A half smile quirked his well-molded lips. “I confess, you are not the first lady I have ever helped to disrobe. You are not shocked by such a revelation, I hope.”
Of course she was not. Everything about this man was masterful. Measured. He knew how to woo a woman. There was seduction in his every gaze, in his deep voice, in his touch.
“Nothing shocks me,” she told him honestly. “I have been an actress for almost half my life. I believe I have seen, heard, or done everything anyone can possibly fathom.”
A muscle tensed in his jaw, his gaze going hooded. “Then one man assisting you in your toilette can hardly be cause for alarm.”
He was right. She stared at him, at a stalemate. If she insisted he go, she was revealing more of herself than she wanted. It would be an admission of how greatly he affected her. How badly the wickedest part of her wanted him and all the unspoken pleasures he promised.
“I am hardly alarmed, Your Grace,” she denied, reminding herself she must be Rose, always, and never Johanna. Rose was bold. Daring. She flashed him Rose’s coquette’s smile. “Continue aiding me if it pleases you. My boots are just over there beside the chair, and my button hook is on the table.”
“It pleases me greatly,” he said, and there, once more, was the intensity in his countenance she could not define.
Could not look away from.
How odd it was to order about an aristocrat. To tell the duke he could fetch her boots, as if he were a lowly servant rather than her social superior in every way. Before she could say anything else, he turned and acted upon her directions, gathering her boots and the button hook before returning to her.
Once more, he sank to his knees. This time, he did not linger over her feet, however, and she had to admit she mourned the lack of attention he paid them. One by one, he slid them into her boots and fastened the buttons.
He stood, his gaze devouring her, lingering over her breasts, which still swelled over her corset, perhaps more so now because of her agitation “Where is your gown?” he asked.
“In the wardrobe,” she said, once more marveling at the strangeness of the moment.
The man.
She felt at once as if she had known him forever, as if she had known him always. An abrupt rush of familiarity swept over her. It was as if she had dreamt this moment, this day when she stood in a London dressing room after performing inThe Tempestand a handsome, enigmatic duke played lady’s maid for her.
He turned away from her, crossing to the wardrobe with even, measured strides. And she admired the breadth of his back as he went, the long leanness of his form. He even moved with great command.
When he returned, he drew it over her head. She busied herself with settling the fall of her skirts and drawing on her sleeves before presenting him with her back. He fastened the buttons lining her bodice with effortless ease, as though he had been born to the task.
He reached the last button, his fingers brushing her nape. “Ride with me in the park tomorrow.”
She froze, the combination of his touch and his words almost too much. “I cannot.”
“Why?” His hands settled back on her waist, gently spinning her until she faced him. “Is there another?”
“That is none of your concern,” she told him. “Especially since you will never be my lover.”
The half smile flitting with his lips widened. “I have six days following this one to prove you wrong, Rose.”
She wanted to remain impervious to him, truly she did. But his persistence was battering her already-weakened defenses. “You will need far more than six, Your Grace.”
His smile at last reached his eyes. “I will send a carriage ’round to fetch you for dinner following your performance.”
“I have not agreed to dinner.” She raised a brow at him, trying to ignore the way he held her waist. To forget about how much she liked the feeling of his hands on her.
“You cannot deny me twice in one day,” he countered. “It is against the rules of the game.”
“I was not aware we were playing a game.” Though her tone was wry, she could not deny, at least inwardly, that she found this man and his banter intriguing.
That she wanted more of both. What was wrong with her? A dalliance with him was an impossibility.
“You are correct, Mademoiselle.” His levity faded, those green eyes of his searing into hers. “This is far from a game. But I have never wanted to win anything more.”
Her heart thudded. And though she was fully dressed once more, she felt more vulnerable than she had earlier. More exposed. Because she wanted him, too.
And it terrified her.
