Thoughts of the maid vanished as the baroness sat down next to him. She was so close that her skirts brushed against his trousers. She shed her satin gloves, and at the sight of the bruise circling one fragile white wrist, his gut twisted.
"You are hurt," he said roughly.
"'Tis nothing." She shrugged, as if being accosted by cutthroats was a commonplace experience for her. She unwound the handkerchief from his arm, revealing the oozing crimson stain upon his sleeve. "Well, Mr. Kent, I haven't got all night. Have you recovered sufficiently from your blushes to remove your shirt?"
Like a pendulum, his emotions swung in a wild arc. From concern for her to... irritation.
He was beginning to heartily dislike this particular expression of hers: the arched eyebrows and curled lip made him feel like a squalid object dragged in by the cat. She thought him prudish, did she? Lacking in sophistication—and mayhap in general? Though he was not a man given easily to anger, his equanimity began to fray. The truth was his arm now throbbed like the very devil, and if she had no qualms about being alone with a half-naked man, then why should he worry for her reputation?
Grimly, he began to unbutton his waistcoat. Her gaze did not waver as he stripped it off, followed by his leather braces and cravat. Untying the laces on his shirt, he pulled the rough linen over his head, grimacing as the movement set his injured limb afire. He glanced at the wound: gory, but he'd suffered worse. He sat before her, a shirtless, bleeding stranger... and not so much as a ripple passed over her calm, exquisite visage.
In point of fact, the brazen woman wasappraisinghim. He told himself he didn't give a whit about her opinion of his person, yet his body ignored his brain's command. Beneath her languid perusal, his shoulders drew back, his chest muscles flexing as if being caressed. The ridges of his abdomen twitched, and when her gaze dipped below his waistband, heat flooded his face.
Elsewhere, as well.
Her tongue touched her upper lip, and he had to bite back a groan.
An image blazed from the darkest recesses of fantasy: moon-spun tresses spilling like liquid silk into his palms and across his thighs. A breath, a lick... that soft pink mouth worshipping the hardest part of him. 'Twas the naughtiest of acts that assailed his imagination—one he'd secretly fantasized about but never experienced. After all, he did not purchase his pleasures and wouldn't expect a decent woman to engage in so depraved a deed. Yet the vision took hold of him, of this wicked widow taking him this way, her eyes vivid and knowing as she swallowed him whole—
"Why, Mr. Kent, I do believe there's more to you than meets the eye."
The amused drawl jerked him back to reality. He blinked, mortification burning the back of his neck. Hell's teeth, what was he about? He was acting like some sex-starved debaucher. Clearly it had been too long since he'd been with a woman—not since the couplings with Jane and those had been well over a year ago.
Still, it was no excuse. Jaw clenching, he fought to regain control. He gripped his thighs, willing his erection to subside.
Show some self-discipline, man. And for God's sake, get your mind out of the gutter.
"Hold still for the next part," Lady Marianne said.
Before he could respond, she applied a hot, moist towel over his wound. He sucked in a breath as she blotted and dabbed, pausing to rinse out the towel before repeating the process. He told himself the pain was good: it dulled the need gnawing at his belly. Dulled, but did not take it away completely. He kept his gaze fixed on the basin, watching as the water turned red with his blood.
"I think you'll live," she announced, "and I shan't have to put stitches in."
That got his attention. "You have stitched a wound?" he said in disbelief.
"It is no different from stitching anything else. I have a steady hand." As if to prove it, she picked up a glass of clear liquid and dumped it over his lesion. Fire scorched his battered flesh.
"And a steady constitution, apparently." His teeth gritted as she secured the bandage with a firm knot. What kind of woman was this? Did she shoot people as a habit, tidy them up on a regular basis?
Her lips curved. "Now that we've taken care of your injury, I believe you have other needs that require attention, Mr. Kent. What would you like to begin with?"
Sweat glazed his brow, and his lungs suddenly felt short of air. Surely she could not have guessed his carnal thoughts…
"How do you mean?" he said in a strangled voice.
She leaned closer to him, and his muscles went rigid in anticipation. He dug his fingers into the cushions, afraid of what his hands might do otherwise. His mouth pooled with hunger as her unique scent pervaded his senses. Savage need surged within him to kiss the mocking smile off her lips, to taste every inch of her milky skin, to hear her pant his name in bliss—
His lungs burned as she casually reached for his lap... and over it. To the table of refreshments, which he'd somehow forgotten about entirely. She lifted a silver cover, revealing a plate of golden brown pastries.
"Ah, excellent. Cook's pheasant pie," she said. "Shall I serve?"
He could not summon a proper response.
She went to inspect the offerings. Even this proved a special kind of torture. She bent over the table, affording him a tantalizing view of her bosom. He could not tear his gaze from the rounded white mounds peeping over the edge of green fabric. Not too big, nor too small, her breasts had a ripe, firm curve that made his palms itch to touch them. To discover what sort of delight tipped their centers. Would her nipples be a shy, blush pink or—God help him, his personal weakness—a rich, berry red...
"Hungry, Mr. Kent?"
Not for food.Heart hammering, he had to squeeze the words past his cinched throat. "Not particularly."
