His wife’s voice returned him to the present, her wide-eyed expression heavy with concern.
Sweet Lord, she’d spoken his name! Notmy lord, orsir, orhusband. And his body responded, his manhood twitching in eagerness.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” She hesitated. “You’ve never said how you expect me to address you.”
Devil’s breeches, does she think herself no better than a servant?
He smiled and nodded.
Her eyes widened, as if in surprise. “A-are you trying to tell me that you have no objection to my calling you by your given name?”
He smiled again.
“D-do you like me calling you Charles?”
He nodded, and she rewarded him with a smile of her own.
Sweet heaven, she was a glorious thing when she smiled like that! What might it be like to kiss those lips? Of course, they were his, by right, to claim, but he had no right to take advantage of her. She already thought him a savage beast.
He uncorked the jar, releasing the woody aroma of herbs, then dipped a fingertip into the contents—the smooth, sticky salve—running it along the surface, leaving an indent. A globule of creamy-white ointment glistened on his fingertip, and he inhaled, reliving the comfort he’d once taken from its soft scent, so many years ago—in another lifetime.
Olivia closed her eyes, her nostrils flaring, then opened them.
“Lavender,” she said, “and, if I’m not mistaken, chamomile and calendula. Are they from the gardens here?”
He nodded. Most likely it was the same jar Mrs. Brougham had used to treat him with as a boy.
“I saw lavender in the gardens today,” Olivia continued. “Not the others, but there might be some beneath the weeds. Mrs. Brougham says there’s only one gardener here, but a garden of this size would need more. We could make inquiries in the village. O-of course, it’s not for me to direct you on how to spend your money, particularly when…”
Her voice trailed away and the color rose in her cheeks.
Particularly when the dowry was still ten thousand short.
“Forgive me, I—”
“Shh,” he interrupted. Cradling her palm in one hand, he applied the salve, caressing her as delicately as if she were a brittle autumn leaf, running his fingertip slickly over the broken skin. Then he appliedsalve to the other hand and wiped his hands on a cloth.
“I-I ought to speak to Mrs. Groves about supper,” she said, leaning forward in an attempt to rise. “It must be ruined now.”
He placed a hand on her arm and shook his head, motioning for her to lie back, then gestured to her foot.
“Oh,” she said, her mouth forming a perfect, round “O.” He touched the hem of her gown and her color deepened. Slowly, he drew back the folds of her gown to reveal her feet, then eased her shoes off.
It was easy to tell which ankle she’d injured. Even through her stockings he could see that the left foot was more swollen than the right. A thread of one stocking had snagged, forming a runner that followed a line along her calf, disappearing beneath her skirts.
Charles took a strip of linen from the tray, then lifted his wife’s feet, sat on the sofa, and placed them on his lap. Her breath caught as he touched her ankle. Then he lifted his gaze to hers and awaited permission. Her eyes clouded with confusion, then her blush deepened and she dipped her head, the coy gesture sending a pulse of heat through him. She nodded, an almost imperceptible gesture, but his hungry soul relished the consent it signified.
Holding his breath, Charles hooked his finger under the hem of her skirts and drew it along her leg, his fingertip following the line of the runner until he reached the top of her stocking, tied with a ribbon the color of honey that matched her eyes. He fumbled at the knot until the ribbon came loose, then he undid it and slipped the ribbon into his jacket pocket.
He paused and glanced up, to see her watching him, body tense, lips parted, her chest rising and falling with each breath. For several heartbeats they stared at each other, then she lowered her gaze to the top of her stocking and nodded. He hooked his fingertip around the stocking, then peeled it off her leg, his fingertips brushing against the soft pink flesh of her thigh. He gathered the stocking in his hand andbegan to lift it to his lips. Then, shame fluttering in his stomach, he dropped it on his lap and inspected her ankle.
The bones seemed sound, but a bruise was already darkening on the swollen flesh. He placed his hand over her ankle, caressing the skin with the pad of his thumb. Olivia caught her breath, but when he met her gaze, she smiled in response. On impulse, he rotated his hand, his gaze still fixed on her, and continued to caress her skin with his knuckles. Her eyes darkened, then she flicked out her tongue, moist and pink, and ran it across her bottom lip, leaving a sheen, emphasizing its sweet plumpness.
His cock strained in his breeches, hardening with each heartbeat. She shifted her feet, and her toes brushed against his rigid member. A low groan reverberated in his throat.
Sweet Lord, did she know what she was doing to him?
No. Her wide-eyed innocence was no act. He saw no slyness, no feigned desire designed to make him part with a coin. Instead, he saw gratitude, open and frank, with a frisson of pleasure.
