Cheryl Holt (2 page)

For once, she had no inclination to rescue Hugh. She’d delivered him from one debacle after the next until he’d begun to erroneously assume that she could rectify any exigency, and he obviously thought she was prepared, on this occasion, to work another miracle. Unfortunately, her patience had finally been exhausted, and her stamina for weathering another calamity had vanished.

She’d had months to brace herself for the sordid conclusion that was approaching; she’d felt it down to the marrow of her bones. All through the winter and spring, she’d kept peeking over her shoulder, as though Doom was lurking there, ready to overtake her when she least suspected it. Yet, her destiny had quietly arrived in the form of a nameless, faceless gambler.

Who was the man foolhardy enough to wager for Hugh’s pitiful belongings? Down to the candle holders on the walls, it would all go. Such a meager pile! Who would want it? Who would be that greedy? Clearly, the blackguard was more addicted to gaming than Hugh. What a sorry individual he must be!

A knock sounded on the door, and she rose slowly and trudged to admit the serving maid and a quartet of burly men who carried large jugs of hot water for the bathing tub awaiting her in the adjoining dressing room. As they grappled with their task, she relaxed on a chair beside the fire, eyes closed, ears peeled, eagerly listening as the water splashed into and filled the basin.

A real bath! The maid had offered one, and Sarah had selfishly accepted the luxury. At home, she never had a full bath anymore. There were only a few elderly servants remaining, and she never had the heart to obligate any of them to lug the heavy load upstairs.

Her personal washing was done in the kitchens after supper, quick swipes with a cloth. How exotic it seemed to have the opportunity to immerse her body! The thrill she
eceived just from thinking about it only underscored the miserably low level to which her fortunes had descended.

The men—buckets empty—departed, and Sarah had the maid unfasten her gown and corset, then she ushered the woman out. This extravagance was one she deigned to enjoy at length and privately.

With modest complications, she shed her dress and most of her undergarments. Clad only in a chemise that hung to mid-thigh, she went to the inner chamber. The room was small and cozy. A miniature brazier, the coals aflame and glowing, heated the air. A painted screen was set against one wall, and the tub hidden behind it.

Sarah approached. Steam drifted up, and she dangled her fingers, checking the temperature. On a nearby vanity lay a stack of towels, soaps, and other bathing accouterments. She opened bottles and sniffed at the contents, locating a rose-scented oil and adding it to the vaporous mixture.

Ready to begin, she almost stepped in, then paused. A sudden whim to be daring and bold ensnared her, so she reached for the hem of her chemise and pulled it over her head.

She’d bathe in the nude! She never had before, but who would know? The maid had been dismissed, she was far from home, on her own. Within reason, she could engage in any scandalous behavior without detection.

Feeling naughty and audacious, she spun about and saw her reflection in a mirror positioned next to the tub. Entranced, she realized that she couldn’t remember when she’d ever inspected her nude torso.

As though taking inventory of a stranger, she tipped from side to side, searching for attributes and checking for flaws. Ultimately, she decided that she was beholding a fetching woman, slim, rounded, with stunning emerald eyes and glorious auburn hair. Her body curved appropriately—expansive at the shoulder, narrow at the waist, flared at the hips—and her slender legs made her appear taller than she was.

Shifting, she appraised her profile, but the stance highlighted
her breasts in a manner that was as enticing as it was disturbing. She couldn’t quit looking, and she was overcome by the disquieting notion that this was why one didn’t parade about naked. Too many unsettling and unusual sensations were provoked.

Under her visual inspection, her breasts felt fuller, heavier, and her pink nipples hardened into two taut little buds—just as they had when she’d been spying on the two lovers in the yard. Curious, she rested her palm against one of the extended tips, and the action brought about a flurry of physical agitation.

Her nipples started to ache and throb. With each beat of her heart, the pulsation hammered through her chest. It progressed down her abdomen to lodge deep inside, at the core of her womb, causing it to shift and awaken. The woman’s spot between her legs seemed to expand and moisten.

Unexpectedly, she was deluged by a wave of longing so intense that she nearly crumpled under its strength, and she grabbed for the rim of the tub to steady herself from the onslaught. The impression was puzzling to describe. She craved . . . though
what
she couldn’t have explained.

