The sensible answer, of course, was no. The obvious solution here was to politely but firmly request that he leave her room and not enter it again without her express consent.
What Madeline actually said, however, was, “Yes.”
Tristan blinked, and just for an instant, she thought that he seemed surprised.
“Well, go on, then,” she managed. “Close your eyes. And you had better not look.”
He said nothing, merely closed his eyes, as agreed. Tearing her gaze from his face, Madeline turned her back and faced the mirror. This way, she could see his face over her shoulder and would know if he peeked.
She let the drying sheet fall. Her own body did not interest her very much—she’d seen it often, after all—but she kept her gaze on Tristan’s face. A furrow appeared between his brows. He did not open his eyes, though.
She slipped first one arm, then the other, into the robe. It was made of heavy silk, smooth against her bare skin. Tristan let go of the material, allowing her to pull it around herself. There was a sash that could be pulled around the middle to tie it closed. She did so and realized that her hands were shaking.
“There you are,” she said aloud, her voice catching just a little. “I am decent. You may look now if you like.”
“Decent,” Tristan murmured, his voice barely louder than a breath. “I haven’t had a decent thought about you for quite some time now.”
He opened his eyes slowly, his gaze finding hers straight away through the mirror. Madeline swallowed thickly. She ought to step away or look away at the very least. Instead, she stood where she was, staring, mesmerized.
He took a step forward. Already, he was standing close to her, and that step led to his chest pressing warmly against her back. Madeline’s breath seemed to get caught up between her lungs and her lips, leading to a sensation of almost-panicked breathlessness.
“You don’t look at yourself often,” he observed. “You seemed almost surprised to see yourself in the mirror at the dressmaker’s. Do you perhaps not know how beautiful you are? Could that be possible?”
A flush rose to her cheeks. “I don’t know what you are saying.”
“Oh, but I think you do.”
One of his hands placed itself gently on the side of her waist, just before her hip began to curve up under the robe. His hand was warm; she could feel it through the thin material.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Now, to be clear, I am talking here of physical beauty, not the inner kind. You already have bucketfuls of the inner stuff, of which I think your delightful friends have made you well aware. Friends, however, often forget to tell their companions that they are pretty, in my experience. I think perhaps you are not used to men looking at you with lust in their hearts, my dear duchess.”
“I…” Madeline managed, and once again her voice seemed to get lost before the words made their way out of her mouth.
Tristan rested his chin on her shoulder. He kissed the side of her neck almost thoughtfully, and she felt a quick, warm taste from his tongue.
She could not look away from his eyes in the mirror. Holding her gaze, he applied his lips to her throat again, this time where her neck met her shoulders. There was a quick, sharp pinprick, the feeling of teethjustgrazing skin, and that sent a red-shot ripple of desire through her that frightened her just as much as it aroused her. Ladies weren’t supposed to feel this way. She felt pretty sure that respectable ladies were not even this eager with their own husbands.
His hand slid sideways, cupping her hip. The warmth was reassuring, and Madeline found that her hand dropped to rest over his. He had large hands, and she spread hers out experimentally on top to judge their differences.
His other hand landed on her waist, moving up over her ribcage. It tickled, and Madeline bit back a smile. Heat bloomed in her chest, moving downwards. The pulse between her legs was back again and only increased as his hands continued to move.
When his knuckles brushed the underside of her breast, Madeline bit back a sudden gasp of surprise. Sensation seemed to follow the trail of his hand. She was transfixed, staring at herself in the mirror. She watched as his hand moved higher still, the tip of one finger stroking over her breast.
He circled her nipple, and heat seemed to convulse rightthere. A tingle of something almost like pleasure but notquiteshivered through her stomach. He cupped her breast with his hand, almost experimentally, warmth suffusing it, and applied a tiny amount of pressure.
She felt pleasure pulse between her legs. Her nipple peaked under his touch, easily appearing through the thin fabric. Tristan chuckled low in his throat and slid his finger over her nipple once more, tapping gently. He took the peak between his finger and thumb in the gentlest pinch, and Madeline’s breath caught in her throat.
She was not entirely surewhysuch a touch should feel so wonderful, but the plain fact was that itdid. The pleasureincreased, and she found herself dizzily wondering what it would feel like to have hismouthon her breast, hot and wet and breathtakingly thrilling.
“I believe you are enjoying this, my dear,” he murmured, breath warm against the side of her neck. He placed his whole hand over her breast again and squeezed once more. Madeline found that she could not have spoken a word, even if her life had depended upon it.
His other hand, the one under hers, slid to the front of her stomach, where a loose knot tied her robe closed.
He was going to undo that knot, Madeline realized. He would undo the knot, and her robe would swing open, and then she would be entirely exposed, utterly naked. And that would be that. There would be no resisting.
She would notwantto resist, and therein lay the danger. He moved to kiss her neck again, his lips sliding upwards, and a moment later, it would be too late.
Madeline stumbled forward, out of his grasp, nearly slipping on the damp floor. She just had the chance to see surprise and perhaps even hurt cross Tristan’s face before the expression was gone.
