It was wrong to be alone in a chamber with a man who was not her husband. Wrong to be this near, to allow him to touch her, to be on her knees for him. To want him. And somehow, that only made her want him more. He was cold and aloof with an edge of danger and command. There was no reason for her to long for him.
And yet, she did.
“Yes,” she told him. “Tell me what to do next. This is why I am here, is it not? To please you.”
“Any other man would be unbuttoning his trousers right now,” he growled, his thumb rubbing a trail of forbidden fire over her lower lip. “And thrusting his cock between these pretty, innocent lips of yours.”
His words shocked her.
Titillated her.
The act he described was wrong and vulgar and wicked. But she wanted it. She wanted to see him. Wanted to do wrong and very bad things with him. The realization was jarring.
“Why are you not doing so?” she dared to ask.
For a heavy, heady moment, he said nothing. He simply remained as he was, cupping her jaw, his thumb moving in tender swipes over the seam of her mouth, then tracing the Cupid’s bow of her upper lip. It was as though he were contemplating making good on his words.
But then, just as quickly as he had ordered her to her knees, he rescinded his touch. “Up with you.”
Disappointment mingled with the illicit thrill of excitement. “I thought I was meant to please you, Mr. Sutton.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said, his voice harsh. “Call me Hart, and on your feet, damn you.”
His sudden anger was as confusing as her reaction to his initial request was. Somehow, she had displeased him, and that had not been her intent. She rose, wondering what it was about the man before her that affected her so. Perhaps all the vicious rumors swirling about her were true, and she was a wanton. A scandalous hoyden. Morally deficient.
But what did any of that matter now?
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, searching his gaze.
His jaw was tense, a stern slash as he rubbed it with the hand that had so recently been on her face, touching her lips. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m merely tired. I need some rest, and so do you.”
Rest.He was concerned for her sleep? Once again, she did not know what to make of the stranger who had paid so handsomely for her innocence at The Garden of Flora. He remained a mystery, a forbidding figure who was at turns gentle and considerate and at others unpredictable. A man who had requested his sister share gowns with her, and then had abandoned her for hours, only to return in the wee hours of the morning, seemingly irritated and curt. Telling her she was here to give him pleasure and then refusing what she offered.
“I do not understand,” she said, still examining his countenance for any hint of what was happening behind those eyes of his, which in certain light gleamed green and brown and in others seemed almost gray.
Like the man himself, his eyes were constantly changing.
“You don’t have to understand,” he said tersely. “We both need to sleep. The day has been long and tiring.”
He did not know just how long. To Emma, it seemed eternal, as if it had neither beginning nor end. Her life had been forever altered, and so, too, had she.
“It has,” she agreed.
He turned away from her then, stalking to the bed and dragging one of the coverlets from it, along with a pillow, before placing it on the floor. “You’ll take the bed. I’ll sleep here. A few hours is all I need. Nothing more.”
“You need not give up your bed for me,” she protested, feeling guilty at the thought of him sleeping on the hard floor.
And how odd. Was he not intending to share a bed with her? The more time she spent in his enigmatic presence, the more her questions grew.
“Get in the bed, Emma,” he said, his firm tone discouraging further argument.
She was weary to her bones.
Perhaps she would be able to rest now, knowing he was near. The notion should have given her pause as she moved past him and into his bed. He startled her again by drawing the bedclothes over her.
“Sleep well, milady.”
Milady.
There it was, the reminder of who she had once been. The reminder of the woman she could never be again. Not after the scandal this Season, and not after what she had been forced to do, auctioning herself off at The Garden of Flora. What would become of her after the week came to an end?
The question was a burden in her chest, hanging heavy in her heart as she pulled the coverlets that smelled faintly of Hart Sutton more tightly around her, trying to find enough peace for sleep.