Smooth? Sleek?She tilted her head and blinked. It took her a moment to figure out what he meant.
Hairless.
A loud laugh burst from her. “You mean why aren't they covered in a layer of prickly hair?”
He raised an eyebrow and hesitated. “Covered in hair, yes.”
Women's razors, Nair, cosmetic wax, and other hair-removal beauty treatments were commonplace in the twenty-first century. In 1817, women didn't have the luxury of electrolysis, so unlike the historical romance novel portrayals of sexy, bare-legged heroines, realistically, women in Regency England had gams that could double as cacti in stockings. At least many of them did. Historically, there were a few who would shave their legs, but apparently Logan hadn’t slept with any of those.
“Well, in 2025, a woman can go to a dermatologist, a skin doctor, or a special oasis for stressed out women called a spa. At the spa, or dermatologist, you can get a procedure called electrolysis. Using a laser, a beam of concentrated light, they burn out the root of the hair along a targeted area. I had the procedure on my legs. They will never grow hair again.”
Eyes wide, he murmured, “That sounds painful.”
“It’s totally safe, I didn’t feel a thing, but afterward I did get a terrible rash at the top of my right thigh.”
She shuddered when his hand slid its way from her calf to the top of her inner thigh.
“Now that’s a shame, but I do appreciate the results.”
A sexy smile lit up his face, and her tummy flipped.
God, this man was too gorgeous.
It was her turn to ask a question she’d been dying to ask.
“So, how do you still have all your teeth? And they’re pearly white and gleaming clean to boot.”
Seemingly inspired by her words, he nipped the sensitive area beneath her right ear, which sent delicious shivers through her. He smiled again when his actions elicited a moan.
He furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn't I have all of my teeth, and why wouldn't I take care to keep them clean?”
She giggled. “When you've seen as many photos of Europeans in history books as I have, you'd know the answer. The running joke in America is that men and women in historical England are a smile's worst enemy. Hence, my surprise at your perfect teeth. They are white, clean, straight, and all there.”
The smile in question appeared. “That isn’t a fair assumption. It cannot possibly be true of all Britons. While I haven't examined my aunt's teeth as I would a horse I was eying at Tattersall’s, I do believe her teeth are still there. She snaps them at me often enough.”
She threw her head back on the pillow and laughed.
Rising over her, Logan looked at her, his eyes burning black, desire and want etched into every feature.
“I love your laugh. You don’t do it often enough.”
His husky voice sent shivers over her quickly warming skin.
Her playful smile transitioned into one of sensual appreciation. How could this man say something so innocuous, and still turn her inside out?
After a long, deep, body-humming kiss, Logan’s expression turned contemplative. Was his pensive face ever a good face?
Bracing for a sour turn in their sweet interlude, she waited.
“Haven, the night of the dinner party, after I’d...ahem...accused you of slashing my mother’s portrait, you said something that didn’t stir my mind until now.”
A low flutter beat against her stomach. “What?”
She took a fortifying breath.
“I believe you said you hadn’t ‘asked to be spied on and creeped out’. What does ‘creeped out’ mean, and who was spying on you?”
She let her breath out with a rush, the flutters in her stomach dying away.
