“Suspicion has kept me alive on numerous occasions. It’s a highly underrated characteristic.” He sent her a searching look. “What do you want, Charis?”
She sucked in a steadying breath, and he realized that beneath the flirtatious humor, she was nervous. The warning clang became more insistent. “I want you to allow me to do with you what I will.”
Charis resisted the urge to twine her hands together. She needed to convince Gideon she was a confident, self-aware woman, not a silly girl. Acting as jittery as a canary in front of a hungry cat wouldn’t advance her cause.
He angled one black eyebrow. “Which involves what?”
She bit her lip before she remembered she meant to appear nonchalantly assured. Raising her chin, she forced herself to meet his wary dark eyes. “Well, undressing you, for a start.”
Hot color seeped under her skin. Nonchalant assurance had never been likely. Even coherent speech seemed an unachievable goal. Surreptitiously, she wiped her palms on her skirts.
“I…see,” he said slowly.
She waited for more. Anger. Protest. A resounding no. But he remained silent. She rushed into speech. “It’s not salacious curiosity.”
His lips twitched slightly although she read growing resistance in his eyes. “I’m pleased to hear it.”
“This isn’t a joke, Gideon,” she said in a low urgent voice. “It’s important that you’ve kept your clothes on whenever we’ve…”
“Made love?”
“Yes,” she responded on a thread of sound. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird against her ribs. Not a sparrow. Something big and fierce like a vulture.
He leaned on the mantel, his long body elegant and powerful. The flames from the grate cast strange, flickering shadows over his face. For a moment, he looked devilish. She licked lips dry with nerves. His eyes fastened on the movement. The blatant interest reminded her she wasn’t completely powerless in this war. She stiffened her spine.
One gloved hand fisted on the mantel. His voice was silky with control. “So I hand myself over to your tender mercies? Do I have a choice?”
She knew he resented the way she undermined his defenses. She pressed her palms deeper into her skirts to hide their trembling. “You can say no.”
“Then you won’t share my bed tonight,” he said grimly.
Her heart somersaulted with astonishment. Did he know just what he admitted? “I won’t stay out of your bed to gain my way.” She licked her lips again. “You see, I can’t resist you either.”
His appearance of tranquility abruptly shattered. With a furious movement, he jerked away from the hearth. He was visibly shaking. For one horrified instant, she wondered if his affliction was returning. He grabbed the back of a chair, gripping it with hard fingers. “In Rangapindhi, I was tortured.”
“I know.”
She saw his throat move as he swallowed. “You’ll find my scars repulsive.”
She blinked with shock. This hadn’t occurred to her. Although if she’d thought, it should have. Spreading her hands, she spoke the truth in her heart. “I think you’re beautiful. A few marks on your skin won’t change that.”
His brief laugh held no amusement. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She stepped close enough to touch him. “Let me see.”
He released the chair. She recognized the gesture as a sign of reluctant acquiescence.
Very carefully she reached for the lapels of his black coat. The wool was warm from his skin. He braced under her touch although he didn’t retreat. She took this as tacit permission to continue.
Slowly, she slid the coat from his shoulders and down his arms, then lifted it away. His jaw was set as if she tortured him. He was rigid as an oak board.
Dear heaven, let her instincts lead her right. If Gideon endured this suffering for nothing, she
’d never forgive herself.
She tamped down guilt and fear as she turned to lay the coat over the chair. Something deeper than dread or compassion told her that until he let her see him without the armor of clothing, his essential self would stay hidden.
Her heart careening in a mad race, she steeled herself to face him. He’d dressed more formally than usual tonight. He stood before her in an exquisite white waistcoat, embroidered with silver vines. A snowy neckcloth. Shirt. Biscuit trousers. His hands, as always, were encased in gloves. Tonight, white evening gloves like the ones a dandy wore to a ball.