Then she felt a button press into her neck as she slipped it free. The first button of her nightrail was undone. It was warm in the viscount’s room, the air close and thick. Brushing the skin of her neck, she felt perspiration make her fingers slick.
A second button slipped free.
Once, as a child, she had looked long and hard at a man’s neck. She had noted the bump of his Adam’s apple, seeing the bulge as firm, hard, commanding. She touched her own neck now, seeking that same bump and exploring its contours with her fingers. Hers was small by comparison. Compressed. Withdrawn.
Buttons number three and four fell away.
She could now feel the hard ridge of her collarbone. There was a dip in the center where left met right, a small
V,
and she wondered if a man’s Adam’s apple would fit right there.
Would
his
fit right
here?
Button number five caught and held on a tiny thread, but with a little tug the barrier snapped. Her nightrail fell open to her waist.
Her brother had once told her there were twenty-four ribs in the human body. She had always wondered if it was true. Abruptly, she decided to count.
One. Two. Three
.
She whispered the numbers into the darkness.
Four. Five.
It was hard to feel them now. The rise of her breast prevented clear definition of each rib. She pressed harder. Then softer. She wanted to know the difference in texture, in feel. There seemed to be no clear place to define where there was merely skin over rib and where her breast interfered. She slid her hand lower, and suddenly she was holding her breast.
Shocked by her action, she pulled her hand away, locking her arm straight and pressing it tightly, rigidly, against her leg.
It was some time before she relaxed. But it was hardly surprising when she finally did. In fact, she
thought with a laugh, she was being ridiculous in the extreme. She rested alone, in a dark room, in a bed that would dwarf a giant. So she had accidentally touched her breast. It was of no importance. She was being a silly widgeon. And more than that, she still wished to know how many ribs were in the human body.
Slowly, she once again raised her hand. She used her left hand this time, counting the ribs on the right side. She had no logic for this change except that her left breast still seemed sensitive, almost tingly from her earlier exploration, and she did not want to irritate it further.
She began to count.
One. Two. Three.
All was the same on this side as it was on the other.
Four. Five.
Again she felt the shift from hard rib to the softer curve of her breast. She hesitated. Then, feeling foolish, she quickly skipped six. But she wanted to feel the length of seven, and so she stretched her left arm as far as it would go, outlining the bone with her fingertips.
Rib number seven wrapped around her chest, underneath her breast, and down to where she could not reach any more. She retraced her movement, following the curve of rib number seven back. But as she moved, her forearm brushed against her breast; pulled it, in fact, and she shifted and turned, seeing if it felt better to press her arm tight against it as she moved, or if she preferred the lighter, more gentle tugging of the fabric against her skin.
It took her some time before she could decide. And in the meantime, there was something else that caught her attention. Above the breast, she could not
find a clear line where the mound began and where it did not; whereas below it, the line was quite obvious.
Rib eight was there. A hard ridge with no softening. But between seven and eight, her breast began. She could feel the weight of it on her hand, and if she pushed in from the side with her other hand, her breast stood out starkly, formed into a tight cone.
She tested this from all sides. She could mold her breast up. She could press it down. She could push it inward. And, she realized with surprise, if she pressed the other breast in as well, she created a deep furrow of cleavage between them.
Thump.
She suddenly stilled, freezing in place as she strained her ears to listen. Where had the sound come from? It wasn’t from within the room, was it? Had it been him? In her room? In her bed? Was he coming back to his bedroom?
She waited, her breath coming in short gasps as she tried to silence the loud hammering of her heart.
Silence.
Silly girl, she scolded. He could not come in here. She had locked the connecting door as he instructed. He would not come here tonight. She knew it in her bones. Indeed, she would not have begun counting ribs if she had thought she might be interrupted. Still she waited, not daring to move, listening to her own harsh breath in the silent house.
She looked down at herself. At some point, in the last few seconds, she had whipped the bedsheet up to her neck again. Beneath the coarse fabric, her nightrail was still open, her breasts still sensitized to the scrape of the coarse material. In fact, she thought,
as she took a deep breath, both breasts were now sensitive.
How odd that she could feel every fiber in the material, every slight hitch in the fabric. And yet every night before she had felt nothing.
Another deep breath. The fabric pulled against her naked breasts, setting them tingling.
The bed smelled like him, she thought. With every deep inhalation, she remembered him, felt surrounded by him. She closed her eyes, trying to identify the scent more closely.
Bay rum. Yes. But mostly him.
With her eyes closed, she could picture him stripping off his cravat, unbuttoning his shirt, and then slipping into bed. She knew how a bed felt when he sat upon it. She remembered the dip as his hands settled on either side of her head. His heat as he hovered above her.
What if he had touched her?
She had felt surrounded, imprisoned by him.
