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Her gaze flickered between his eyes. He was so near, and she wanted him even closer, but greedy, besotted fool she was, she wanted to see him, too. There was no part of Rafe Balfour she didn’t want. And when he smiled, it traveled straight to her cold pessimist’s heart.

“Me too,” he whispered, and his voice was as sweet in this darkened room as it had been that first night over Lord Milton’s brandy.

“Then prove it,” she said, straightening her arms against her sides and lifting her chin, “by removing this contraption once and for all. My arms are going numb, Rafe.”

“Yes, my lady.” The easiness of his movements suspended, however, once the garment made it past the fullness of her breasts. It dropped to the floor in a single, quick swoosh—she had never been wide of hip. For an instant, she wished she was. Would that the fabric could have snagged on one final impetus, given her an instant’s modesty. They had both stiffened, but the look on his face …

I can trust him with everything.

“Christ, Sophie.” His gaze roved the bared length of her, but it didn’t overstay its welcome. He took a step closer and turned his attention to the end of her still-plaited hair. With a few gentle tugs, the strands came apart and brushed down her back. “You are even more beautiful than I imagined,” he rasped. “I don’t see how it’s possible.”

She smiled, her lashes lowering over her eyes. He imagined her too, then.

The rough brush of his clothes against her bare skin caused her body to awaken with sensation as he reached behind her to spread the long, unbound lengths of her hair. He raked his fingers through it, from scalp to end.

“Did you know you’ve a bit of red?” He gave her a boyish glance. “In the light, you do.”

“Perhaps we could have a whole passel of redheaded hellions. A band of playmates for Barnard.” She reached up to tussle his hair with a smile.

“Sophie …” His throat moved on a swallow. “I can’t promise you anything. I need you to know that.”

“I know.” She blinked quickly.

“You know I want to, don’t you?” He took her roving hand in his own, a cool, firm grasp. “More than anything. If I was certain I could honor it, I’d promise my life to you. This instant, I would do it.”

She gave a little nod, because she wasn’t quite sure she could speak. He blurred in her vision. “I know,” she managed.

She could see it in his eyes, the muscles flexing deep in his shoulders: he was questioning whether she was all right. The answer was not precisely yes, but that had no bearing on this. She drew in a breath and kissed him, slowly. Her hands returned to the band of his trousers and found one button of the placket. Then the next, and the next.

The hard length of him brushed against her fingers as she worked over the final fastening, and warmth swept through her from deep within. He pulled his shirt up and over his head, and she marveled at the pale expanse of his skin. It showed every faint mark, like a palette of ivory. She kissed a freckle hiding among the outer reaches of his chest hair, over where his heart lay. It beat—strong and steady—beneath the press of her lips.

“May I look at you?” She dragged her chin up to meet his eye.

Maybe it wasn’t a fair request. She had been relieved that he didn’t linger over the inches of her, feasting on her as if she existed in skin alone, like she imagined a great many men might. But she wanted to admire him, absorb the strange and unfamiliar shapes of him until they became second nature to her eyes, her hands.

He didn’t reply with words. He edged his trousers over his hips, and the sound of them crumpling around his feet put a hitch in her pulse.

“An obedient student,” she grinned, but her mind fell blank as she put a step of distance between them and began circling him.

Freckles dusted the tops of his shoulders. They were less predictable elsewhere, like constellations waiting for an imaginative observer to connect and name them. Rafe was not one of those strong, hulking men; his strength was a quieter display. The muscles bookending his spine were full and well-developed, his shoulders broad and surprisingly round, found outside of their stiffly tailored coats.

“What’s this?” Her pointer finger skirted over a deep impression at the base of his neck. It bore an almost crescent shape, save for the ragged edges. The skin was tougher, here, thick and laced with the silver of a long-healed wound.

He shifted on his feet. “An old scar.”

“How did—?” She paused and swallowed. She was asking too much of him.

“A pewter candlestick.”

She flipped her hand over, letting the backs of her fingers graze down his back and over his taut backside. His skin textured under her touch, ripening with gooseflesh.

“A candlestick. I’m afraid I can’t make much sense of that.” She circled to his front and forced her eyes to remain upward—for now.

“They prove quite rugged, when launched by a strong enough hand.” One side of his mouth lifted in a self-deprecating smile.

Sophie’s brow pinched.

“My father.”