She clutched the book to her bosom like the treasure it was—for not only did it contain the forbidden, buthehad bought it for her. Spencer Marlow, the icy Duke of Bainbridge, who had once looked down his nose at her, decrying such literature as filth. It was rarer than all the diamonds and gold in the world. And also, it touched a new place in her heart, unlocked another door she had not known existed to be opened.
“Oh, Spencer.” She could not keep the tenderness from her voice. She knew what this had cost him, knew how he clung to his frigid control. And she dared to hope it was proof, leather-bound and gilt-edged on her palm, that he cared. Or that he might, one day.
“You had best forfeit it now.” He extended a hand. “I will do away with it. The gift was improper and not the sort of thing one ought to buy one’s wife. The illustration of the lord gamahuching the governess is positively filth.”
Oh.None of the other books she’d read had illustrations. Now she was desperate to know whatThe Jewelcontained. And had he just so blithely spoken such a wicked word aloud? It defied logic. Ordinarily, he only uttered obscenities when he was overcome by passion and let down his guard. Who was this man, and what had he done with the Duke of Disdain?
She held his stare, unflinching. “What page is it on?”
“Bloody hell,” he growled.
“Well, you cannot say such a thing and then expect me not to look.” She would not apologize for her nature. She was who she was. “Surely you must know that by now.”
“Forty-three,” he clipped.
Bo could not contain her smile. “You had it memorized, you scoundrel.”
“I may have gazed upon it a time or two in the achingly long month between when I made love to you and our wedding day,” he admitted, and he looked even more discomfited by the revelation.
Adorably so. How she loved him, for all his hard angles and his ice and the way he could inexplicably melt and surprise her. For buying her this book. For marrying her. For making love to her in the outdoors with the sun shining around them. For saying “gamahuching.” For flipping through the bawdy book on his own and surrendering to his curiosity. For relinquishing his tight grip on control long enough to allow her to see a different, heretofore unimagined, side of him.
For all those reasons and so many more, more than she could even name or count. Her love became a waterfall, bursting and rushing inside her. Unstoppable.
She opened the book, flipped to page forty-three, and stared at the depiction of a nude man atop an equally naked female. But it was not the scene she had expected from his description. Oh no indeed. In the woodcut, the woman lay supine upon a bed, with the man prone atop her, but facing opposite ends. The woman had the tip of his large cock tucked in her mouth, while the man’s bent head feasted upon her pussy. It seemed at once impossible and shockingly perfect.
“Oh my.” She swallowed as she stared at the picture, desire sliding through her and landing between her legs as a slow, insistent pulse. “Why is she still wearing stockings?”
“Some men find such a thing arousing,” he said thickly.
Did they? She had not known it.
Bo glanced up, fixing him with her gaze. “Do you?”
He swallowed, his eyes on her mouth, then traveling lower, to her breasts, and lower still, encompassing her entire body with one long, devouring stare. She felt it as if it were a stroke of his hand or a lick of his tongue.
“Yes.”
Dear heavens. She snapped the book closed. “Spencer?”
His breathing was becoming more labored now, an indication of how aroused he was, and they were not even touching. “Yes, sweetheart?”
She placed the book atop a nearby table. “Tonight, I want to do what is in the picture, and tomorrow, I will leave my stockings on for you.”
“Holy God.” He continued consuming her with his glittering gaze. “How did I ever get so bloody fortunate?”
“You stole my book,” she reminded him. “And then I kissed you.”
“Tell me about your Lady’s Suffrage Society.”
Spencer’s question startled Bo out of her reveries concerning the sheen of water clinging to his delectable chest. They were once again sharing the impossibly large bathtub, facing each other, and despite the fact that she had seen him shirtless too many times to count already in their short marriage, she could not stop admiring him. He was so masculine and strong, and the light dusting of dark hair on his pectorals fascinated her.
Oh dear. This was a slippery vein of thought to be entertaining. She was meant to be paying attention to what he had said.
She blinked.Ah, yes.The Lady’s Suffrage Society. “It is a group for like-minded ladies who are concerned by our lack of representation and wish to affect change.”
Beneath the water, his hand traced her ankle, sparking hunger within her that had nothing to do with her desire to reform England and everything to do with the man touching her.
“How many members have you?” he asked intently.
