Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(27)

She kept her gaze strictly on her hand.

Still, it was impossible to ignore the elegant sweep of his collarbone, the bulge of his upper arm, the way a single vein ran along the inside of his forearm …

She realized that her hand had slowed along his arm. The room was very quiet. Nicoletta had left with the dirty water and Ubertino was somewhere, perhaps fetching more clean water. She and the duke were alone in the bedroom with her hands on his body.

She daren’t raise her eyes to his.

She took his hand in hers and ran the cloth over the veins that roped the back. His fingers were long and strong, and they dwarfed hers, the nails square and pale. She carefully washed each one and then cupped his hand in hers to wash his palm. It was an intimate act. A … caring act. One a mother might perform for a child.

Or a woman might perform for her lover.

Iris caught her breath and straightened to rinse the cloth.

When she turned back her gaze caught his.

He was watching her, his crystal eyes half-lidded, his twisted lips parted.

She felt something inside her clench.

She looked away, hastily wiping his hand and arm free of the soap.

The bedroom door opened and Nicoletta entered, bringing fresh water.

Iris concentrated on her cloth as she soaped it again.

She nudged his arm to wash under it, where his dark hair grew in a swirl.

Where the scent of his masculinity was the strongest.

She shouldn’t find this erotic. A lady shouldn’t find this erotic.

And yet she did.

His lifted arm made the muscles over his ribs stand out in intriguing ridges, and she wanted—rather badly, in fact—to lean down and inhale his scent.

She bit her lip.

Nicoletta poured the dirty water out of the basin, the sound bringing Iris out of her reverie. She glanced up to see that the maidservant wasn’t even looking in her direction.

Evidently Nicoletta hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

Thank God for that.

Iris couldn’t meet Dyemore’s eyes again. Her awareness was too volatile. If she caught his gaze she might combust.

For the first time the thought of sharing a marriage bed with this man seemed not only possible, but also something she could look forward to.

Nicoletta began washing the duke’s wounded arm and shoulder as Iris turned to his chest.

She gulped as she looked down.

He had nipples.

Naturally.

All men—and women and children and even babies—had nipples. It was just that normally ladies didn’t see a gentleman’s nipples, and before, when he’d been wounded, she hadn’t had the time to stare.

Iris cleared her throat and rubbed in small circles on his upper chest, moving downward, toward one of those nipples. They were just little bits of flesh, weren’t they? A deeper color, certainly, than the surrounding skin, and creped, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Her breath caught as she swept over his nipple with the cloth. Did he feel that? Did it feel any different from the rest of his skin? Did he feel as she did when cloth brushed over her bare nipples?

She dared to peek from under her lowered eyelashes.

His nostrils were flared, his eyes mere slits.

And his nipple was erect now, a sharp little peak on his chest.

It might’ve been from the cold of the water and the air.

Perhaps.

She washed down his side and to his waist where the coverlet lay, watching as he sucked his stomach in at her touch. There was a whorl of black hair about his navel that trailed into the depths of the sheets.

She swallowed.

He was covered, of course, but she knew what lay beneath the sheets—she’d seen him entirely nude at the Lords’ revels. She had the image burned into her memory: a proud, thick penis, heavy sac, and curling midnight hair. If the coverlet slipped just a little bit downward, she would see the upper edge of that nest of black hair.

The thought made her press her thighs together under her dress.

Did he know how his body affected her?

Hastily she forced her hand to move—away from that dangerous coverlet. She worked her way back up, over that flat plain, over ribs, to his chest. She washed the hair in the center of his chest and then gently circled his right nipple, feeling her insides heat and melt even as the bit of flesh grew hard and dark.

Suddenly her wrist was caught. “Enough.”

She straightened guiltily.

His cold eyes met hers. “Are you done?”

She tugged her wrist, but even weakened by illness, his grip was firm. “Your back and the rest of your—”

“I think you are done for now, my duchess,” he rasped, his voice deep and hard.

Had he noticed her too-intent attention? Had she offended him? She searched his face, looking for anger or condemnation, but could find neither. In fact it was almost impossible to read any expression there. He didn’t reveal anything of himself, she suddenly realized. He kept all his emotions, all his thoughts hidden behind crystal eyes and a scarred face.

He simply watched her.

It was maddening.

She licked her lips. “I think you’d rest better if your bath were finished.”

“No doubt.” He let her wrist go. “Ubertino can help me with the remainder.”

“And Nicoletta?” She glanced at the maidservant. Nicoletta was carefully washing around the bandages. She had her head down, but Iris wasn’t so silly as to think that the maidservant wasn’t paying sharp attention to her master and mistress.