Page 53 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke
Once again, Emma imagined Damien using this room to entertain other women. The idea of lying with him in that large bed wasintoxicating. The idea of others doing the same with him wasmaddening.
Tape measure, paper, pen, and ink were brought and left on the table of the sitting room.
“Why am I here?” she muttered to herself. “I must have been mad. Or drunk!”
She had stolen his horse and offered to race him to this place. And now she was going to...
“Iammad! How can I let a man who is almost a complete stranger see me in my...”
Damien appeared in the stable yard below. His boots were muddy and there were blotches on his coat. He had clearly run through the field, uncaring of the damp conditions underfoot. Emma looked down at herself, seeing smatters of soil tossed up by the horse's hooves.
She heard the Duke breezing through the inn below, being greeted, and then heard the rapid blows of booted feet on stairs. She turned to face the door, hands clasped together at the middle of her stomach, heart racing.
The door soon pushed open and Damien strode in, closing it behind him. He looked to the tape measure.
“I see you are prepared. The innkeeper asked me if he should be sending for a dressmaker after your request. I told him not to.”
“I am prepared,” Emma said, unable to keep a waver from her voice.
Damien approached, picking up the tape measure and examining. He looked at Emma, eyes studying her from head to toe. That glance was almost a physical touch.
“Well, this should not be too difficult,” Damien murmured, approaching her closer, “I suppose she will need to know your height. The length of your skirt...”
Emma swallowed. “I believe you will be required to provide the measurement of my neck both in length and circumference. My bosom. My hips and waist. My legs, inside and out,” she hesitated. Damien raised an eyebrow, waiting, “and I believe that the measurements would not be accurate if they are taken... above my gown.”
She knew her face was now scarlet but she forced herself to look at Damien, refusing to let her embarrassment best her. His lips were parted and it was as though he was striving to keep his eyes on her face alone.
“I see,” he nodded. “That makes sense.”
Emma took a deep breath. It was now or never.
She turned without a word, gathering her hair in both hands to bare the nape of her neck and the row of tiny buttons trailing down her spine.
The first button slipped free beneath his fingers.
She felt his breath, warm and unhurried, ghost across her skin as the fabric gave way. With each delicate release, his touch drifted lower, unfastening her inch by inch, as though unveiling something precious.
The last button surrendered.
Emma let the bodice slide from her shoulders, gravity taking hold as the gown slithered to her waist, then down to the floor in a soft, rustling heap. She stood still—breathless, and burning. Her arms at her sides. Waiting.
The cloth tape measure, brass-tipped and innocent in its purpose, brushed the back of her hand. Then, the curve of her shoulder. Then, the nape of her neck. A hush settled between them. She felt the length of the tape unravel down her spine, followed by the gentlest press—his hand at the small of her back. She heard numbers, murmured close to her ear, and swallowed hard. Her mouth went dry as he reached around her waist, encircling it with the tape next.
She could not see the proximity of his body but she could feel it. He must only be inches away from her. Only a thin layer of fabric separated them, one that could easily be rented asunder by hispowerful hands. There was then nothing beneath to separate her nakedness from him.
“I think you must move your arms so that I may measure your sides,” Damien whispered, almost rasping. “That must be important, I would think, for your bodice.”
Each breath was a gossamer touch to her skin and Emma fought the urge to writhe against that touch. She wanted to glory in it, to feel and revel in the feelings he was bringing forth. But she forced herself to remain still and unmoving.
That in itself was a torture and a pleasure.
She fought the instincts of her own body, fought for control against the growing desire. The cold metal of the tape tip pressed against her skin under her right arm. The undergarment she wore was sleeveless.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Emma became aware that goosebumps stood on her bare arms.
“There is a draught,” she nodded subtly.
