A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(43)

And just when she had decided to turn, face him, and brazenly offer herself for his pleasure, he took a step back. Suddenly cold, she hugged herself tight and shivered.

“We’ll take things slowly,” he said, twining a finger through the loose strands of hair at her temple. “May I take your hair down?”

She nodded. After pausing to take a hairbrush from the dressing table, he guided her to sit at the foot of the bed and then knelt behind her. It made Bel increasingly anxious, how much time he was spending behind her. She couldn’t comfort herself by focusing on his warm eyes or his easy grin. He was all seductive touch and smooth whispers and masculine heat. She couldn’t see him; she could only feel him. Hear him. Breathe the last traces of his expensive cologne as they evaporated into the natural musk of his skin.

“Here.” He teased a pearl-studded pin from her hair and held it above her left shoulder. Bel held up her open palm to receive it. Soon another pin joined the first, and another and another

—until her hair tumbled free down her back, the blunt ends just brushing the coverlet. She curled her fingers over the clutch of pins, unsure what to do with them.

“Magnificent,” he murmured, lifting her hair and allowing it to spill over her shoulders and around her br**sts. “Like black silk.” He tugged the brush through her hair in a long, slow motion, stroking a wave of delicious pleasure from her scalp to the base of her spine. Behind her, Toby made a strange sound in his throat. “It’s like pulling a brush through water. Do you know I’ve dreamed of doing this?”

Had he, truly? Dreamed of this? Bel had experienced some rather intimate dreams of her own the past few weeks. None of them so specific as brushing hair. No, her own dreams were restless and vague and shadowy and just never quite complete. With expert care, he worked his way through each section of her hair. A pleasant languor settled over Bel as he brushed, and the knot of tension in her belly began to uncoil. She closed her eyes, bracing her weight on her right hand and still clutching the handful of hairpins in the left.

“Isabel?”

“Mmm.”

“You do understand, don’t you? What occurs between a husband and wife?”

“Yes, I—” She winced as the brush snagged on a hidden tangle. “I understand.” At least, she comprehended the basic idea. Even without reading That Book, she’d lived too rural a life to grow up completely innocent of mating.

“Did your …” Toby cleared his throat, then continued in a tone of false nonchalance. “Did your sister speak with you, tell you what to expect?”

“No, no. That is, Sophia offered.” His hand jerked slightly when she said the name. Oh, how unspeakably embarrassing this was! “But as I said, I already understood the general concept, and I told her … I told her I would prefer to learn the rest from you.”

He set the brush aside. “Did you?”

“Yes, of course.” She craned her neck, needing to see his expression. Had she done the right thing? To her relief, he looked pleased. “I trust you will explain to me anything you wish me to know. And if there are things you do not wish me to know—well then, it is best they remain unexplained.”

A puzzled smile appeared on his face. “Thank you. I think.” He swept a heavy lock of hair behind her ear. Their gazes met, and she caught a peculiar glimmer in his eyes. “Your trust humbles me.”

“Well, I find myself quite humbled by my ignorance, so perhaps we are well matched in that respect.”

He moved to sit beside her at the edge of the bed, taking her open hand in his. “I believe we are well matched, in many respects.”

She blushed and stared down at their interlaced fingers. His thumb stroked idly back and forth across the back of her hand. So gentle, so soothing—even though his uneven breath betrayed his growing passion. Truly, she had the best, most patient of husbands. How could she not give him her trust?

“Besides,” she said haltingly, “it’s clear you have considerable experience with …” She cast a darting glance over her shoulder, toward the vast expanse of mattress. “With this. How could I doubt your ability to guide me?”

“Considerable experience?” He laughed. “Again, I thank you. I think. Darling, my experience

—while not negligible—is probably less than you imagine.”

“But—” Bel paused, thinking of the scandal sheets tallying his paramours.

“But what? Don’t tell me you’ve been reading The Prattler?”

She slanted her gaze to the floor. “Not purposely.”

“I’ve told you, don’t believe all you read in the newspapers.” He squeezed her hand. “Isabel, I’m not a monk. But though I may flirt with every debutante to flounce in my direction, when it comes to …” His eyes darted toward the bed. “To this, there haven’t been so many as the papers imply. There haven’t been any, actually, in some time. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“That you are selective and principled?”

He chuckled. “You always give me too much credit. I’m telling you that I’m quite desperate for you.” He let go of her hand and caressed her cheek. Then her bottom lip. The smooth charm in his voice gave way to raw need as the distance between them narrowed. “I’ve been waiting for you, for a very long time.”