“I—itithnot my affair.” Lucy’s body hummed at being so close to his larger form. The spicy scent of his shaving soap, clean linen, and the scotch filled her nostrils. She wanted tolean into the aroma, more appealing to her than any scone Mrs. Gibbons had ever baked.
“Mm.” His mouth teased at the edge of her collarbone even as his fingers slipped the dress from her shoulders until the muslin puddled at her feet. “I disagree.” Her petticoats followed. “I think who I bed is entirely your affair, Mrs. Estwood. I’ve been plain in my intentions. This will not be a marriage in name only, not when I’ve wanted you in my bed for as long as I can remember.”
“Oh.” She struggled with that belief, after a lifetime of invisibility. There was a great deal of hope within her, all of it centered on the magnificent man who was currently divesting Lucy of her clothes. Her blood pulsed furiously as his fingers brushed along her spine, expertly untying her corset until the edges of the garment fell away.
Lucy took a deep lungful of air. Glorious. She was laced so tightly at times that fainting was a real concern. Father had probably insisted, as a ruse to keep her from eating.
“Better?”
She had never been so exposed. All that stood between her and Estwood was the thin somewhat worn cotton of her chemise.
“Words, Lucy.” Estwood whispered in her ear. “Loudly.”
“Yeth.” She shut her eyes, wishing to unhear that terrible sound. Her bloody tongue was the source of so much misery and mortification. How could Estwood possibly find her appealing when she sounded so…atrocious?
“Good.” Big hands, lightly calloused, slid down her arms, leaving Lucy’s skin prickling in their wake. “Stockings next.”
Estwood’s gentle push had her sitting on the settee once more. “Do you want another swallow of scotch?”
“No.” Her head was already swimming about.
Taking one of Lucy’s legs, he turned it back and forth, taking stock of her calf. Flipping off her slipper, he pressed his palm along her ankle before moving to the arch of her foot.
A choked noise left her.
Pressing a kiss to the hollow of her knee, his mouth leisurely trailed upward, teeth grabbing at her garter with a snap.
Lucy jerked, startled at the warmth of his lips so close to…well,everything.
“I like the tiny rosettes,” he said. “Fetching.” The garter dragged down her thigh along with her stocking until the silk slipped from her foot.
Her insides fluttered about. The room had grown warmer—or rather, she had—adding to the ache taking up residence between her thighs. Not only was this a far too erotic removal of her stockings by a gentleman, but the man was Estwood.
I have always longed for him.
“Mr. Estwood.” She tried to say his name, damning her tongue. Her teeth. All of it.
“Harry. I am your husband. Say it.Harry.”
“HHarry,” she whimpered as his teeth grazed along the inside of her thigh, just above her knee, the chafe of his beard and mustache rough along her sensitive skin.
“See, that wasn’t so difficult.” He placed her foot down and picked up her other leg and tossed that slipper away too. Once again, his fingers toyed overlong with her ankle before roaming over her calf and up Lucy’s thigh to snap her garter. “I can think of other things I’d rather you call me. But we’ll get to that another time.”
Estwood—no,Harry—tossed the garter over his shoulder and shot her a wicked grin. He stood and paced away from her, though that stormy gaze stayed on her face. Taking off his coat, he tossed it aside before pulling at the cravat around his throat. Waving the silk at her, he said, “Lots of uses for a cravat, Lucy.”His gaze flicked to her wrists before drawing down her body. “Another matter we can explore later.”
She blinked, trying to dispel the image he’d deliberately placed in her mind. Lucy, bound with the cravat, lying on the bed with Harry hovering over her.
Once he was clad only in his shirt and trousers, Harry waved towards the giant bed. “Go on. Climb in. The mattress cost a small fortune and will give you the impression of sleeping on a cloud. You need to sleep, and frankly, so do I.” He peered at her, the teasing light gone from his eyes.
“Where will you…” She coughed, already knowing what he would say.
“Sleep?” The wicked smile returned. “In the bed. With you. We should get used to it, don’t you think? And before you get any ideas that you might be better off on the settee, you won’t. Besides, we won’t even come in contact with each other during the night, and I’m keeping all of this on.” He waved a hand to his shirt and trousers. “You’re keeping all that on, which is a pity.” He pointed at her chemise. “But I did promise—I won’t fuck you. Not tonight.”
The use of the vulgarity was intentional. He studied her as if she might burst into a fit of tears at the word, which she would not. Did he assume Lucy had never heard a vile curse before? Father’s grooms at his horse farm had said things far fouler when they thought her out of hearing. But swearing was a way for Harry to remind Lucy of his low birth. He might never forget the things said and done to him for not being born a gentleman.
“Vulgarity is not?—”
“I love how you sound,” he interrupted, taking in her mouth. “Lisp or not. Somewhat breathless.” A moment passed, his eyes darkening to near black. “Also, lowborn cur that I am, I adore a good curse. The more vulgar, the better.” He stalked closer. “Now, the consummation of our marriage can wait. Notindefinitely, of course. I can’t give Waterstone any excuse to question matters.”