Surprisingly, she envisioned the couple in the garden again, and she scrutinized her smooth, bare flank, remembering how the man had stroked the woman’s buttocks, how he’d levered her closer. She recalled how the pair had slipped into the dark, and she speculated about what had occurred once they were in a more remote area. What sorts of mysterious things had the man done to the woman?

The proceedings were beyond the ken of a virginal spinster, but she couldn’t help wondering. Apparently, her imagination was quite vivid, for the mental pictures increased her agonizing awareness of her breasts.

“Craziness,” she muttered. Craziness to be alone and retired for the evening, and ruminating over lewd riddles.

Disgusted with herself, she plucked her roving hands from her body and locked them around the edges of the tub where they would stay out of trouble.

Carefully, she sank down, and she hissed out a breath
as she landed on her knees, and the blistering liquid slapped at her thighs. She proceeded with scrubbing her various parts, but much of the pleasure she’d hoped to delight in had disappeared. Every place she touched reacted. The rough nap of the washcloth aggravated her receptive flesh, so she gave up, sliding farther into the basin and reclining as much as she was able.

Struggling to relax, she balanced on her arms and tipped her head back, relishing the warmth. At some point, fatigue overwhelmed her, and she dozed. When she opened her eyes again, she’d slept for quite a while. The water had cooled, so she stood, letting it sluice off her skin, then she climbed out onto the rug and snatched one of the towels.

Commencing at her neck, she worked across her breasts, her stomach. Briefly, she rasped across the delicate cleft between her legs, but she didn’t care for the stimulation it induced, so she bent over and rubbed down thigh and calf. As she straightened, movement captured her attention, and she glanced into the mirror.

A man was lounging behind her, perfectly at home, and casually viewing all! The sight was so startling that she was temporarily paralyzed, incapable of processing what she was witnessing. His appearance seemed like a dream, and she narrowed her focus at his reflection, grappling to make sense of the bizarre development.

Not an illusion, he was really and truly there.

Tall, with trimmed black hair and striking sapphire eyes, he was a ravishing man—perhaps the most handsome she’d ever encountered. He had high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, a generous mouth. His wide shoulders tapered to a thin waist, lanky hips, long legs, and powerful, muscled thighs.

He wore only a pair of fitted trousers, no shirt or shoes, and she was tantalized by the absurd observation that she’d never before beheld a man’s unclad chest. It was covered by an intriguing fur of dark hair, piled thick on top then dwindling across his flat stomach to a slim line that disappeared into the waistband of his pants. The top two buttons
were undone, so she could see much farther than she ought, and the spectacle was perturbing and exhilarating in a manner she didn’t comprehend.

“Lovely . . .” he murmured in an enticing baritone that skittered across her nerve endings and induced her abdomen to clench in response.

The peculiar salutation snapped her into action, and she whirled to face him. Nervously, she clutched at the towel, desperately striving to shield herself, but his probing examination slithered over her like a tangible caress, lingering on her lips, her breasts, the juncture between her thighs.

“How did you get in here?” she reproached, endeavoring to sound adamant and assertive, but the quaver in her voice communicated her uneasiness.

“Through the door.” He gestured, and she noticed a second screen and a door behind it, adjoining her dressing room to the next bedchamber.

He took a step toward her, and she took a step back. “You’re not welcome. Leave at once!”

“Are you sure you want me to go?”

“Absolutely!”

“But wouldn’t it be more amusing if I stayed? You could climb in the tub again, and I could wash you. Or”—he glanced down at his pants that so graphically outlined his masculine form—“I could soak in the water, and you could bathe
me
. Either way, I promise the experience will be everything you desire. And more.”

A man and a woman bathing? Together? Washing? Each other? A whirl of incredulous scenes flashed through her mind, and her heart raced.

His fingers went to the front of his trousers and touched the placard as though he was about to release the rest of the buttons and strip himself. Panicked, she kept her gaze bravely affixed to his. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Disrobing.”

“Don’t you dare!”

