Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(61)
She’d seen him without clothing, but she wasn’t sure she had ever seen him naked.
The servants filled the bath with ewer after ewer of steaming water. Her maid fussed around, setting out soap and towels, crushing petals and pouring oils into the water, preparing a rinse of elderflower tea and willowbark for her hair. The woman glanced once at Ned, who watched the proceedings from a chair, but she made no mention of his presence.
When the woman came up behind Kate and set her hands on the laces of her gown, though, Ned spoke. “I’ll take it from here,” he said, his tone calm, as if it were an everyday occurrence that he undressed his wife for her bath. “You may leave.”
The servants were too well-trained to smile knowingly. But Kate’s maid sent a glance to Ned and, without a flicker of emotion crossing her face, walked to the chest of drawers and removed another stack of towels. As if they might spill water all over the place. And how that would happen… Kate’s cheeks heated. The maid set these next to the original set and then left the room, closing the door behind her.
“Does that blush go all the way down?” Ned walked up to her. His finger traced the meaning of his words—the pink, flushed skin of her neckline, vanishing into the lace at her bodice.
She heated further. “I—oh—”
“Nothing to be done now,” he said. “They all believe we’re indulging our carnal desires. If we don’t do anything, they’ll talk of that, too. We might as well make the best of this.”
He set his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently around. She felt his hands on her laces. She’d been dressed and undressed thousands of times in her life. She’d felt her maids’ hands tug on those crisscrossed ties too many times to count. But they’d never been his hands—big, strong, warm, caressing…yanking?
“Ned, what are you doing back there?”
“They’re stuck.” He sounded confused. “I just pulled this one bit here, and then it knotted, and now this part over here is all tangled. Is this some sort of cruel joke?”
She frowned and peered over her shoulder to see what he was talking about. Then she bit back a smile. “I suppose, in a manner of speaking. Women call that cruel joke a bow.”
“I disapprove. What on earth is wrong with buttons?”
“Laces allow a gown to fit the form more closely. Don’t pull so hard. You’re just going to tangle them more.”
There was a longer pause, followed by another tug.
“Ned, do I need to call my maid back in?”
“I can take off my wife’s gown without help, thank you. Ah, there! These bits are looped together. Cleverly designed to foil a husband’s hands. I see how it is. I’ll have to have a discussion with your dressmaker.”
Kate felt her gown loosen around her. His hands were gentle, going up to her shoulders and settling there. “Next time,” she said through a grin, “I shall ask my maid to leave the instruction booklet next to the towels. I see why you preferred the wall. No removal of clothing necessary.”
It was probably the least efficient undressing Kate had ever undergone. But there was something sweet in all his fumbling. The hesitance with which he eased the muslin off her shoulders warmed her heart. The touch of his hands tingled against her skin as he gently disengaged her arms from her sleeves. The cool air that flowed over her as he gently slid the gown to her waist brought her arms out in gooseflesh.
Then there was the coarse mutter when he’d got the gown off her.
“Christ. There’s another damned set of laces on your corset.”
“Actually, there are two of them, interlacing. You wanted to see me naked, Ned.”
“You’re the one who donned all this clothing in the first place. I never realized it, but fashion was clearly invented to encourage celibacy. Admit it: these were invented to bedevil a man in the throes of lust.”
“I think it’s more about creating a silhouette that is pleasing to the male eye.”
“What’s wrong with your silhouette?” He attacked her corset laces with perhaps more enthusiasm than finesse, but eventually the strings loosened and the garment came off.
Kate took a deep breath, filling her lungs. “I have a confession to make, Ned. And it’s terrible. No, not terrible—it’s awful.” She felt his hands come to a standstill on her. They rested against her waist for a second, pressing as if to hold her upright.
He moved around her and took her hands. His eyes were clear and guileless. “What is it? Is it about Lady Harcroft?”
She squeezed his hands back. “No.” She looked up into his eyes and licked her lips. She dropped her voice, and he leaned in to hear her. “After our walk this morning,” she confessed, “I went back up to my room. And I put on four petticoats.”
He laughed, and his hands contracted around hers. “That is bad. But I see buttons. There is hope, after all.” There was hope. If she and Ned could find this enjoyment together, after all the mistakes in their past, they might solve the problems with Louisa. They might grow to trust one another, maybe even love one another. In ten years, they would laugh about these times.
He managed her petticoats with some semblance of grace. And when he’d removed the last one—when she was stripped to her shift—he knelt before her. She reached out and set her hands in his hair. It was disheveled—she’d made it so, she realized, grasping his head to hers in that frenzied coupling downstairs. It was soft to her touch, and still too long. He took the hem of her shift in his hands and then, as he stood, stripped it off her.