Page 94 of She Tempts the Duke
“And here you claimed earlier not to like poetry.” She studied him for a moment through half-lowered eyelids. Sultry wench made him feel as though he were the one unclothed. Her tongue appeared between her parted lips and captured an errant drop of water. Then she rose up out of the water like a brazen goddess, completely comfortable with her body, not a hint of shyness to be seen.
She would no doubt be the death of him.
She gave him a pouty look. “So carry out your promise, Your Grace. Dry me, then make me wet.”
Mary wasn’t certain where she found the courage to be so bold. She only knew that once he’d confessed to being close to dropping to his knees that she’d felt powerful, in control of the situation, regardless of his threat not to allow her to withhold her favors. She knew he’d not force her.
As it was he feared she’d not welcome his touch. Strange. She’d always assumed it was the man who made the woman feel comfortable with what passed between them, but it was her husband who required the reassurance that she was not put off by his scars. She loved it when passion overcame him, and he forgot they existed. She wanted them not to matter. She wanted the scandal that had forced them to marry not to matter.
She wanted love between them, so deep and abiding, that nothing mattered beyond them.
The chill of the air caused her nipples to pearl and pucker. His gaze dropped to her chest, smoldered. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. Indeed, she held the power.
“I’m growing chilled, Your Grace.” She held out an arm and tried to present an innocent expression, a slight pouting of her lips.
She’d expected him to whip her out of the tub and dry her off quickly. Instead, he went down to one knee before her and draped the towel over his raised thigh. She lifted a foot and placed it on the perch he offered. He began at her toes and blotted the water slowly, gently, his attention focused on his task. Even though her hands were wet, she ran one through his hair. “I shall return the favor someday,” she said quietly.
“What favor is that?” he asked distractedly.
“Intrude upon your bath.”
“I did not intrude. I allowed you to enjoy it.”
“You enjoyed it as well.”
He lifted his gaze to her. “Immensely.”
He finished patting her leg, then indicated the other. He dried her with touches as gentle as any she’d ever known, as though he feared the cotton in the weave would scratch her skin if he did not take care. When he finished with her leg, he set her foot on the floor and stood, looming over her. His size had never frightened her. While she was tall for a woman, he was taller than most men.
He patted dry her face, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Then he took one in his mouth, suckled. Moaning, she craned back her head, stared at the ceiling with its intricate scrollwork.
“Turn around,” he ordered in a rough voice, and she realized that the task he’d set himself was as much torment for him as it was for her. Lovely torment.
She did as he bade, relished the cotton absorbing what little dampness remained. For a moment she did what she’d promised she’d never do: she thought of Fitzwilliam and realized that she could have never envisioned allowing him to take such liberties. She would have welcomed darkness accompanying their encounters. She couldn’t have been playful, teasing, or sensuous. What seemed so natural with Sebastian would not have seemed so with anyone else.
The towel skimmed along her skin as it cascaded to the floor and pooled at her feet. She felt a tug on her hair, heard the clink of a pin hitting the floor. Another tug, another clink. Three more followed before her hair tumbled around her shoulders.
Gathering it up with one hand he moved it aside and kissed her neck. “All dry,” he whispered.
“Hardly.” She was acutely aware of the dampness between her thighs.
He released a low laugh, slid his hand around her, and cupped her intimately. “Too easy.”
She sighed. “I can’t argue with the truth.”
“I adore how responsive you are,” he whispered, so low that she wondered if the words were more for him than her.
He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Only then did she realize that the light in the room came from the fireplace and much of it was blocked by the screen. The bed was mostly shadows as he laid her on it. He reached across her for the sash that held back the canopy drapes. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “No.”
He stilled, looked down on her.
“We had the sunlight this morning,” she reminded him.
He cradled her face, bent down, and kissed her forehead. “Tonight I need the dark, Mary.”
It was such a heartfelt plea. How could she deny it? He’d watched her bathe, teased her, and dried her. Anticipation had been building. She knew now was not the time to argue, not the time to try to convince him again that she was not put off by his scars. She pressed on his chest, pushing him back until she could sit up. Studying his face, she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss, before turning away and closing the draperies on her side of the bed.
She stayed as she was, waiting while she felt him leave the bed. The other draperies closed until she was encased in darkness. A sprig of light, the bed dipping, darkness again.
