“Are you injured?” he asked again.
Her mouth opened to tell him no, that the tea had not been scalding, that her gown was merely sodden and stained and her pride tattered, but his hands—those elegant hands—were sliding beneath the hem of her gown. Beneath her chemise, too. Over her stockings, up her calves. Caressing her knees.
She could not speak.
His hands traveled all the way to the tops of her thighs, lingering there. His touch was gentle. Hesitant. No lighter than the landing of a butterfly on a flower. But oh, how she felt it. She felt it to her core. Felt an answering ache pulse to life there.
Even the air around them seemed to change, growing heavy. Thick with possibility, with suppressed desires. Her every inhalation was of him, his scent, bay and spice and man.
Him.
Breathing became an erotic art with his fingers skimming over her damp flesh.
“Lady Catriona?” At last, he tipped back his head to meet her gaze.
She fell headlong into his eyes, his brooding beauty.
“Yes,” she managed to say. It was the answer to every question he could possibly ask her, she was sure of it.
May I keep touching you?
May I kiss you?
May I raise your skirts higher?
Her wild imagination conjured up an endless number of questions he might pose, all of which would have received the same response, a resoundingyes.
He did not ask her any of those questions, however.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, his gaze roaming hungrily over her face.
Yes, but not where you think it might.
She swallowed. “No.”
His hands stilled in their gentle exploration. “The tea did not burn you? I can have a servant fetch you a soothing salve if it did.”
The tea had not burned her. But his fingers on her skin most assuredly did.
“I am…”Dear heavens, what was it about the earl that made it so impossible for her to maintain her wits? She scrambled for something to say. The truth would be best, if only she could force her tongue to cooperate. “I am perfectly fine, my lord. The tea was not hot enough to do damage. Indeed, the only damage inflicted was upon my pride.”
His concern for her wellbeing did not go unnoticed. With any other man, she may have suspected an impure motive for such a personal inspection of her body. With Rayne, she had no such concern. Of course, within a few hours, he would be her husband anyway, and her body would be his to touch as he liked.
Whenever he liked.
She hoped it would be everywhere and frequently.
“Good. That is very…that isexcelente. I am relieved if you were not injured, my lady.” He removed his hands from beneath her skirts with the haste of a man who had been caught committing a crime. Her hem was flipped back down once more, and he was on his feet in no time, returning to the settee.
“Forgive my carelessness,” she said, still embarrassed by her lack of grace.
His gaze bored into hers, his countenance once more impenetrable. “If you wish to postpone our nuptials tomorrow, given the unfortunate events of today, I understand, Lady Catriona.”
What?He did not want to marry her after all?
“No.” Her response fled her before she could rethink it. Or form it into something more elegant, more refined. It was simply how she felt.
“No?” he asked, a raven-black brow raised. “Are you telling me no, you no longer wish to marry me, or no, you do not wish to reschedule the nuptials on a different day?”
