Trial by Desire (Carhart 2)

“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.

Finally, she was naked before him. He held her last muslin undergarment balled up in his hands and looked at her. He just looked, his eyes traveling from her legs up her waist, to her breasts. She felt her nipples point under his gaze.

He made a motion with his finger. “Would you…” He paused and swallowed. “Would you turn around?”

She did. He hissed as she did so. His hand fell on her shoulder. “What’s this?”

His fingers rubbed a sore spot. “Harcroft threw me against the doorframe in the hallway.”

He made no response. Instead, he pressed his hand over that spot, as if he could simply warm the bruise away. His hands skimmed down her back, cupped her buttocks. They came to rest, once again, on her hips. “What are these?”

She glanced down her own body. There, on either side of her hips, was a faint red mark. She knew where she’d got those without even thinking. She could still feel his hands there, pressing her, holding her, as he’d thrust into her. “That’s where you held me downstairs.”

“Oh, God. Kate. I’m sorry. I’m no better than Harcroft, doing you injury when—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It didn’t hurt. And if you think that I shall let you treat me as if I’m made of glass, you’re mistaken. You told me I was strong. Well, don’t see bruises when you look at me. See me.”

He looked in her eyes and then nodded once, jerkily.

For all that controlled power in his movement—for all the strength of the arms that had held her up against the wall—he was still gentle. He turned from her and took off his own coat, and then his waistcoat. He folded up the cuffs of his sleeves, matter-of-factly, as if he didn’t realize the effect that glimpse of wrist—masculine and strong, with that gold fuzz of hair—would have on her.

He turned back, and whatever emotion had gripped him earlier, he’d banished it. At least, Kate could not see it on his features any longer. He walked to her and then lifted her in his arms. She fit there, falling against him. And then he walked her to the bath and laid her gently in.

She hissed as the hot water enveloped her. Lilac-scented steam swirled about her. Next to her, he dipped a cloth in the water and then rubbed a bit of soap into it. The bar released a powerful scent, complex and unexplainable. It smelled of cultivated gardens and civilized walks; simultaneously, it reminded her of flowers in a riot across a field, not hedged in or clipped into compliance.

He really did intend to give her a bath. The rough fabric of the washcloth rubbed against her neck, over and over. He massaged her over and over, her shoulders, her back. She could feel his ministrations down her spine. Her every muscle loosened, soaking in the heat of the bath and the pleasure of his touch. And then he was washing her breasts, the undersides in sweeps of the cloth, the nipples with tender touches.

He focused on her arms with as much care as he had her breasts. He pulled her foot from the tub and covered it in suds, massaging the worries from her; then the other foot. And then his cloth dipped under the water and his hands went up her legs, slowly but surely, past her calves, her knees. Her thighs parted for him, and the cloth dipped between her legs.

There. Yes, there. She was still sensitive for him. He would touch her more. He would join her here in the copper tub—don’t ask where, there was no room for him.

“Ned?”

He pulled the pins from her hair in answer and dipped a pitcher into the water. His hands shielded her face from the splash as he poured the heated liquid over her head. His fingers found her scalp. There should have been no touch more intimate than that of his fingers between her legs, but somehow this was it—the feel of his hands rubbing her scalp, finding the tension she’d stored there and releasing it into the water. Another splash, as he rinsed her off.

She blinked the water from her eyes and looked at him.

He was watching her with a startling intensity.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She felt not just clean, but free, unbowed by any of the worries that had plagued her in recent weeks. “Thank you, Ned.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

She stood, and water cascaded down her shoulders. His attention was riveted on her. He stared at her, as if she were Venus arisen from the sea—as if she were one of those paintings where Venus had dry hair that curled beguilingly, not wet, bedraggled strings.

He didn’t seem to notice the difference.

He took a towel from the stack and set it around her shoulders as she climbed out of the bath. He dabbed her hair to dampness, and then knelt before her. The towel brushed against her thighs and she let o

ut a low moan.

At that sound, he looked up into her eyes. It was as if a current passed between them. She felt hotter, more liquid in his gaze. Without taking his eyes from her, he leaned forward. He licked his lips. And then he planted a kiss between her legs. It was tender at first, a mere touch of his lips. Then his tongue parted her folds. His hands came to her hips. She was melting beneath him; his tongue slipped back and forth, tasting her own liquid. She shut her eyes, but that only intensified the sensation, the feel of dark waters rising about her, enfolding her in their warm embrace.

He’d already robbed her muscles of their tension. With this, he seemed to steal all the remaining frustration from her nerves. She could feel it all building inside her, sweet, undeniably sweet—and then it crashed down on her, and she shuddered against him. Her muscles ceased to work. She could not hold herself upright.

It didn’t matter. He was holding her now. She wasn’t sure when he’d stood; clearly sometime after he’d brought her to ecstasy. His hand slipped down to find hers, and then he was leading her out of the room and into her own bedchamber.

The sun was setting, casting rays of red light against her skin. He led her to her bed, and then, deliberately, slowly, he pulled his shirt over his head. His muscles rippled as he removed the fabric. Still, he’d not said a word.

He didn’t need to.

He removed his boots and stockings, and then pulled his breeches down. He was erect; when he leaned down over her, his mouth questing for hers, she found his member. He was hard; she squeezed, and he pulsed in her hand.

She pulled away from his kiss. “Let me inside, Ned.”

His pupils dilated. He didn’t say anything, but he leaned against her, pushing her into the mattress. One hand captured her wrist, holding her there. He spread her legs and then she felt his hand guiding his member to her sex.

Her body welcomed his. She gave a quiet gasp at that feel—so new, and yet so familiar. He was stretching her out. Her hips rose to his. She was sensitive still, so sensitive; with his member inside her, that delicious ache began once more.