One-handed, he began unbuttoning his waistcoat. In the next instant, he peeled out of the garment and dropped it, heedless of where it landed. Then he set to untying his cravat. “You don’t mind, do you?”
She shook her head, staring at his emerging tanned throat and his bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Good.” He tossed the snowy white tie aside. “Now then.” Undoing his cufflinks, he moved in a slow arc to stand behind her, then bent his head to her ear. “You might ask me to kiss you, here.” He traced one fingertip down her nape, following his finger with the softest press of his lips.
As if of their own accord, her eyes closed. “That is quite nice,” she breathed.
He nuzzled her behind her ear. “No need to decide just yet.” The low rumble of his voice was like a purr, lulling her into a mesmeric state.
Then his teeth nipped at her earlobe. At nearly the same moment, his hands began undoing the clasps of her gown.
Her eyes popped open.
“You might prefer that I help you with your gown.”
She had, in fact, wondered how removing this particular dress, with its many clasps, might be accomplished without Babette’s help. But she hadn’t imagined this. In truth, she had not known what to expect. “I…er…see.”
His fingers stilled. “You see,” he stated neutrally.
A moment later, the bed squeaked, and she turned her head to see Sterling easing into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. The first several buttons of his white shirt hung open, giving her a first glimpse of his carved, muscular chest.
It was lightly tanned, as if he’d been bare-chested while out of doors, and had a fine dusting of hair. Her stomach seemed to shimmer inside of her, like a string of tiny bells, singing in the breeze.
Without warning, he reached for her, large hands spanning her waist, to pull her back toward him as he spread his thighs to make a place for her to stand.
He lifted his hands to her shoulders and began to knead her upper back. “Annabelle, there’s something I want to ask you. I…don’t know how to phrase it without possibly shocking you.”
“Are we playing the speculation game again?” she asked, hopeful. But she feared she knew what he meant to ask.
“No,” he said.
“Oh. Go on.”
He took his time, evidently choosing his words with care, as his magic fingers moved over her.
Muscles she hadn’t realized were tight began to relax. Pleasure rippled through her, at times so intense, gooseflesh spread over her limbs. To her mortification, her nipples hardened. She thanked the stars she was facing away from him.
When he spoke, his voice was a low rumble. “Has anyone talked with you about what goes on between a husband and wife in the marital bed?”
“You mean, has anyone explained my wifely duties?”
“Some call it that,” he muttered. “Some call it ‘making love.’ Do you know what the act entails?”
She knew the basic anatomy. Not much else, though. “Gaston told me a bit.”
For a split second, his hands froze as if her answer had surprised him.
Then he continued his gentle massage, working his way down the center line of her back. “And what did dear Gaston have to say about it?”
“He did not go into details, per se. It was more along the lines of assuring me I would only have to endure a man like Lord Crowley or Lord Whittinger a short while, long enough to produce an heir, as neither man would likely have the ability to…er…that is, I gather there is some physical aspect to the business that…er…declines with age.” She paused as it dawned on her his hands had ceased moving. Chancing a glance over her shoulder, she found him staring at her, a frozen expression on his face.
“I…er…got the sense that though it might be pleasurable for a man, it was decidedly less so for a woman. Only—”
“Lord Crowley?” he all but spat. “Lord Whittinger? Those disgusting lechers? Was your brother mad? Why on earth…I’m sorry. I do not begin to understand what you are telling me.”
Folding her arms over her chest, she turned to face him. “They are two of the men on the list.”
He eyed her in bewilderment. “What list?”
