Page 5 of The Duchess in His Bed
“A duke I’d wager.”
And nearly choked on the wine. With a cough, she covered her mouth, barely aware of him taking the glass from her as she sought to regain control, to prevent the burgundy from killing her. Gently, he patted her back. When she was more herself, she took the glass from him, cautiously swallowed the rich wine to regain her equilibrium. “Why would you think that?”
“The manner in which you hold yourself as though everything is your due, the impression you give that you are in a place beneath you, a place in which you really have no interest, walking with a man who isn’t good enough to polish your shoes.”
“You are wrong there, Mr. Trewlove. I suspect you are applying your own prejudices to me. Not that I blame you, not if the rumors I’ve heard are true. They say your father is nobility.”
On her calf, his fingers flexed as though she’d struck him a blow. “I don’t talk of my sire. Ever.”
So it was true. Noble blood ran through his veins, which worked well with her plans. “And I will not discuss my place in or out of Society,” she said tartly. “So it seems regarding that aspect of our lives, we are of a like mind.”
As he once more leaned back, his fingers returned to their trailing, going a tad higher with each stroke, growing dangerously close to her knee. So inappropriate and yet she sensed perhaps he was testing her, daring her to object. Or maybe he simply liked the feel of a woman’s leg.
“If I were to extinguish the candles on either side of you, enshrouded you in darkness, you could remove your mask.”
“Darkness is never absolute. Within this room, the mask remains. Besides, you’d be amazed by how observant some ladies are.”
He studied her for the longest and then began working on the buttons of her shoes.
“I said they were to remain on.” She would have kicked free if he hadn’t closed one hand around her leg, just above her ankle, the moment she began to speak.
“You’ll be more comfortable with them off. My floors are clean.”
He glanced at her through half-lowered lids, just as he’d looked at the gathered nobility in the church, and she had an unreasonable desire for him not to find her lacking, not to think her a coward.
“When was the last time you went barefoot?”
Strange that she should recall it. “I was nine, and there was a field of clover that I simply couldn’t resist.” It had felt like running over velvet. She shook her head. “My governess had a time of it, keeping shoes on my feet.”
But that day her mother had given her a blistering scolding, convincing her that she was too old for such nonsense. She’d kept her shoes on ever since. Disappointing her parents, disappointing anyone actually, had always made her feel rotten.
She sipped the last of the wine, finishing off the glass, and there was the footman offering her another. She took it, peered over at the man who seemed comfortable in spite of his awkward position, his feet remaining on the floor, and she wondered how he might react if she ordered him to place them on the ottoman, so she could remove his boots. Obviously the wine was having an effect on her, bolstering her courage. Although not completely. She gave a slight nod, and his fingers immediately returned to their endeavor.
When he’d removed her shoes, he handed them off to another footman who suddenly appeared. She assumed he’d somehow alerted the servant that he was needed although she’d seen no signal. “Give them to Angie, to be placed under my name.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the servant dashed off, Aiden Trewlove said, “You can pick them up in the foyer on your way out.”
She’d left her cloak there on the way in, at a counter in front of a room teeming with wraps. The girl guarding things hadn’t asked for her name but had merely given her a number. She wondered if they had a special place where they kept ladies’ things that came to them in his name, wondered what items ladies might leave with him.
Suddenly she wasn’t wondering anything at all as he stroked the side of his thumb along one instep before encasing her foot in both his hands, squeezing and kneading. So much better than clover against her soles. She rather wished she wasn’t wearing stockings. Then immediately felt guilty for enjoying his ministrations so much.
“Where were you educated?” she asked, seeking to distract herself from the wicked way his fingers moved over her.
“The streets.”
She shook her head. “You’ve had some schooling. I hear it in your speech.”
“That’s Gillie’s doing. She’s of the belief that speaking properly is the first step to moving up in the world. When we were younger, she worked for a woman who taught her how to rid herself of the Cockney. Gillie shared what she learned with all of us.”
“If not for your reputation, one wouldn’t know you came from the streets.” She’d sought to compliment him, but he merely shrugged as though it was of no consequence to him what people thought. She wished she could say the same of herself. But her position in Society required that she care and never cause any embarrassment to her family.
“How is it that you chose to own a gambling hell?” She was truly curious about this man, who worked to make her feet feel lovely while never seeking to take his heavy-lidded gaze from her face.
“This evening is about you, darling, not me.”
Those words melted her nearly as much as the press of his thumbs along the center of her sole. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been anyone’s main focus, that her wants, needs, pleasure had taken precedence over another’s. “If that is truly the case, it would please me to know your tale so surely you should share it.”
