He stepped back, his gaze travelling over her with an intensity that made her skin heat. She stood there in the firelight, exposed and vulnerable, fighting the urge to cover herself or flee.
“Magnificent,” he murmured. “And still too covered. Remove the chemise.”
Her hands shook as she reached for the hem. “I don’t—”
“You do. You will.” His voice was implacable but not unkind. “Trust me, Marianne. Remove it.”
She pulled the chemise over her head, letting it fall to join her dress. She stood before him in only her stockings and the locket he’d given her, the gold warm against her bare skin.
“You wore it,” he said, surprise colouring his voice.
“I’ve worn it every day since you sent it.”
Something shifted in his expression, a vulnerability quickly masked. He moved toward her, his still-clothed body a contrast to her nakedness.
“Do you know what you do to me?” he asked, his hands skimming her sides, barely touching. “How many nights I’ve lain awake imagining this?”
“Tell me.”
“Every night since the opera. Sometimes I’d convince myself I’d imagined the connection, the pull between us. Then I’d seeyou again, and it would hit me like a physical blow.” His hands settled on her waist, pulling her against him. “You’ve haunted me, Marianne.”
“You’ve haunted me, too.”
“Good.” He kissed her then, deep and possessive, his hands roaming her back, her sides, carefully avoiding the places she most wanted him to touch. When she tried to press closer, seeking more contact, he held her in place.
“Patience,” he murmured against her lips.
“I’m not patient.”
“You’ll learn.” He scooped her up suddenly, carrying her to the massive bed. “Another thing you’ll learn—in this bed, I decide the pace. Fast or slow, gentle or rough, all at my discretion.”
He laid her down on the dark sheets, standing back to look at her. “Stay exactly as you are.”
She watched as he removed his cravat, his waistcoat, his shirt, revealing a chest marked with scars that had nothing to do with the carriage accident. These were deliberate, violent—knife wounds, what looked like a bullet scar near his shoulder.
“India?” she asked softly.
“India.” He didn’t elaborate, continuing to undress with methodical precision.
When he was as bare as she, he stood at the foot of the bed, letting her look her fill. He was beautiful in his damage, all lean muscle and controlled power. The evidence of his desire was unmistakable, making her breath catch.
“Scared?” he asked.
“No.”
“You should be.” He climbed onto the bed, prowling toward her on hands and knees like the beast society named him. “I’m going to take you apart, Marianne. Piece by piece, until you don’t know where you end and I begin. Until the only word you remember is my name.”
“Bold claims.”
“Promise.” He stretched out beside her, not touching yet, just looking. “But first, we need to establish some rules.”
“More rules?”
“Essential ones.” His finger traced patterns on her stomach, making her muscles clench. “First, you don’t touch me unless I give permission.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Your hands stay where I put them unless I say otherwise.”
