The Emperor's New Clothes (16 page)

“To your bed.” His voice was firm, and he started up the steps leaving the squabbling citizens of the fair community of whatever behind him.

“Aren't you going to stop them?”

“Nope.”

“Do you think they'll kill each other?”

“Nope.”

She thought for a moment. “Do you think taking me to my room is really such a good idea?”

“Yep.”

“I don't,” she said as firmly as she could manage.

“We'll see.”

She swallowed a lump, probably her heart, lodged
in her throat. What was he up to? And more to the point, what did she want him to be up to? The man had her so confused. At any given moment she wished either to kiss him or to kill him. She sighed, and he pulled her tighter against his chest. Gad, he was solid. His warm, male scent enveloped her, and she was hard-pressed to keep her thoughts from running to all kinds of curious ideas about touching him and being touched by him and—

“Ophelia?”

She raised her head. When had they reached her chambers? She stared at him.

“I'm going to put you on the bed now.” His eyes were tender, his voice considerate.

Her blood pounded in her veins. He carefully laid her on the bed. Terror battled with excitement and anticipation. This was surely it. One kiss and she'd melt to a puddle in his arms. She sucked in a deep breath. And, oh, what a glorious melting it would be.

“I'm going to take your boot off,” he said gently.

“My boot?” The words exploded from her. “Don't you want to kiss me first?”

His brows pulled together in a puzzled frown. “Well, sure, I'd love to kiss you, but first let's get the boot off.”

Certainly Ophelia had never been with a man, but one didn't grow up backstage among actors and actresses without picking up at least the rudimentary mechanics of love and lovemaking. She had heard about unusual acts of intimacy, and this boot business of his sounded odd to say the least.

“Wait just a minute.” She struggled to sit up.

“It will be easier if you lay down,” he said impatiently, and gently pushed her back flat on the bed.

“Well, then, let's make it a challenge, shall we?” She sat up again and glared.

“What is wrong with you, Ophelia?”

“Me? There's nothing wrong with me. What's wrong with you?”

He stared at her as if she was an complete idiot. “I'm fine. I didn't fall off the porch.”

“Well, I did, and if you could just control your lust long enough—”

“My lust? What are you talking about, woman?”

“My boot.” She shook her foot. “Why do you want to start with my boot?”

“I thought you twisted your ankle.”

“My ankle?” Gad, she
was
a complete idiot. “Yes, of course…my ankle.”

“What did you think?” Tye stared at her. Awareness dawned on his face and his eyes widened. “I'll be damned, Ophelia, you thought—”

“No, Tye, really.” She clasped her hands together and shook her head. How mortifying. Had she ever been so embarrassed? “I didn't think anything. Nothing at all.”

He threw his head back and laughed. Unrestrained mirth filled the room. Well, she thought as she released a breath she didn't know she held, at least he wasn't mad. He laughed, and tears glimmered in his eyes. Her chagrin faded. Honestly, it wasn't that humorous. How was she to know he wasn't that kind of man?

“Good Lord, Ophelia.” He wiped the tears from his eyes and sat down beside her. “I haven't heard anything so funny in years.”

“I'm delighted to have provided so much entertainment.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Now if you would kindly leave my room?”

“I don't think so.” He chuckled again. Could any man's laugh be quite so annoying?

“And why not?” she said coldly.

“Because, my love.” He leaned forward abruptly and kissed the tip of her nose. She jerked back and glared. “We have yet to check on that ankle of yours,” he said.

“I'm certain my ankle is fine.” She clenched her jaw and nodded at the door. “Now get out.”

“No.” He stared her straight in the eye. Determination glimmered there, and a subtle challenge. “I'm taking your boot off.”

She lifted her chin in defiance. “You're not taking my boot, or anything else, off.”

A wicked smile quirked the corners of his lips. “Oh, no?”

The realization of exactly what she'd said flashed through her, and heat rushed to her face. Still, he would not get the better of her this time. And she was keeping those blasted boots on.

“Get out, Mr. Matthews.”

