Sutton's Seduction (The Sinful Suttons 4)

Gingerly, taking great care to avoid coming into contact with his side, she lifted the tails of his shirt over his abdomen. The gash was revealed, still oozing blood, the stitches terribly uneven and clearly the handiwork of someone who did not often ply needle and thread.

“My poor darling,” she murmured, hating the sight.

Not because it was ugly and jagged, but because of the damage which had been dealt him. Because of the pain and the reminder that, had he been struck from a slightly different angle, had the blade traveled deeper, he may not be standing here with her at all. Instead of a vital, strong body blazing with warmth and so much life, he would be cold and ashen and lifeless.

“Here now,” he said. “No one’s ever called me their darling before.”

She jerked her gaze to his, and the clash of their stares was akin to a touch. It was a vibrant force she felt to her toes. “Have I displeased you?”

“No, sweetheart. You haven’t. You please me far too bleeding much.”

Emma did not know what to make of such a revelation. Were the spirits he had tippled responsible for both the endearment and the confession? Was it something else?

She tore her mind from the questions haunting her—foolish questions—and returned her attention to her initial purpose, which was assisting him to remove his shirt. Quickly, she whisked it over his head, making certain to avoid jostling him or coming into contact with his angry-looking wound.

His body was so nicely formed and so very masculine. She told herself not to look, to avert her gaze as she folded his shirt and laid it upon a nearby chair.

“Are you feeling well enough for the bath?” she asked, cursing herself for the thickness in her voice, the obvious sign she was not as unaffected by him as she wished.

That indeed, it was very much the opposite.

She longed for him, for his touch, his kiss. For his claiming of her.

Not now, you fool. He has been wounded.

“Never felt better,” he said lightly.

She was far too aware of his gaze on her, burning her with its intensity.

She bit her lip to tamp down another rush of desire. “I should leave you to your privacy, then.”

“You’ll not be going anywhere,” he told her. “I need you here with me.”

Those words sent warmth blossoming through her, generating far more heat than any fire ever could.

“Helping you,” she clarified.

“Helping me,” he agreed, his smile fading. “My boots next, if you please, milady.”

Milady.

The scornful endearment had returned. However, this time, it did not carry any sting. Instead, it was warm and smooth, sliding over her like a caress. Such power he wielded over her. Not because he was using her circumstances against her, and not because he was forcing her or making demands, but rather, because she wanted him. All he needed to do was look upon her as he was now, and he stole the breath from her lungs.

“Of course,” she said, her hands trembling with the intensity of her reaction to him.

She had never removed a man’s boots before, but the notion of performing such an intimate task for him filled her with a deep sense of contentment. She wanted to do this. Wanted to take care of him, to attend him. For her own gratification as much as to help him. Likely, she ought to be ashamed of herself. This new, wanton creature she had become bore scarcely any resemblance to the Lady Emma Morgan who had ruled supreme over her fellow debutantes her first Season.

But while she had spent the time since being compromised mourning the sudden alteration of her life, this was the first time she felt as if her life was again hers to command. The power was being restored to her, and oddly enough it was while she sank to her knees before a lowly born man from the rookeries, helping him to remove his boots.

They were a tight fit, and as she pulled, he stumbled forward, nearly losing his footing.

She glanced up at him, finding him bare-chested and handsome, a grimace of pain twisting his sensual lips. “Forgive me. It was not my intention to pull you off your feet.”

“You are strong for such a little wench.” Admiration laced his tone. “I’ll hold fast to this bleeding chair now. Try again.”

Bending to remove the footwear himself would prove almost impossible, if not terribly painful for him, given the injury in his side. She wondered what he would have done if she were not here. Would he have had to tend to himself? Would he have simply fallen into the bed, boots still on his feet, and gone to sleep?

The notion of him alone, no one there to tend him, filled her with a sharp, sudden sadness. Emma buried it and turned herself back to the task at hand. She glanced up at him from beneath lowered lashes, taking the opportunity to admire him even as she made certain he was prepared for her to tug at his boot again. His well-delineated muscles were truly mesmerizing. Such strength was caged in his chest and abdomen, in those arms with their flexing sinew as he gripped the chair.

Wounded, naked from the waist up, and spattered in the gore from whatever manner of fracas he had engaged in earlier, he looked wild and beautiful, dangerous and brutal. As far as one could reasonably find one’s self from a polite lord in a drawing room, bowing over her hand.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he urged, reminding her that she was staring in most impolite fashion, admiring him when she was meant to be removing his boot. “I am ready now. Give ’er a good, sound tug.”

Gripping the boot, she pulled with all her might. It came off in her hands, and she placed it by the chair, out of the way where it would not be tripped upon.

“Next foot, if you please,” she said primly, holding out her hands for the other piece of footwear to also be similarly removed.

He shifted his weight to the stocking-clad foot and proffered his other boot. “Forgive me, milady. I fear I’ve taken a bit too much of the strip-me-naked this evening. Ordinarily, I’m steadier on the old dew beaters than this.”

“It is understood. You must have required a fair amount of fortification before allowing anyone to stitch you up like that.”

“This ain’t the first time I’ve been pieced back together with needle and thread,” he said. “It won’t be the last.”