Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(8)

“Feet seem calming?” His growl turned to a chuckle.

“Are you going to question everything I say?” This was not going at all the way she had planned—in fact, she could never have imagined its going like this. She turned and paced away, trying to decide what to do next.

“Don’t go,” he said.

“I thought you said you couldn’t see.” She turned back, suddenly frightened.

“I can’t, but I can hear.”

Had she made noise? She supposed even with bare feet there’d be some soft treading upon the carpet. “Oh.” She stood there not knowing what to do next. She’d hardly glanced at him beyond his slippers.

She let her gaze slide up. Black trousers. Silk. Very loose, not at all the normal fit. And a robe—gray, some type of brocade. Very thick and soft. That was what she’d seen when he’d first come in.

“Do you still wish me to remove my slippers? Will it make you feel more at ease? Even without seeing I can feel how stiff you are.”

He could? “Yes, please, but only if you customarily do. I want everything to be normal.”

“Normal. I told Ruby I wasn’t the man for this,” he said in a whisper surely not meant for her ears. And then much louder, “I can assure you that I do remove my shoes, although on occasion I enjoy keeping on my boots.”

She swallowed and hoped he couldn’t hear. He kept on his boots? Shoes she could almost understand, but boots? Why would a man wear boots when he …

This really was all too confusing. She should go—only her confusion showed beyond a doubt that she had much to learn if she ever wished to pretend she was not inexperienced in marital matters.

“Yes. Please take off your slippers.” That sounded calm, in control.

Lifting one leg, he toed off one shoe and then the other until his feet were naked. Naked feet. She’d never thought of them in that fashion, but now—now she could think of nothing else. His feet were naked. Large toes peppered with dark hair. Tanned skin. Did he go outside without his shoes? She felt breathless at the thought.

She took a step closer, her eyes still locked on his feet. She wanted to touch them, to stroke the hairs and see if they were soft or … What was she thinking? It was good that he couldn’t see her or he’d know she looked like a beet.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to take off?”

Louisa’s gaze shot up to his face—or at least to where his face should have been. The mask was quite disconcerting. Not ugly, but so blank. She wanted to see him, to see his eyes, his lips—to know what he was thinking.

“Take off the mas … your robe.” No, she did not want to see his face, to risk recognition. This was better, impersonal. If she saw him she might always remember him. This way she could plaster John’s face over his in her thoughts.

That was it. She would pretend this was truly her wedding night and that he was John.

“My robe? If that is what you wish.” He untied the belt at the waist and let the brocade drift open.

He was not wearing a shirt!

His bare chest stood before her in the flickering light of candle and fire. All she could do was stare. He had muscles—muscles like the men she’d seen digging in the fields. Muscles like a laborer. She’d never imagined that a gentleman would have such a chest. They seemed so much thinner within their shirts. And hair. His chest had hair—not a lot, but dark and definite. Did many men? She’d never been close enough to the fields to see, and John had not—not that she’d ever gotten a good look at him either.

She’d always pictured smooth skin—more like her own, or like a young babe’s.

Perhaps he was a workman. Madame had never said who he was, what he did. It was only in her own mind that Louisa had pictured a gentleman like her husband.

She stepped closer. She could feel the heat rising off his body, see each breath rise within his chest. His small nipples looked almost like—like raisins. She wanted to see if they tasted as sweet.

She wanted to nibble, to bite, to touch.

Her hand moved toward him without thought, the fingers stretching out.

She forced it back, locked both hands at her sides. Nobody had told her she might feel this way. Was she supposed to? She knew her mother would have been horrified.

“You can touch if you like,” he said. “I felt the air move, knew what you wanted.”

Her lungs caught. What she wanted. Yes, that was what she wanted. “Do women touch? Is it acceptable?” She reached out her fingers, held them just above his heart, but did not settle them on his skin.

“Yes, women touch. Men like it when women touch.” He took a tiny step forward until her fingers were upon his flesh. A small shiver took him—and her—at that meeting of skin.

He was so warm, so hot. His flesh felt as if it would burn her fingers. She rubbed them across his chest, loving the rough feeling of his hair beneath her palm. He moved like a cat beneath her, his chest expanding to meet her every touch.

“Can I smell?” she asked.

“Smell?”

“Are you going to repeat everything as a question? Is it acceptable for me to see what you smell like, what scent you use?”

She felt his chuckle beneath her fingers, vibrating throughout his chest. “Yes, you can smell me, sniff me—do whatever you like. This is your evening. It is about your pleasure.”