“I have seen similar cases.” The rumble of his delicious baritone shook her from the past. “On the field of battle. Will you allow me, Lady Leonora?”
She was not certain what he was requesting permission for, but his hands had already found her ankles, curling naturally around them in a heated grip that left her swimming in far more than memories. His thumbs now paid court to her anklebones, rubbing slow, sensual circles over them in much the same fashion he had her collarbone.
She ought to tell him no. The denial was on her tongue. Leonora knew how dangerously near she treaded to utter and complete ruin. If they were discovered here alone…
What would change? Something inside her shifted, altering. As a girl, Leonora had been reckless and wild. As the woman who had been forced to live with the repercussions of the actions of her past, she had grown careful. Very careful. She was no longer the girl who slid down bannisters for the wind in her face and the sweet trill of rebellion down her spine.
She was no longer the girl who believed herself invincible. Who believed she would never fall. Mama had admonished her time and again. She had warned her against sliding down the bannister. But Marchmont Hall possessed a curving mahogany staircase that traveled through three stories. It had been irresistible. Perfect for sliding on her rump.
Until it hadn’t been perfect any longer, and neither had she.
“My lady?” persisted the marquess, the man whose hands had already begun to glide up her calves in unison.
For some reason, she did not see any need to inform him she possessed only one infirm leg and not two. For some reason, she did not move away or tell him to keep his large, warm hands and knowing touch to himself.
Instead, she sighed. A complicit sigh. Her body was wanton, and so was she, but she was also tired. Tired of being Limping Leonora, of living her life for propriety only to spend an eternity on the edge of the living. It was as if she inhabited a Purgatory of her own making. Here and now, in this moment, she was willing to toss her caution aside for the first time in years.
But this man was no banister slide.
“It is the left one, my lord,” she told him, but her voice was breathless, and he did not seem to hear her.
When his long, strong fingers began to expertly knead her flesh, she forgot to care.
He discovered muscles she had not known she possessed, aching muscles, tight muscles. Muscles that relaxed beneath his gentle touch. He had not lifted the hem of her gown or petticoat and chemise. Instead, he had simply slid his hands beneath them, maintaining her modesty except for two inescapable facts.
One: he was touching her limbs.
Two: the heat of his caresses through her stockings told her he had removed his gloves beneath her skirts before beginning.
And while she was enumerating facts, she had another to add to her list: her entire body felt as if it belonged to another. The juncture of her thighs pulsed and ached. Her breasts tingled. Her mouth was dry. Her heart thumped with relentless persistence.
Tenderly, he worked his way up her calves to her knees. She could not be certain if it was the soothing effect of his massage or the manner in which his proximity and touch ravaged her senses, but her bad leg did not even ache. She felt as if she could dance a dozen minuets as long as she was in the Marquess of Searle’s arms.
Throughout his ministrations, he had not taken his gaze from her. Those vibrant orbs scorched her, pinning her to the settee, making her incapable of both the ability and the desire to preserve her reputation and flee.
“Your countenance has relaxed, my lady,” he observed, satisfaction underscoring the deep rumble of his voice. “You no longer have a vee between your lovely brows.”
He thought her eyebrows lovely?
Her cheeks burned, and she wanted to look away, to shield herself from his probing stare, but she could not. “It feels much better, thank you, my lord.”
Both limbs felt better.Shefelt better. And her cheeks went hotter still at the realization, for she was being an unseemly wretch. She was spoiling her reputation. Ruining herself with each moment she lingered. It had taken her a long time to once again heed the call of the forbidden, but she was listening. She could not stop.
His expression did not change. He remained fierce and intense, his jaw hard and angular, his mouth set in an uncompromising line. There was precious little charm in him now, but he needed none to lure her closer to his dangerous flame.
“I am sorry the dance pained you,” he said at last. “It was not my intention.”
His words warmed her even further. “My old injury is not your fault.”
His caresses traveled higher, reaching her knees, his long fingers dipping into the hollows there. “Nevertheless, I ought to have been more considerate.”
Suddenly, she recalled the sight of him dancing with Lady Sarah, ethereal with her golden hair and lustrous beauty. Her fingers tightened in her skirts, twisting the soft fabric. “You were paying me a kindness, my lord. We both know no one truly wishes to dance with someone like me.”
“Every gentleman in London would be fortunate indeed if he could dance with someone like you, Lady Leonora.” He massaged back down her calves once more rather than traveling higher.
How she wished she could believe him, for she possessed common sense and the distinct, bitter memory of every disappointing year since her comeout. She longed for him to skim past her garters and connect with bare flesh. “Experience suggests otherwise, my lord.”
Before he could respond, the door to the chamber opened. A chorus of gasps and exclamations of her name intruded. Her shocked gaze settled upon the threshold where Freddy, Mr. Kirkwood, her mother, and the Duke and Duchess of Whitley stood. The countenances staring back at her were reflections of astonishment. It was clear no one had expected her to be within, a gentleman for company.
