“I look like a nun?” Her terrifying brows drew together.
The trap bumped over another rut in the road and jostled his shoulder against hers.
“No, dear girl. I am saying, admittedly in a roundabout and rather obscure way, that you are an angel sent from heaven to judge me for my sins.”
“I wear gray because it is a color that doesn’t show dirt.” She glanced at him. “What kind of sins have you committed?”
He leaned close, as if about to impart a confidence, and caught a whiff of roses. “I contest the word color used in reference to gray and submit that gray is not a color at all, but rather a lack thereof.”
Her eyes narrowed ominously.
He drew back and sighed. “As to my sins, my dear lady, they are not the sort that may be spoken of in the presence of an angel.”
“Then how am I to judge them? And gray is so a color.”
He laughed. He felt like throwing wide his arms and perhaps breaking into song. It must be the country air. “Lady, I concede to the power of your well-thought-out argument, which, I think, would have brought even Sophocles to his knees. Gray, therefore, is a color.”
She harrumphed. “And your sins?”
“My sins are numerous and irredeemable.” The image flashed through his mind of Peller desperately flinging out his hand and his own sword slicing through it, blood and fingers spangling the air. Simon blinked and painted a smile across his lips. “All who have knowledge of my sins,” he said lightly, “shrink in horror from the sight of me as if I were a leper revealed, my nose falling off, my ears rotting.”
She regarded him, so grave and so innocent. Brave little angel, untouched by the stink of men. He couldn’t help stroking her back again, cautiously, furtively. Her eyes widened.
“And so they should,” he continued. “For instance, I have been known to leave my house without a hat.”
She frowned. He wasn’t wearing a hat at the moment.
“In London,” he clarified.
But she wasn’t worried about hats. “Why do you think that you’re irredeemable? All men can find grace if they repent of their sins.”
“So speaketh the angel of the Lord.” He leaned close to her, under her flat straw hat, and smelled again the scent of roses in her hair. His cock twitched. “But what if I am a devil from hell itself and not of your world at all, angel?”
“I’m not an angel.” She tilted her face up.
“Oh, yes, you are,” he breathed. His lips brushed her hair, and for a wild moment he thought he might kiss her, might debauch this lady with his foul mouth. But the cart shook as they rounded a curve, and her head turned to mind the horse, and the moment passed.
“How independent you are,” he murmured.
“Country ladies need to be, if we are to get anywhere,” she said somewhat tartly. “Did you think I sit at home doing the mending all day?”
Ah, this was dangerous ground. They’d been in this territory when she’d grown angry with him two nights before. “No. I am aware of your many duties and talents, not least of which is to help the less fortunate of the village. I have no doubt you would make an admirable Lady Mayor of London, but that would involve quitting this lovely hamlet, and I am sure that the inhabitants would not survive without you.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” he said sincerely. “Aren’t you?”
“I think everyone would survive quite well without me,” she said rather dispassionately. “Some other lady would soon fill my shoes, I am sure.”
He knit his eyebrows. “Do you value yourself so lightly?”
“It’s not that. It’s simply that the charities I perform here could be done by anyone.”
“Hmm.” He considered her beautiful profile. “And were you to abandon all who depend on you here in Maiden Hill, what would you do?”
Her lips parted as she considered his question. He leaned closer. Oh, how he wished to tempt this innocent! “Would you dance upon the stages of London in purple slippers? Sail to far-off Araby in a boat with silken sails? Become a society lady famous for her wit and beauty?”
“I’d become myself.”
He blinked. “You already are yourself, beautiful and stern.”
“Am I? No one else notices but you.”
He stared then into her serious topaz eyes, and he wanted to say something. It was on the tip of his tongue, yet unaccountably he could not speak.
She glanced away. “We’re almost to Maiden Hill. See the church tower over there?” She pointed.
He dutifully looked, trying to regain some calm. It was past time he left. If he stayed, he would only be further tempted to seduce this maiden, and as he had proved his entire life, he was not capable of withstanding temptation. Hell, sometimes he ran toward it. But not this time. Not with this woman. He watched her now, her brow furrowed as she maneuvered her little trap into town. A lock of dark hair had come undone and caressed her cheek like a lover’s hand. With this woman, if he gave in to temptation, he would destroy something honest and good. Something he had never found anywhere else on this wretched earth.
And he did not think he would survive the devastation.
LUCY SIGHED AND SANK into the warm water of her bath. Of course, she couldn’t sink very far—it was only a hip bath—but it felt like pure luxury all the same. She was in the little room at the back of the house, her mother’s room. Hedge complained enough as it was, hauling water for her “unnatural” bath, without making him go up the stairs as well. The room was only a few steps away from the kitchen, which made it quite convenient for her ablutions. The water would have to be hauled away again after she was done, but Lucy had told Hedge and Betsy that the chore could wait until morning. They could go to sleep, and she could wallow in the warm water without servants hovering impatiently.
She rested her neck on the high back of the tub and looked up at the ceiling. The fire cast flickering shadows over the old walls, making her feel quite cozy. Papa had dined with Doctor Fremont tonight and was probably still arguing politics and history. Lord Iddesleigh had gone to see Mr. Fletcher at his inn. She had the house to herself, save for the servants, who had retired for the night.
