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Chapter Thriteen
As consciousness dawned, Clara realized that her hair was loose and draped over her body. She slid back into the warm grip of sleep before wondering why she wasn’t wearing her usual night plaits.
A hand trailed under the veil of her hair and caressed her bare shoulder. Why was Molly waking her so? And so early.
Oblivion nearly claimed her again when the touch changed.
Her eyes popped open.
“James!” Her lips imparted his name on the wings of a whimper as she recognized him in the dim bedchamber. She woke fully with a start, her heart pounding directly under his flattened palm.
One side of his sculpted mouth lifted in amusement; the rest of his expression remained somber. “Clara.” He spoke her name like a benediction.
She held his wrists, readied as she woke to push him away. As gentle as his touch was, it was…intimate. With each breath, her breasts lifted under his outstretched fingers. With each heartbeat, her life blood pumped under his hand.
As he gazed into her eyes, she could swear that he sawher—not Clara the spinster, the charity benefactress, or the earl’s sister. Just Clara.
She awoke vulnerable, her dulled senses making it impossible to hide. Awareness grew, however, and she remembered Stella’s admonitions about confusing corporal compatibility with something more.
Even then, she felt no genuine desire to don her mask with him.
He agrees—this is a liaison without sentimentality. Surely there’s no harm in enjoying his attention.
Her fingers loosened against his wrist, caressing the spot. In return, his thumb moved back and forth, stroking over her breastbone and up the edge of a breast.
The single taper on the low table nearby flickered almost sensually, casting shadows back and forth across his face—and his naked body.
James was focused onherform. Curious what captivated him so, she looked down.
Candlelight danced adoringly over her and over his worshipful hand. Her hair fell in ribbons down her chest and down her pale abdomen, almost reaching the matching thatch of curls between her legs.
She looked back up at him, measuring his gaze, then followed it back down. Her mink-dark hair parted over her nipples, the shade of rosewater.
The weight of his hand lightened on her chest; Clara’s muscles tightened as she waited for him to slide his hand to the left or right, wanting him to envelop one of her breasts.
Instead, his hand moved up to cup her cheek. His eyes, more dark than hazel in the dimness, returned to hers.
“I thought I dreamt you,” he murmured, shaking his head slowly.
Clara softened into the mattress. Her lips curved into a radiant smile, attracting his thumb, and eventually, his mouth.
Her fingers drifted over the soft hair on his chest. He groaned in pleasure when they moved lower, over his taut abdomen, but he sat up with a look of regret.
“We haven’t time. I hated to wake you, but you wanted to depart before first light.”
She frowned slightly. Seizing on her hesitation, he urged in a low voice, “Stay the day. Leave at daybreak on the morrow.”
Her fingers froze over his pubic bone, torn between temptation and practicality. The rich timbre of his voice promised further delights; his lingering touch begged to adore her.
I cannot. Oh, no, I cannot!
But I wish to. How I wish to.
Clara forced herself to shake her head decidedly; shecouldn’tstay.
Her servants would be scandalized if she disappeared, not only in the dark of night but changed the daytime routine of the household. She couldn’t risk word spreading to her brother’s servants.
Besides, she’d already settled on a distinct set of shocking plans—accompanying a group of Violet House residents on an evening visit to Sultan Hammam.
