press of a man’s hand kneading away a cramp only to wander higher, to find and ease that aching place nestled low in her belly— that baffling, shamefully glorious ache that she instinctively knew only he could soothe.
“Ugh,” she muttered, vexed with the reckless path her thoughts insisted on treading.
Shaking her head, Maryann rose from the bed and rang for a warm bath. It had been far too long since she’d tended to her hair, which now hung in thick, tangled waves sorely in need of washing.
A short while later, two maids arrived bearing steaming buckets of water, which they poured into the large copper tub behind the dressing screen. Once they’d departed, she undressed and stepped into the bath, a soft moan escaping her lips as the heat enveloped her limbs.
She lathered her skin and hair with lavender-scented soap, her movements slow and contemplative. Somehow, she found herself unusually aware of the water gliding over her body, like the imagined caress of a lover’s hand tracing every dip and curve with reverence.
Oh,heavens, what is happening to me?she silently despaired, pressing her palm to her flushed cheek.
