He reached out, his fingers tracing her lips. Her soft gasp went straight to his cock. “Weren’t you tired of your corset, Beth?”
The stone bears must have been howling outside. The gardeners would find them hiding in a bush, ashamed of his despicable behavior, but he kept on. Couldn’t back away now. “Don’t you want to be free for once and show who you are underneath all these layers?”
Her green eyes flashed as they did when she spoke about her secret. Like he knew they would.
“Very well, Mr. Sandeman. I hope you remember your vow to me.”
How could he forget? If his balls would probably fall off after their trials were over?
She turned her back to him. His breath hitched as his fingers brushed the edge of her dress.
The hook-and-eye closures at her nape gave way under his fumbling fingers. The fabric loosened, sliding from her shoulders like a whisper.
He helped her step out of the gown, careful and reverent as any lady’s maid—the only difference was that he wanted to ravish his mistress.
While he unfastened the laces of her corset, his breathing was harsh. If he didn’t wrestle the damn stays now, she would vanish. She shuddered under his touch as the constraint released. When it came away, her shoulder blades expanded, and she breathed. Perhaps the first full breath she took in his presence.
Kissing her neck, Boyd untied the tapes that held her petticoats in place. The white fabric slipped down, pooling around her feet like a cloud. She stepped out of them, turning slightly to glance at him over her shoulder, her eyes catching the low light and shimmering with bashfulness, but also courage.
With each piece that fell, he peeled back not just fabric but layers of defense, shedding society’s expectations. By the time she stood before him in a sheer white batiste, his body was taut, perspiration slicking his skin.
Her skin, he never saw the like. White, everywhere white, with reddish freckles, as if a naughty cupid had sprinkled her body with powdered cinnamon. His mouth watered for a taste.
“Have you never enjoyed the sun?” he asked, his voice strained. “I thought society belles loved to take the waters in Vila Nova de Gaia.”
She swallowed, her throat working. “I never revealed my skin to the elements. To be fair, you are the only person who has seen me bare. Not even Dora.”
The thought of her untouched by any other hand filled him with a possessive heat. He’d buy her a beach if he had to—an entire coastline where she could soak in the sun like a lazy nymph, her skin kissed by light.
The batiste clung to her body, its transparency teasing him with the shadow of her nipples and the soft mound of her femininity. Boyd’s throat tightened. He wanted to lick the fabric where it clung to her curves until it became damp and utterly revealing.
He had seen courtesans disrobe for him, their gazes sultry as they shed lace and leather. Yet nothing compared to Beth’s quiet dignity and innocence. She made him feel base, every inch the uncouth Scot he was certain she thought him to be. And yet, uncouth Scot that he was, he craved more.
“All of it.”
Her fingers moved to the hem of her camisole, hesitating only briefly before pulling it upward. The fabric glided over her thighs, her stomach, and finally, her head. She cast it aside and stood before him, bare.
The firelight caressed her, painting her lithe curves in warm gold. Her nipples puckered, two coral berries crowning her curving breasts, just the handful to fit his rough, calloused palms. His gaze traveled downward, following the line of her navel to the soft v-shaped mound of red curls between her thighs.
Boyd’s throat tightened, the weight of the moment pressing on his chest like a stone. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Tension coiled through him until it threatened to splinter him apart.
His shirt, his trousers, everything that covered him felt vulgar compared to the dignity she wore, as if even the act of undressing was a reclaiming of her power. She was naked, but it was he who felt stripped to his core.
“Now tell me your secret,” she whispered, her voice soft but unwavering, a plea and a command.
Boyd gazed at the floor, but the expensive rug offered no refuge. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he swallowed hard, the ache in his throat refusing to subside. The silence suffocated him.
Beth took her robe, her face downcast, as if he had disappointed her.
Did she want his secrets? She could well damn have them.
“I cannot sleep,” he said at last, his voice hoarse and cracked. “The silence haunts me.”
The truth hung there, like the frayed bed sheet of a poor bastard hanging from a cloth line. Boyd forced himself to meet her gaze, expecting pity or discomfort. But what he found wassomething that hollowed him out—an understanding so deep that it made his breath hitch.
Boyd caught the instrument, silencing the question that was about to come. He was not ready to speak about the past. She would know soon enough. Would his revenge feel less bitter to her then?
He couldn’t tear his eyes away as she retrieved it from him and moved to the chair, her bare skin gleaming in the firelight. His breath was shallow, heart pounding.
