He cleared his throat. He readjusted his sprawl in the window seat. “Will you look at me, Miss Trelayne?”
For a long second, she was motionless, she was holding her breath. Finally, she shook her headno.
“No?” he challenged, his voice teasing.
“No, Your Grace.” A whisper.
I was right, he thought,she feels some security in the title.
“You are aware,” he asked, “that a duchess need not invoke so many ‘Your Graces’ and ‘His Graces’ now that she is married?”
This won him a look. “But you refer to me as Miss Trelayne.”
“Yes, I suppose I do—that is, Ihave. I quite like the name, actually.”
She looked again at her lap. “Perhaps I like ‘Your Grace.’”
“Well, you may be the only one. Between the twins, my disgruntled tenants, and fickle London society, starry-eyed supplicants are not thick on the ground.” He frowned. “Not that you are starry-eyed. Or a supplicant.”
“No, Your Grace,” she whispered.
The very sweet, very bashful sort of whisper of it—in fact this entire conversation, which had become a rabbit hole of unmet desire—gave him an idea.
“I’ve bade you to look at me, Miss Trelayne.” An order. Gentle, but there was no denying it.
She sat up and blinked at him, her teal eyes wide and bright.
“Do you know the signs of a man’s desire for a woman?” he asked.
She endeavored to duck her head again, and he scolded gently, “Tut-tut-tut. Look at me.”
Slowly, breathlessly, she turned back. “Idon’tknow,” she admitted, a whisper.
“But would you like for me to teach you?”
She opened her mouth to say something but he held up a hand. “Can you listen very carefully, Miss Trelayne? If I were to teach you? You are the primary source of instruction in this house, but now let us see if you might also play the pupil.”
He could see her eyes searching his face, trying to decipher his tone. He’d meant to strike a balance between authority and playfulness, but this conversation had piqued his own arousal. However he sounded, it was a far cry from the easy, trusting rapport they’d fallen into when she’d joined the household. Before, they conspired; now, he corrupted.
“Tell me, Miss Trelayne,” he asked softly, “how do my eyes look?”
“They look very blue, Your Grace,” she whispered.
“Right, but their expression?”
“Oh. They are—? Are they tired?”
“No,” he said, “not tired. My eyes are lazy. Languid. I am looking at you with eyes half closed, because when I see you, I think of bed. Bedsheets. Pillows. And... not sleeping so much asbeforesleeping.”
If possible, her eyes grew wider. She put a palm over her throat, fingers splayed. She swallowed and told him, “I’ve—I’ve incited—” She breathed in and out quickly. “I’ve dressed inappropriately. This night rail...” She looked down. “This night rail is not a rail at all, it’s a simple shift. I was compelled—I was told—”
“Shhh,” he urged softly. “Miss Trelayne, given the choice, I would see you in nothing more than this. Every night. For the rest of our lives.”
She stared at him.
“You please me in every way,” he went on, “except when you suggest that you have no allure, that you are notdesirable. Now I intend to demonstrate the extreme falsity of this notion.”
“Oh.” A little gasp. The hand her at throat drifted to her hair, and she twirled a fat, red curl around her index finger.