“I'll make you a little deal, Countess.” Tye rose to his feet and with a leisurely gesture pulled a deck of cards from his back pocket.

She narrowed her eyes. “What are those for?”

“You seemed to have had such a good time last night settling your negotiations with my uncle with a mere draw of the cards, perhaps we can settle our little dispute the same way.”

“We don't have a dispute. I have a boot. I want it on. You want it off.” She shrugged. “My boot. My foot. My choice.”

“Oh, come now, Ophelia.” He sat down on the bed beside her legs and shuffled the cards methodically from one hand to the other. “You seem to me like a woman who enjoys a bit of chance. What if, say, we draw cards. Winner decides if the boot stays on or comes off.”

She stared at him for a long, considering moment. When it came right down to it, what harm would it do anyway? If she lost, he would take off her boot and she'd pretend pain in her ankle. Not that it was all that farfetched. Her little tumble had left her whole body
aching, but with her luck lately, her ankle would be completely unscathed. And if she won, he'd get out of her room and leave her alone. Exactly what she wanted, wasn't it?

“Very well.” She heaved a sigh of resignation. “But you go first.”

He raised a brow. “Ladies first.”

“My boot. My foot. My choice.” She gritted her teeth. It was superstition on her part, but she always seemed to do better when she went last. She'd ignored that with Big Jack and lost the draw, even if ultimately she'd won the contest. “Go ahead.”

He shuffled the cards in a manner slow and almost seductive. His long, tanned fingers seemed to caress each pasteboard like a teasing lover. Ophelia pulled her brows together and stared, mesmerized. She'd seen a lot of men deal a lot of cards in a lot of different ways, but she'd never yet seen anyone make the process look, well, suggestive. Her gaze rose to meet his, and he lifted a brow. He couldn't possibly know what she was thinking, could he? His hands never halted. His arrogant smile never faltered. His gaze never left hers.

“Cut.” His voice, just like his actions, was provocative and personal and thrilling.

She glanced at the deck, picked it up and expertly split it with one hand alone. It was a trick she'd learned as a child. One she rarely used. It was never good to let other gamblers know just how skilled you really were. But somehow, with Tye, at least for a moment, she wanted very much for him to realize he was not dealing with a mere pretty face. She doubted she was like any other woman he'd ever met. And right now, she wanted him to know it.

He raised a brow in grudging admiration. “Very nice.”

“Thank you.” Her gaze met his. “I believe it's your turn, Mr. Matthews.”

He picked a card from the deck, his gaze locked on hers. “Now you.”

“But you haven't looked at your card.”

He shrugged. “I can wait.”

“Can you?” she said softly. “For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

She couldn't seem to pull her gaze from his. His eyes, deep and endless and dark as eternity, held her captive, and an ache she'd never known before shuddered through her. She drew a deep, steadying breath and pulled a card. Without looking, she flipped it face up on the bed.

She glanced down and her stomach knotted with disappointment or…anticipation.

The two of clubs lay on the coverlet.

“It looks like I've won.” His voice was heavy with a meaning she didn't dare explore.

“Not yet, Mr. Matthews. Your card?”

He tossed it toward hers. The pasteboard fluttered through the air with an almost insolent indifference as if the card and the man were partners in this curious contest where she suspected the stakes were much higher than the removal of a mere boot.

The card settled next to hers.

The king of hearts.

She could have laughed at the irony, but any amusement died in her throat. She stared into his eyes and read a promise of desire that stole her breath and her will.

“Like I said, I won. Now, lay down.”

“Very well.” Her stomach fluttered, and she sank back onto the pillow. Why was it so warm in here all of a sudden? “You may remove”—she swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling—“my boot.”

He slipped one hand beneath her left heel, his other reaching under her skirts to grip the top of the boot that stretched nearly to her knee. Why on earth were these boots so high anyway? Slowly, he pulled the leather footwear downward, gently sliding it off her foot with a surprising ease.

Tye pulled his brows together. “Well, there's your problem, Ophelia. It's no wonder you fell. These boots are definitely too big for you.”

