He sank to his knees on the carpet, holding her gaze. “Your servant, madam. May I have your boot?”
She looked at him, eyes wide, almost as if he had spoken a language she didn’t comprehend, until at last she spoke. “My boot?”
“Left or right,” he added. “Whatever my queen prefers.”
“I’m not your queen.”
She was frowning, and he didn’t like that. “Yes, you are,” Rhys told her solemnly. “And I intend to prove your devoted page.”
“Rhys.”
“Let me,” he said urgently. “Let me tend to you. Let me spoil you. Let me please you.”
Miranda sighed, and he knew he had won. “How can I say no?”
She gave him her left foot first.
He took the worn boot in one hand, cupping the leather at her heel as his fingers found the knot she must have tightened that morning and loosened it. She sighed in what he presumed was relief as he slipped the boot off.
Her stockings were fine. Cream silk with an exotic spray of embroidered flowers over the ankle in shades of blue, pink, and yellow. In his haste to bed her the day before, he had taken note of a similar embellishment on her hosiery, but he hadn’t taken the time to contemplate the dichotomy of her colorless, unassuming work gowns and her expensive French stockings and bold corset.
Rhys massaged her foot, knowing it must ache after she had spent so much time perfecting the incredible desserts that had been displayed for dinner. “You surprise me,” he murmured,using the pads of his thumbs on her arch as he attempted to ease the strain of the tight muscles he found there.
“My stockings are for me,” she said softly.
He wondered if there were any other indulgences she allowed herself beyond her undergarments and had to tamp down the impulse to offer to shower her with everything she could possibly want. There would be time aplenty for that later, after he persuaded her to become his mistress.
“Who are your gowns for?” he asked, working her foot gently.
She made a purring sound of pleasure as he massaged. “They are for everyone else.”
“Not for me.” He winked up at her. “I happen to prefer you out of your gowns. And everything else too.”
A flush crept over her cheeks. “Rhys.”
“Do you know why I tell you such wicked things, kitten?”
“Cease calling me kitten.” There was scarcely any protest in her voice now.
Her lashes were lowered, eyes closing. He hoped it was a sign of relaxation rather than exhaustion. The notion of her injuring herself earlier was nettlesome enough. He didn’t want her working herself to death on his behalf.
“Why? I think it suits you. You’re adorable, but you also have claws.”
“Adorable?” Her lashes fluttered, brilliant emerald once more searing him to his soul. “No one has ever referred to me thusly before.”
“Then no one has seen you as I have.” And Rhys couldn’t deny that he liked that. Liked it very much indeed. “Seeing you with your defenses down is a potent aphrodisiac. And you never did answer my question.”
Her brow furrowed. “What question?”
He smiled, thinking he was accomplishing his task splendidly. “Why do I tell you wicked things?”
“Oh.” She bit her lip, and the urge to kiss her was so strong he almost sprang to his feet and pressed his mouth to hers. “Because you are a sinful rake.”
“Wrong, kitten. It’s because I love it when you say my name.”
Absolute truth. And Rhys was, quite unapologetically, a man who had no qualms about lying when it suited him. Not in this instance, however. Everything he said to Miranda was true.
He’d ponder that realization later. For now, he had another boot to remove.
