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When she’d first seen the lamp flare to life in the upstairs room, she’d thought it was Lord Rafe, until Thorndon had come to the window and started parading about as though he wanted her to buy his wares.
Heart thumping, palms sweating, she tilted her head back and risked another glance up at his window.
He was still there. Still standing directly in front of the window, completely naked. Illumined from behind by lamplight, and from the front by the full moon.
And he still had his hand on his... on that part of him which young ladies were not supposed to see until their wedding nights.
A part fashioned upon the same majestic proportions as the rest of him.
Thick and long and jutting right out in front of him at a nearly perpendicular angle. The observer in her took note of all the details she could make out from this awkward and distant vantage point.
At first she’d assumed he was doing some sort of exercises, with all the flexing of arms and the turning this way and that, and then she’d realized that there must be a mirror near the windows and he was preening in front of his reflection.
As an arrogant duke would do.
But when he’d begun to... when his hand started stroking up and down, she’d realized what was happening.
Her first glimpse of an unclothed gentleman was much more than a small taste.
It was an entire meal. A veritable ten-course feast.
It wasn’t like she didn’t know about the pleasure to be found by touching oneself. Her fingers had... strayed.Under the covers. Thinking about wicked rakes.
But she’d never imagined how a man might produce the same sensations.
It was a much more forceful and frenzied operation, apparently. Head thrown back. Muscles in his neck clenching. Fist pumping faster and faster.
Her breath coming faster, her heart beating. Little fireworks going off in her belly, in her chest, tiny explosions that left her lightheaded.
The hot-and-cold shivery feeling between her thighs increased to an almost unbearable pitch, but she was buried in too many layers of sturdy woolen clothing to seek any kind of relief.
Wool cloak, cotton dress, petticoats, drawers.
Far too much clothing.
If she were naked, and if she were in the room with him, and if they moved over to the bed (because she wouldn’t want the neighbors to see, which apparently he had no such concerns about) then he would know how to give her relief.
She knew that deep down in her bones. The way he’d held her as they danced. This was a man who knew his way around a woman’s body. So why was he pleasuring himself and not seeking the company of some willing female?
He backed away from the window, still holding himself. Maybe going toward the bed? Falling on the bed and finishing the work. Depriving her of seeing what occurred when the... finishing... happened.
You’ve seen quite enough. You’ll never be able to unsee it.
If she saw him in public she would picture him stroking himself, eyes closed. His ridged abdomen rippling with effort. Sheen of sweat on his broad chest. Powerful arms bunched with muscles.
You’re not here to ogle a duke. You’re here to search for clues.
At least the duke would sleep like the dead now, or at least she always slept well after similar exertions. And if he were sleeping in the house, it meant that Lord Rafe wasn’t here, unless they’d had a miraculous reunion in the last few hours.
The lamp died. The house was dark again.
She waited for what seemed like an eternity while her heartbeat slowed and her pulse stopped racing.
Carefully, watching for any movement, she crept from her hiding place. She loosened the bow under her chin and eased her bonnet down her back. Then she tied her skirts between her legs and found a handhold.
She made her way up the jagged wall step-by-step and handhold by handhold. The trellis of climbing vines made it easier and reassured her that if she lost her balance on the way up she’d have something to grab hold of. On the way down she’d use the long coil of rope she’d brought.
She’d been climbing trees and walls since she was a young girl allowed to roam within the confines of the estate grounds. No one had ever told her that her running and climbing were unladylike pursuits.
