A low rumble of suppressed laughter shook his chest. “I suppose you have a point there.”
Her eyes took on a teasing glimmer, her eyebrows lifting in taunt. “Feel free to let those hands wander.”
He shook his head. This woman.
He began unlacing the boot on her injured foot. “So… fucktart. I haven’t heard that one before.”
Her smile bloomed into a grin. “I wasn’t actually going for fucktart, but I do like the ring that has. Does my debased mouth offend you, Duke?”
He glanced back at her, his gaze latching onto her full, rosy lips. Her pink tongue darted out. His pulse picked up. He really did not want to think of her mouth acting debase in any way. His cock twitched in disagreement. Lord, he hoped she hadn’t noticed that.
Said offending mouth was moving again. “For obvious reasons, it’s not something I declare from the rooftops of London. But I suppose you are in on my secret now. I swear like a sailor—or like a girl who grew up with two older brothers she constantly wanted to feel she fit in with. I have turned it into an art form.”
A smile tried to pull at his lips, and he began working on the laces of her other boot. “Ah, it all makes sense now. Trying to impress rowdy older brothers with foul language. I cannot say I’m not surprised by it, but I’m not offended in the least. I, too, swear like a fiend.”
He pulled off one boot.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear,” she murmured.
“It’s usually in my head. I don’t speak much aloud in general.” He pulled off the other boot.
“I’ve noticed,” she said, seemingly more to herself than him. “Why are you removing both of them? I only injured my right ankle.”
He glanced back at her as he gently tugged off her boots. “For comparison, to see if there are any signs of swelling compared to the uninjured one.”
Her pinched brow smoothed. “Seems sensible.” Then she let out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I had hoped you were trying to undress me.”
He gently shook his head and tightened his lips. She made it near impossible to hold back his smiles.
“Can you wiggle your toes?”
Her little toes in her soft stockings wiggled in front of him, and he traced his hands down either side of her injured foot. He glanced back at her and applied light pressure, looking for any signs of discomfort. But all he saw were darkening eyes, heating as they locked on his own. Until he reached her ankle, and she winced before quickly schooling it.
He turned back to her ankle, running his fingers lightly over the spot that had caused her discomfort, glancing between her uninjured one and the one in his hands. No swelling. A good sign.
“How does it feel when I’m not applying pressure?”
He glanced at her, and she wore a sly smile.
“What answer keeps your hands on me, Duke?”
She winked at him, and he barked out a laugh. There was that saucy way she said Duke again. He liked this teasing side of her. Like she was trying to get a rise out of him. Certain parts of him made it clear she was successful in her attempt.
But her smile faded, and she stared at him like she’d never seen him before.
“Is something amiss, Lady Felicity?”
“Felicity,” she said softly.
He shook his head. He couldn’t possibly allow for such intimacy. But she gripped his chin, halting his movement. Like she had control over him. And the frightening truth was, she did.
He swallowed. Her hands on him, her legs sprawled over his lap, her amber eyes burning into him, had all his involuntary functions faltering. Things as elemental as breathing, as blood pumping, no longer worked without conscious effort.
And because his body—brain included—wasn’t functioning, he stupidly let her name slip from his lips. “Is something amiss, Felicity?”
Mistake.
That had been a horrible mistake.
