“One more thing, Miss Wylde.” He slowly reached into his pocket.
And then gently, with a little clink, he placed something on the table between them.
It was a hairpin.
She stared at it.
She slowly looked up at him.
He was indeed masterfully still. His expression inscrutable. His eyes slightly hooded, and watchful.
But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the quill was ever so slightly trembling in his grip, and this was nearly as thrilling in the moment as his body covering hers.
“If you think you may be missing other hairpins, Miss Wylde... I’d be pleased if you’d come have a look for them. I’ll be in all night.” He paused. “I will abide by whatever you wish to do.”
She reached out a hand and dragged the hairpin toward her.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
He’d left the decision up to her.
And she ought to stay right where she was, in her little room. She was capable of rational thought. She possessed intelligence and reason. She was not at heart a taker of risks, though some of her choices could certainly be construed as risks.
Shewas, at heart, an enjoyer of pleasure.
Once, and she could say she’d done it for the experience. She could perhaps rationalize it away. How many women could say they’d made love to the Duke of Valkirk?
Twice, and, well. Making love to him twice was about as reckless a thing as a woman could do.
Twice meant she would do it again... and again.
Twice moved her further away from a position of singularity and more emphatically toward that word that began with “h.”
She decided she would not go.
Ten minutes later...
He must have heard her heartbeat from the other side of the door, because it opened again before she’d knocked.
As he had the night before, he took the candle, set it lightly down, and closed the door.
“I brought the letter again. I thought perhaps we could translate the lyrics,” she whispered.
He didn’t say a word.
His eyes never leaving hers, he gently took the letter from her hands. Laid it aside atop a little table.
His hands rose to cup her face.
Oh God. Oh God.
His mouth touched hers.
She heard her own sigh as if from miles away. Soft as a breath at first, his lips then gently insistent, then her whole, spinning world. He was hot, and tasted of brandy. Her knees gave way, but he was there to softly crush her against him. She curled her fingers into his shirt and clung.
Her head fell back into his cradling hand, and while she was at the mercy of his kiss, his other hand managed to loosen and spread her laces at the back of her neck. Her bodice collapsed into something like a swoon. “Off,” he ordered, pushing at the sleeves of it.
He gently tugged, and she helped him, tugging and shimmying until it pooled at her ankles.
