Not much. She learned quickly. She’d a wicked wit. She had white slippers with diamond buckles he glimpsed when he first entered the room—before he donned the blindfold. She had a place just below her ear that made her wild.
Oh yes—and she’d a nightly bed partner who prevented her from touching herself.
A fine investigative talent he turned out to have. She was more a mystery than she’d been when she fled the room.
At least the sheet was still tangled beneath his hips. For all that she’d done to humble him, she could not have, at least, seen the welts he’d carved into his skin in a fruitless attempt to stop the itching.
He ran his hand lightly over one, tender scab.
Odd. He hadn’t felt the urge to scratch since drinking Bessie’s tisane. But the tisane’s effects couldn’t have lasted all night, could they? Possibly. Then again, as in his childhood, the torment was not consistent.
The itch came and went, much of the time without obvious provocation. And while a vigorous coupling did bring temporary relief, tonight had been…different.
She’d engaged his mind and his body.
She’d asked questions. She’d made demands. In response, he’d come undone.
Talking in bed wasn’t something he usually indulged. Then again, he’d never been blindfolded before, either. He’d needed to follow the sound of her voice to enjoy her body. Only he hadn’t simply enjoyed her body, had he?
He’d enjoyed…her. Matching wits had been invigorating.
Novelty? Or something more? Perhaps his heart had been right all along. Perhaps she would become vital to him.
He’d need to see her again to be sure.
He finished dressing and then removed a fresh cravat hidden in the pocket of his coattails. Using the mirror, he folded it into a simple knot. Not daylight perfect, but sufficient to get himself home without causing excessive comment.
But first, he took himself below stairs.
The Black Widow, of course, made him wait. What the hell could she have to occupy her at—he glanced at the long clock—at the tender hour of four in the morning?
Suddenly, he realized he was scratching his thigh.
He folded his arms behind his back and stood at attention.
Distract. Distract. Distract.
He remembered the way she had touched his lip and murmured. He tasted the salty sweetness of her skin. By the time Bessie summoned him to her office he was half-hard with wanting. A pain better by far than the itch.
“I must see her again,” he demanded.
“I’m not surprised you would wish to see her again,” she answered dryly. “But I told you this arrangement was likely to be only for one night.”
“What’s her price?” He leaned over the table. “I’ll pay anything within reason. Anything.”
“I believe you. But…” The Black Widow let the silence string out long enough for discomfort before saying, “Hers is a price you cannot pay.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“She came to me seeking marriage.”
He slammed the table. “I knew you were trying to trap me.”
“So theatrical this evening. Again, why should I wish to trap you?”
“You said nothing to me about marriage. She said nothing to me about marriage.” He scowled. “In fact, she implied she was a widow.”
“Did she?”