“Really?” She widened her eyes in feigned surprise. “I shall have to chastise my bootmaker the moment I return to London. He has my measurements. I can't imagine why he'd make such a—oh, my goodness!”

Tye's clever fingers carefully probed and explored and massaged her silk-covered ankle. What a unique sensation. How personal. How exciting. How intimate. He shook his head. “I don't see any swelling.”

“Well…” She sighed. “Now that I think about it, the problem could be with…the other ankle.”

He quirked a brow. “The other ankle?”

She cast him a look of innocence. “I may have gotten confused.”

A spark of sin gleamed in his eye, and her heart thudded against her ribs. “May I check that ankle or do I have to draw for the honor first?”

“Why, Mr. Matthews, I admit you won. I scarcely think it would be in the proper spirit to make you select another card.” She nodded firmly. “Please, proceed.”

The corners of his mouth tilted upward as if he was hard-pressed to contain a smile. She squeezed her eyes shut. At this particular moment, she didn't really care about the flicker of triumph in his eyes. She'd never known the touch of a man's hand on her leg, or anywhere else, before. A touch that was quite remarkable in the delightfully terrifying emotions it aroused. A touch she wanted to experience again.

He repeated his actions with her other boot, his movements even slower and more deliberate than before. Again, he pulled the boot off with no difficulty and checked her ankle with fingers warm and clever and knowing. His hands circled her leg, his touch through her silk stocking a mere whisper of intoxicating sensation that climbed upward from her limbs through her body and her soul. His fingers traveled higher to her calf, and then the back of her knee, and she lost herself in the sheer bliss of his caress.

How had he gone so far? Her breath came faster. She really had to stop him. Soon. A tiny moan escaped her lips. Definitely, she must put an end to this. Any moment now.

Abruptly, his touch vanished and she snapped her eyes open. His face filled her vision.

“I believe”—he'd settled himself on the side of the bed and sat leaning over her—“your ankles are uninjured. In fact, I'd say they're really quite lovely ankles. In damn near perfect shape.”

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly.

“But I am still concerned. You took a nasty fall.”

“Oh, I'm quite certain I'm fine.”

“You can never be too sure.” His voice was low and deep with meaning she feared and wanted. “For example, it would be a real shame if, say, that lovely neck of yours was damaged in any way.” He bent over a surprisingly sensitive point, just below the lobe of her ear, and kissed the spot gently.

She gasped. “I didn't fall on my neck.”

“Still…” His mouth traveled lower to meet the top of her buttoned jacket at the base of her throat. “One can never be too careful about injuries incurred in a fall.”

Gad, if she thought his touch on her ankle was exquisite, it was nothing compared to his lips on her
neck. She struggled to get the words out. “I suppose not.”

Dimly she heard the pop of her buttons, and the jacket loosened around her. His mouth nudged the collar of her blouse, and at once cooling air and warm breath sent chills scampering across her exposed skin. Heavens, when did he unbutton her blouse?

“Tye, I don't think—”

“Ophelia.” His voice was firm. “We have to make sure you're all right.”

“I'm…all…right,” she said in a voice weak with arousal. What was he doing to her?

“No, no.” His voice was muffled against her skin. “I'm not completely confident of that yet.”

His lips drifted lower, pushing aside the flimsy protection of her chemise, to breasts supported by a corset she hadn't realized was far too confining until now.

“Tye! I don't—”

“It's your lungs, Ophelia,” Tye murmured against skin that burned with the merest graze of his lips. “You could have damaged your lungs.”

“My lungs?” she whispered in a haze of desire that scrambled her senses and dazed her mind. His mouth fastened on her breast, the nipple tightening at his touch. She arched upward with an involuntary jerk of sheer pleasure at the shocking feel of his tongue on her sensitive flesh. She clutched at his shoulders and marveled at the overwhelming rush of elation and need and heat that surged through her.

So this was what women found in the arms of a man! This was what they sacrificed their honor and virtue and very souls for. At once she understood the glory and the wonder and the sheer joy that was worth whatever sacrifice it asked, whatever price had to be paid. Whatever the cost, it was nothing compared to what was to be with this one man at this one moment.