Page 7 of The Duchess in His Bed
She shook her head, and he wondered about the man who had placed it on her finger, and how she wanted it to remain there. If she loved him, would she be here? Hell, Lady Aslyn visited on occasion and she adored his brother. Sometimes a lady just needed to escape for a while.
He rolled the glove back into place, trailing his finger along the soft flesh of the inside of her arm where the glove did not reach. “I’m waiting, sweetheart, for your story.”
She brought the glass to her lips, delaying the telling, and he rather regretted not deigning to join her, but he did have a rule about not becoming overly familiar with his guests because fraternizing too much wasn’t good for business. Like his siblings, he was very much aware that his fortunes rested on taking care of his enterprises. Those in his family were born of scandal, and it still dogged their heels, and while he sometimes skirted the edge of impropriety, he didn’t do it here, never here. Yet she tempted him in ways no other woman ever had.
After licking her lips, she turned her attention to the shadows. “I told you of the clover.”
“You’ve more interesting tales than that.”
Her gaze swung back around to him. “Not really. It’s the reason I’m here.”
Not for a single minute did he believe she was as boring as all that, but he also knew when not to push. “Finish off your wine. I’ll show you another room of entertainment.”
He liked watching the way her delicate throat muscles worked as she swallowed. There was not a solitary aspect to her that did not draw him in. He wondered if he took her to a room cloaked in blackness if she would remove the mask and allow him to outline her features with his fingertips. He’d always had a knack for drawing things and thought if he traced her features, he could transfer them to paper.
She’d barely gathered the last drop on her tongue when a handsome lad—they were all handsome; Lavinia had convinced him the ladies would appreciate fine scenery wandering through the establishment—barely twenty was taking her empty glass and offering her a full one.
“We’re done here,” he told the servant, surprised by the gruffness of his tone, the curtness of it.
Jasper must have been surprised as well because his eyes widened considerably before he gave a quick bob of his head and made a hasty retreat.
Aiden felt her speculating gaze on him, more than he saw it. He had an urge to apologize to her, to the lad, but he was not in the habit of apologizing, and an apology might lead to him having to confess he didn’t much like the idea of any of his lads fawning over her—even though that’s what he paid them to do. Make the ladies feel special so they would return in order to feel special again.
“I’ll need my shoes.” She surprised him by her absence of a comment on his earlier reaction.
“No, you won’t. As I said, the floor is clean. Why close those lovely feet in leather when there is no need?”
Standing, he took her hand and helped her rise to her feet. Without her shoes, the top of her head came to his shoulder, and he didn’t want to consider how much he might like tucking her cheek into the curve there, an odd thought for a man who never tucked women in close. He liked them well enough, enjoyed their company immensely, but wasn’t one for offering hugs when they were in need of them. Tears usually had him searching for the nearest escape. He didn’t simply hold and comfort for the sake of simply holding and comforting. He liked having a jolly good time.
Tonight he was not acting himself: lounging about with a woman, giving her attention, excluding all others. Perhaps it was merely the mystery of her. But others wore masks and he wasn’t slavering to know details about them. He should hand her off to one of the attention-givers but he feared he’d then find fault with how much attention the gent was giving her. If it wasn’t enough, he’d be angry because she was doing without. If too much was lavished upon her, he’d be furious because he wasn’t the one doing the lavishing.
If she was aware of his rioting thoughts, she gave no indication, merely tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as though it belonged there. The wine had done the trick. She was more relaxed, more at ease. Strange how he was suddenly more tense.
Taking his time, he guided her into the next room, one that Lavinia had insisted would appeal to the ladies, one he referred to in private as the Wallflower Parlor, although to his guests it was merely a ballroom, like any other they’d visited before, but within these walls they were guaranteed a waltz with a charming gent. Although he’d have preferred to provide employment for the poorer among them, he’d needed fellows of a certain caliber to entertain his ladies, men who spoke with a bit of polish and knew how to dress to please in jackets, waistcoats, and cravats. Most of his visible male staff had been trained to take a position in some posh house as a footman. Here they earned double what they would have elsewhere.
“I’d not expected dancing,” she murmured.
A few ladies lined the edge of the dance floor, awaiting their turn, knowing they would soon circle about the floor. No female here was ever neglected.
“Perhaps you would care for a waltz?” He never danced with his patrons, but he wanted to hold her in his arms, sweep her over the polished parquetry. The fact that he’d never waltzed in his life would hardly serve as a deterrent to something he desired. Lavinia had taught him the basics, thinking it might come in useful at some point, that he might wish to dance with one of his guests. He hated to give her credit for being correct. While she was now his sister-by-marriage, he was still struggling to forgive her completely for the horrid past she’d wrought upon his brother.
Selena shook her head. “I am not here to dance.”
“You have no interest in gaming, in feasting, in dancing. Why are you here then, darling?”
With a bit of obstinance and daring, she met and held his gaze. “I am here to be bedded.”
Chapter 3
Growing up in the rookeries had taught him to never show exactly what he felt so he didn’t allow so much as a muscle in his cheek to tic, but the bluntness of her words took him off guard. As did the fact that she continued to hold his gaze as though she hadn’t said something outrageous. He wanted to tear off the damn mask and see if she was blushing. If she was, it was only her cheeks because her chin remained a pale alabaster, with no hint whatsoever of pink or a warming.
He didn’t like at all the singular purpose for which she’d come to his club, and the irony was not lost on him. He reveled in sin, enjoyed his role in introducing people to vice. It was unlikely he was headed to heaven and so he fully intended to enjoy the ride that would deliver him to hell. He understood people had urges, had never understood why fault was found with people satisfying those urges—in or out of marriage.
Yet at that moment he wanted her to be more discerning in her tastes, her desires. He didn’t want her interested in the act alone. He wanted her interested in engaging in the act because of how madly she was drawn to someone in particular, drawn to him. What the devil was the matter with him?
“If you look closely, you’ll see that some of the gents wear a red button on their left lapel. They will provide that service for you.” He said the words flatly and yet an unwelcomed tightness was building within him like a volcano on the verge of erupting.
“I’m not interested in them. You intrigue me, Mr. Trewlove. You are the one I want.”
