Page 38 of Falling Into Bed with a Duke
She did as he bade. Then, as he’d promised, he began arranging her hair over her face, over the mask that she was coming to detest. What if she removed it? What if he realized who she was? Would he still be willing to bed her, or would he be put off by the notion of being with a woman no man had ever loved? Quite unexpectedly, she desperately wanted him to be the one who deflowered her. On his feet, on his knees, on his side, below her, above her. She wanted to be his first virgin. Wanted him to be her first lover. Even if only for one night, she wanted him.
Through the curtain of her hair, she watched him move back to the foot of the bed. He folded his hands around her feet, and although it made absolutely no sense, they felt delicate as well. “Left leg straight, right leg bent slightly at the knee.”
Holding her ankles, he guided her leg. “There. Perfect.”
A word that had never been associated with her before. She rather liked it.
“I’m going to move the silk up now because I want the emphasis to be on your legs. Most of the rest of you will be in shadow. I’ll stop if you tell me you’re uncomfortable. But I hope you’re daring enough to let me reach my destination. It’ll be pleasing for us both.”
That was a challenge if she ever heard one.
He moved the silk up with his wrists, his hands remaining curled around her legs as he glided them smoothly up over her calves, her knees—
A quick release to tug up the material caught beneath her legs. Then a continuation of the journey up her thighs, slowly, slowly, giving her time to protest. Only she wasn’t going to. She was her father’s daughter, a man branded as a thief in his youth who had taught her never to back down.
Ashebury’s hands came to rest just below the curve of her buttocks. “Good girl,” he murmured, with appreciation laced in his voice. “Brave girl.”
The joy that spiraled through her at pleasing him was rather confounding. Making him happy made her happy.
He adjusted the cloth, angling it higher on one side. “Are you aware that you have a tiny heart-shaped birthmark on your hip?” He placed a reverent kiss there that branded her flesh, scored her soul.
“Don’t move a muscle,” he ordered. Then he was gone, and she nearly wept at his leaving.
ASHE was as hard as granite. His body didn’t usually react when he was positioning a woman for the camera because he was so focused on the task, all his attention devoted to discerning how best to pose his subject to bring out the beauty of the human form. But with her it was different. Everything with her was different. He hadn’t wanted to stop at her hip. When he’d revealed the tiny birthmark, he’d wanted to continue exploring her, to uncover all the hidden secrets of her body.
Barely able to walk, he took his position behind the camera, peered through the lens. Exquisite, perfection. That, too, was unusual. Normally, he had to reposition a woman a little here or a little there. But he’d had two days to fantasize about her, to consider every facet of what he would do with those legs if he ever again had a chance to photograph them. All he needed now was to adjust the lighting.
Arranging chairs and small tables, he moved lamps to the foreground, increased their illumination, smiled as he became master of the shadows. They went where he willed.
So many times he’d almost tested his theory regarding her identity, almost called her Miss Dodger. But he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, didn’t want to lose this opportunity. Didn’t want to lose her.
He was going to bed her. Maybe not tonight, but very soon. He didn’t know when he’d become so certain of it, but he wasn’t going to let any other man have her. Not here, not anywhere, not for her first time. With her boldness, her willingness to go unflinchingly after what she wanted, she deserved better than a man who merely wanted to sate his lust. Although Ashe had to acknowledge that desire such as he’d never experienced was a motivating factor for him. He wanted what he had no right to possess.
She was a contradiction. A woman bold enough to come here for a bedding but reserved enough that she insisted on the secrecy, that even her lover not know who she was. Because she didn’t trust him not to hurt her? Had someone hurt her? Other than the dimwit who had hoped his children didn’t favor her? If she revealed his name, he might take measures to ensure the man never had children. He wasn’t prone to violence, except when survival was at stake, but she had him acting not quite like himself.
Yet she trusted him enough to be with him, to let him place his hands on her, to not harm her. Another reason existed for her reticence to remove the mask. It was a mystery he would like to solve. Slowly, over time, with relished moments and passionate kisses. She was fire beneath the reserve. He had the power to unleash it.
He could stand here all night just looking at her lying there. He wished he could capture all her true shades. The paleness of her skin, the rich auburn of her hair. The way the shadows caressed her as he longed to. The way the light revealed her as she deserved to be seen.
But only by him. He wanted no one else to see her as he had been given the chance to view her. He would never share with another soul the fine lines of her legs, the curve of her backside, the slope of her hip, the birthmark. No one else would ever know her as he did at this moment.
He stepped away from the camera. “You can relax. It’s done.”
She came up on an elbow, and he couldn’t help thinking that there was the opportunity for another remarkable photograph—if only she’d remove the mask. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“It’s the latest model. Quiet as a whisper,” he lied. She wouldn’t understand his motives for not taking the photo. He wasn’t quite certain he understood them himself.
She began shoving herself up farther.
“Hold,” he commanded.
She froze, and even the loathsome mask of silk and feathers couldn’t hide the surprise in her eyes.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he said.
MINERVA fought for calm as one of his knees landed between her calves. Then the other. His hands came to rest on either side of her body, supporting him, his length barely touching her as he prowled toward her until his face was directly over hers. That was all she could see. His shadowed jaw, the intensity of his gaze, the hard line of his lips, parted ever so slightly. She couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror above, couldn’t see the looking glass at all. Her vision had narrowed down to only him.
To this man who made her feel things she’d thought herself incapable of feeling. To this man who could make her feel appreciated while at the same time bringing home what she might have possessed if she were the sort of woman a man could fall in love with. To know what it might have felt like ... to have known only the hollow shell of it ... well, it was better than having never known, better than nothing at all.