He chuckled, oozing charm. “I’d heard you were eager, but I don’t mind prolonging things with a few games.”

She had no idea what he meant and couldn’t even hazard a guess. Flustered, she resorted to the type of polite disdain she regularly employed with recalcitrant underlings. “I’ve politely requested that you leave, and now I insist.”

“Before you’ve had your fun?”

The question was mildly raised, his tone one of intimate promise about matters she didn’t understand. There was a confidence and subdued arrogance in his demeanor that seemed to guarantee gratification.

He moved closer.

The mirror was directly behind her, the basin on one side, the vanity on the other, and he was in front. She was hemmed into the corner, unable to slip past, and it occurred to her that—discounting Hugh—this was the only instance she’d ever been closeted with an adult man. The doors were closed, the room isolated, the servants abed, and if she’d chosen to call out, no one was available to assist her.

She was totally at his mercy, and she was supposed to be scared and alarmed, yet she found herself elated by the scandalous interlude. Where the heady, ribald euphoria sprang from she couldn’t have explained, because she hadn’t realized she was craving a clandestine adventure.

Perhaps the man, himself, instilled the improper sentiment. He was overtly complacent about their situation, assured that he had every right to enter, confident that she would appreciate the wrongful intrusion. When he stared at her with those extraordinary eyes, she yearned to acquiesce to whatever he suggested.

Still, she couldn’t permit him to remain, and she pulled herself up to her full height, which was distinctly lacking considering how he towered over her. “I’ll not ask again, sir.”

“I’ve been watching you.”

He’d been watching her? From where? For how long? Had he observed her whole bath? Mortified, she clasped the towel more securely against her breasts. “How terribly vile.”

“You opened the peephole.” He shrugged, his offensive
shattering of polite conduct apparently being of no import. “Why wouldn’t I look through?”

“What peephole?” she inquired, aghast.

“The one between our rooms.” He ignored her outrage. “Your skin is so smooth. Like silk.”

The simple statement disconcerted her. She’d never before received a flattering compliment from a man, especially not an attractive, virile, mostly naked one, and as she stumbled for a response, he advanced like a large cat, a graceful, predatory beast like those from the jungles of Africa that she’d seen at an exhibition in London. He was so near that the fist she’d valiantly anchored to her bosom to hold the towel was pressed against his ribs. His skin was warm, and his matting of chest hair tickled the heel of her hand.

She tilted away, but the mirror prevented evasion. Though she fought to appear staunch and in control, her dilemma had quickly spiraled beyond her ability to navigate. Anxiously, she licked her bottom lip, which instantly had him studying her mouth as though intent on devouring her.

“Sir, you’re scaring me.”

“How?”

“I’m not certain why you’re here—”

“Aren’t you?” His words were husky with a dangerous lust that even she, in her sheltered, virginal state, couldn’t misconstrue.

“—or what you propose . . .”

“You know what I
propose
. I’ll be very gentle if that’s how you like it.” With a sure finger, he traced down her cheek and across her neck, and his touch was so blistering that she felt as if she’d been burned. She flinched, and he soothed, “You don’t need to be afraid.”

She battled to comprehend what he was saying. It seemed that he aimed to force himself upon her, but there was no urgency in his demeanor. “If you were any kind of gentleman . . .”.

“I’m no gentleman, my dear lady. Never have I professed to be.”

Her pulse thudded at a higher rate. She had no notion how to interact with a man who uttered such a wild claim. If he didn’t deem himself to be a gentleman, then what code governed his behavior? “If you don’t depart, I’ll scream.”

“I don’t care if you scream. I’m happy to indulge any of your whims, just as you’ll get to indulge mine, so you’re free to do whatever makes our rendezvous more enjoyable for you.”

What?
She shook her head, perplexed and becoming frightened even though he’d done nothing that was outright menacing.

“Please . . . I’m here alone, and I’m . . .” She wanted to state the obvious—that she was undressed—but she couldn’t speak the word
naked
to this unknown scoundrel, and she blushed bright red, the flush originating somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach and sweeping up her breasts to her cheeks. Unduly warm, she resisted the impulse to fan herself lest she drop the towel.