Page 73 of Bound By her Earl

He plucked at the sleeve of her dressing gown. “Remove this, darling,” he urged.

Emily could not have disobeyed if she tried. She let the heavy fabric drop until it pooled at her feet.

Emily had been naked before her husband scores of times by this point. He’d seen her in all manner of ways that made her blush if she dared to think of them too long. And he’d praised every inch of her, even the ones she felt reasonably certain could not be nearly as lovely as he claimed.

Somehow, however, she felt utterly revealed standing before him in her thin chemise. Something about the way the fabric scarcely revealed the jut of her nipples as they hardened under his gaze, the way it only hinted at the shadowy space between her legs—this made Emily feel more exposed than simple nudity might have done.

The feeling made her blush though not in an unpleasant way. The hungry look in her husband’s face only made this sensation increase.

“Damn,” he murmured, ghosting a hand down her side, not quite touching her but nevertheless leaving gooseflesh in his wake. “You are divine, my darling.”

Then he shook himself, as if remembering his purpose, and hefted the unlaced stays in his hands.

“I am meant to be helping you, not admiring your beauty. Lift your arms for me, if you please.”

She obeyed, and he pulled the corset into place around her.

“Can you hold it in place?” he asked.

“Yes, but—” she paused, adjusting the fit. “Yes. There.”

There was no need for quiet, but her voice had dropped instinctively into a whisper, one that quickly shifted into a soft moan when Benedict began, with surprising acumen, to lace her corset strings.

Emily, like any proper young lady, had been wearing stays since her adolescence. They were not typically her favorite item of clothing; even when fitted and worn correctly, they were not particularly comfortable.

But this, now, was unlike anything she’d experienced before. No, that wasn’t quite true—this was quite like when Benedict bound her to their bed, safe and open and laid out before him. Her body did not seem to care that he was lacing herintoher clothes instead of taking her out of them.

Benedict’s fingers paused. “Not too tight?” he asked.

She shook her head, not daring to risk her voice in response. She feared it would come out in a terrible whine of desire.

Yet her husband seemed to understand her perfectly. Now that the lacing had begun, and the stays would stay in place without her constant attention, he reached up and guided her hands to the edge of her dressing table. It was, Emily realized with a flash, an inverse of the way he’d positioned her that day in her family’s drawing room, the movement bending her forward instead of back.

Her breath hitched as he pressed a lingering, hot kiss to the back of her neck. “Watch yourself,” he commanded.

It was a herculean effort to raise her head. But Emily did so, watching her reflection as Benedict, with painstaking movements, laced her stays around her.

The more he tied, however, the laces rasping through the eyelets with quiet hisses that brushed along Emily’s every nerve, the more the image before her shifted. After all, this woman before her, with eyes bright with longing, cheeks bright with pleasure—this woman was lovely. She couldn’t be Emily, could she? Andhow could that tower of a man, straight backed and somber even as his breaths grew more labored, fighting the weight of his own desire—how could this man truly be hers?

By the time he tied off the laces, she was struggling to breathe, not because he’d tied her too tightly but because she knew she’d be feeling his hands on her all night long, even when half of Mayfair separated them. She felt brave, light as a feather, and utterly safe.

Not to mention hideously aroused. It would be an exercise in temperance, behaving normally all evening instead of rushing home and into her husband’s arms.

With hands on her waist, Benedict guided her to standing. “All right?” he asked, mouth near her ear.

“Yes,” she gasped, not even bothering to hide how drunk with pleasure she felt. “I feel—thank you, Benedict.”

Despite her stumbling words, he clearly understood her. It was so utterly bizarre how he always seemed to understand the core of her. She didn’t understand how it was possible, given how frequently they butted heads, yet it remained undeniable.

“Always,” he said, the words a promise.

As a timid knock announced the arrival of Emily’s maid, Benedict released her waist, stepping back. She felt his absencefar less than she might have otherwise, not with the way the remnants of his touch clung so tightly to her ribs.

“Oh!” her maid said, struggling to hide her surprise. “You’ve your stays on already, My Lady. Right.” Benedict was quietly retreating to his own bedchamber. “Shall we help you into your gown, then?”

Emily drew her attention away from her husband. “Yes,” she said, trying not to sound utterly distracted. “Yes, let’s.”

It was perhaps another half hour before Emily was ready to leave, her gown fixed in place, her jewelry polished to a shine, her coiffure triple checked against escaping curls. She took in a deep breath, taking comfort in the way her chest expanded against the boning of her corset, then stood.

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