Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

“Yes, she does. She knew it before she came here, and I’ve just confirmed for her that the situation hasn’t changed.” He’d held her gaze throughout. “Any more questions on that subject?”

She blinked. “No. Not at the moment.”

“Good.” He tossed her on the bed.

She bounced once. Before she could grab it, he whipped her cloak off and flung it across the room.

He paused, then stepped back. His hands going to his coat buttons, he toed off his shoes; his eyes on her, he shrugged out of his tight-fitting evening coat, then pointed at her nightgown. “Take that off. If I do, it won’t survive.”

She hesitated. If she was naked, and so was he, rational discussion wouldn’t be high on his agenda. “First—”

“Minerva—take off the gown.”

Sixteen

Minerva—take off the gown.

The words resonated in the dimness between them. He’d packed them with more distilled power, more direct command, than he’d ever used with her before; his tone filled her female ears with primitive threat, and unstated promise.

A not-at-all-subtle reminder that he was the sort of nobleman no one even thought to deny. Certainly no woman. Of their own volition, her fingers shifted on the fine fabric draping her legs.

She realized and stilled them, then, hauling in a breath through lungs suddenly tight, sat up, curling her legs, faced him, and narrowed her eyes on his. “No.” She set her jaw, if not as hard, then at least as belligerently as he. “You didn’t so much as glance at me all evening, and now you want to see me naked?”

His implacability eased not one jot. He drew his cravat off, and dropped it. “Yes.” A heartbeat passed. “I didn’t glance at you—and I’m well aware it was for the whole damned evening—because everyone, literally everyone, was watching me, watching to see me and Helen, my recent mistress, interact, and if instead I’d looked at you, everyone else would have, too. And then they’d have wondered why—why instead of looking at my recent mistress I was looking at you. And not being entirely devoid of intelligence, they’d have guessed, correctly, that my distraction with you at such a moment was because you’re sharing my bed.”

He shrugged off his waistcoat. “I didn’t look your way once the entire evening because I wanted to avoid the speculation I knew would ensue, and I know you won’t like.” He looked down as he dropped the waistcoat on top of his coat; he paused, then lifted his head and met her eyes. “I also didn’t want my cousins getting any ideas about you—and they would if they knew you were sharing my bed.”

Truth—all truth. She heard it ring in every clipped, precise vowel and consonant. And the thought of his cousins approaching her—all the males were as sexually aggressive as he—had been the prod that had affected him most powerfully.

Before she could consider what that might mean, with a barely restrained tug he pulled his shirttails from his waistband.

His gaze lowered to her body, to the offending nightgown. “Take that damned gown off. If it’s still on you when I reach you, I’m going to shred it.”

Not a warning, not a threat, not even a promise—just a pragmatic statement of fact.

He was barely two yards away. She mentally threw up her hands and turned to draw the covers down so she could slip beneath them.

“No. Stay where you are.” His voice had lowered, deepened; his tone sent a primitive thrill racing up her spine. He spoke increasingly slowly. “Just take the gown off. Now.”

She turned back to face him. Her lungs had constricted again. She drew in a tight breath, then reached for the hem of the fine lawn gown, and drew it up, exposing her calves, her knees, her thighs, then, still sitting, her eyes locked on him, she wriggled and tugged until the long gown was bunched around her waist.

The roughness of his brocade counterpane rasped the bare skin of her legs and bottom—and she suddenly had an inkling of why he might want her naked on the bed, rather than in it.

And she wasn’t about to argue.

From the waist down, she was no longer sheathed in the gown, but the folds shielded her hips and stomach, and all the rest of her, from his gaze.

Her mouth suddenly dry, she

swallowed, then said, “Take off the shirt, and I’ll take off the gown.”

His gaze lifted from her naked thighs, locked with hers for an instant, then he grabbed the hem of his shirt and hauled it up and over his head.

She seized the instant—the barest fleeting instant—to drink in the arresting, arousing sight of his heavily muscled chest. Then he tore his hands free of the sleeves, dropped the shirt. His fingers reaching for the buttons at his waist, he stepped toward the bed.

Grabbing the folds of her nightgown, she hauled it up and off.

He was on her before she could pull her hands free. In a surging, muscled wave, he flattened her back on the bed.