The scent of roses and lavender drifted around her. She lifted a hand and watched the water drip from her fingertips. How strange this last week had been, since she had found Lord Iddesleigh. She’d spent more time in the previous days thinking about how she lived her life and what she would eventually do with it than she had in all her prior years. It had never occurred to her before that there might be more to her existence than keeping Papa’s house, doing charitable works here and there, and being courted by Eustace. Why had she not thought beyond being a vicar’s wife? She’d never even realized she yearned for more. It was almost like waking from a dream. Suddenly there was this flamboyant man, like none other she’d ever met. Almost effete, with his airs and pretty clothes, yet so very masculine in his movements and in the way he watched her.
He poked and prodded her. He demanded more than simple acquiescence. He wanted her reaction. He made her feel alive in a way that she’d never before thought possible. As if she’d merely sleepwalked through everything else in her life prior to his arrival. She woke in the morning wanting to talk to him, wanting to hear his deep voice spilling nonsense that made her smile or made her angry. She wanted to find out about him, what made his silver eyes so sad at times, what he hid behind his blather, how to make him laugh.
And there was more. She wanted his touch. At night in her narrow bed when she was in that state that is almost but not quite sleep, she would dream he touched her, that his long fingers traced her cheeks. That his wide mouth covered hers.
She inhaled a shuddering breath. She shouldn’t, she knew that, but she couldn’t help herself. She closed her eyes and imagined what it would feel like if he was here now. Lord Iddesleigh.
Simon.
She drew her wet hands from the water, drops splashing softly into the tub, and trailed them across her collarbone, pretending her hands were his. She shivered. Goose bumps chased across her throat. Her nipples, rising just above the warm water, peaked. Her fingers skimmed lower, and she felt how soft her skin was, cool and damp from the water. She circled just the tips of her middle fingers underneath her breasts, which were full and heavy, then brought them up around to the small bumps of her areola.
She sighed and moved her legs restlessly. If Simon was watching her now, he would see her arousal, the damp prickles on her skin. He would see her nude breasts and erect nipples. The mere thought of being exposed to his eyes made her bite her lip. Slowly, she flicked her fingernails over her nipples, and the sensation made her clench her thighs. If he watched . . . She brought her thumbs and forefingers on either side of her nipples and pinched. Lucy moaned.
And suddenly she knew. She froze for an eternal second and then slowly opened her eyes.
He was in the doorway, his gaze locked with hers—hot, hungry, and very, very male. Then he let his eyes drop and deliberately perused her. From her flushed cheeks to her naked breasts, still encircled in her hands like an offering, down to what the water barely hid. She could almost feel his gaze on her naked skin. His nostrils flared and his cheekbones went ruddy. He looked up again and met her eyes, and she saw in his look both salvation and damnation. At that moment she didn’t care. She wanted him.
He turned and left the room.
SIMON RAN UP THE STAIRS three at a time, his heart pounding, his breath coming hard and fast and his cock achingly erect. God! He hadn’t felt this primed since he’d been a lad sneaking peeks at a footman groping the giggling downstairs maid. Fourteen, and so full of lust it was all he thought of morning, noon, and night: pussy and how, exactly, he could get it.
He slammed into his room and shut the door behind him. He leaned his head against the wood and tried to catch his breath as his chest heaved. Absently, he rubbed his shoulder. Since that long-ago day, he’d bedded many women, both high and low, some of them a quick tumble, some longer affairs. He’d learned when a woman’s eyes signaled that she was available. He’d become something of a connoisseur of female flesh. Or so he’d thought. Right now, he felt like that fourteen-year-old boy again, equally excited and afraid.
He closed his eyes and remembered. He’d come back from sharing a nearly inedible dinner with Christian to find the house quiet. He’d presumed everyone was in bed. Not even Hedge had waited up to greet him; although, knowing Hedge, that hadn’t been a surprise. His foot had actually been on the first tread of the stairs when he’d hesitated. He didn’t know what had drawn him back to the little room. Maybe some male animal sense that knew what he would find there, what he would see. But all the same, he’d been dumbfounded. Turned like Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt.
Or in his case, a pillar of pure lust.
Lucy in her bath, the steam dewing her pale skin, curling the wisps of hair at her temples. Her head thrown back, her lips wet and parted . . .
Simon groaned and unbuttoned the flap of his breeches without opening his eyes.
Her neck had been arched, and he’d thought he could see the pulse beating at her throat, so white and soft. A drop of water lay pooled like a pearl in an oyster’s shell in the hollow between her collarbones.
He wrapped his hand around the hard meat between his legs and fisted up, the skin bunching before his fingers.
Her glorious, naked breasts, white and bell-shaped, and held, held in her small hands . . .
A faster downstroke, his hand wet with his leaking seed.
Her fingers encircling red, pointed nipples, as if she had been playing with them, arousing herself in her lonely bath.
He took his balls in his left hand and rolled them as he fisted rapidly with his right.
And as he had watched, she’d pinched her nipples between her fingers, squeezing and pulling those poor, sweet nubs until—