She squeezed her nipple.
Lightning shot through her. She gasped at the sudden tightening of her entire body. Legs, stomach, breasts, hands—everything clenched. The movement was violent, shocking.
She could not do this. She should not do this!
Hurriedly, she flipped over, burying her face in the pillows. Her nightrail pulled against her body as she pressed into the sheets. Her hands went rigidly to her sides, clenched and immobile. In her mind she heard her father, his voice hammering into her.
“Tie your bodice tight,”
he bellowed. “
Lace it flat, lest the devil find an opening into your soul.
”
Clenching her eyes shut against her thoughts, she turned onto her side, curling herself into the smallest, tiniest ball she could manage.
Hours later, she slept.
She woke late.
At first she had no idea where she was. Then she took a deep breath, smelled bay rum, and knew. She was in his bed. In his room. She stretched out of her cramped position, burrowing her toes deeply into his heavy covers, oddly reluctant to leave. She was tired and achy from sleeping in a tight ball all night, but his bed linens were soft and warm, and most of all, she liked the scent.
Bay rum, she decided, was delightful.
Then she heard a street vendor. Opening her eyes, she realized it was midmorning, and she had promised to meet the baroness by ten. For what, she had no idea. But whatever the purpose, she was already late.
Scrambling out of bed, she was appalled to discover her nightrail hung open nearly to her waist. Heat flooded her face as she recalled her actions last
night. Clutching the garment’s edges together, she buttoned it as fast as her fumbling fingers could go. Perhaps this afternoon she would have to burn the thing, but for now she very much needed to button it to the very top.
Except…her hands paused on the last button. She needed to get dressed quickly. She ought to be stripping out of her clothing as fast as possible. But what would she wear? Her few dresses were all in her bedroom.
She glanced to the side at his lordship’s wardrobe. Unable to resist, she pulled open the doors to reveal neatly pressed attire: pantaloons, trousers, coats, shirts. All were orderly, but far fewer than she had expected. Indeed, she thought all the gentry had drawers of clothing stuffed to the point of bursting.
Her father certainly did. But his lordship had only the essentials. Obviously, the viscount was as accustomed to practicing economy as she was.
Then she heard another noise, this time from within the house. The kitchen, no doubt. Which meant Dunwort, and likely the baroness, were awake and waiting for her. She had to get dressed. Yet she could not wear his lordship’s clothing!
Closing his wardrobe, she turned back to the door between his room and hers. Her clothing was in there. But then, so was he.
Dared she go in? With him asleep?
Or worse yet, with him awake?
She glanced down at her bare toes. She would have to go in there. She couldn’t very well meet the baroness while still clad in her nightrail. And yet…she hesitated, the image of the viscount’s face slipping
into her thoughts. He had seemed so…what? Frightening? Yes. And no. Urgent, perhaps was a better word. Different?
She shook her head, willing herself to think clearly. She had to get her clothing.
Glaring angrily at the door, she made her decision. She would just have to do it. She would creep in as silently as a ghost, grab her clothing, then slip back here to change. She could do it. She had tiptoed about her own house dozens of times, careful not to wake up the younger children or, most especially, her father. This would be just the same.
She put her hand on the latch, undoing the lock, and slowly, quietly eased the door open. She knew the hinges were well-oiled. How else could he come into her room so silently? Perversely, the very thought emboldened her. If he could sneak in on her unawares, then she could creep past him equally unnoticed. Still, her nerves failed her when she saw him.
He lay sprawled, facedown, crosswise, on top of the stripped mattress. His bare feet pointed toward her, his head nearly obscured by the broad expanse of his back. He clutched her pillow beneath him, and his bed jacket lay in a crumpled heap by his feet.
He was totally, completely, gloriously naked.
Never had she seen a more chiseled form, and she had seen many, to her shame, when she had made a secret study of Greek art at the age of fourteen. Her father had not known, of course. But she had found a book in the lending library and, while her other siblings busied themselves with their lessons, she had perused the sketches from every angle.
The viscount more than compared. He put the ancient Greeks to shame.
His legs were muscular. Even in their lax state, his thighs remained thick and corded. What did he do to keep them so fit? she wondered. His buttocks were small, tight, and so perfectly shaped that she blushed to be staring, and yet she could not tear her gaze away. They looked like two hot, golden loaves of bread. Shaped wrongly for bread, but oh so delightfully perfect for him.
Of course, his glory did not end there. Allowing her gaze to slip upward, she noted his trim waist and the smooth perfection of his back. Here, too, she saw well-defined musculature. In fact, she realized with a start, though she would not be able to count his ribs just by looking, she could draw quite a detailed sketch of the muscles that laced a man’s back. His shoulders were broad, and, higher up, his dark, curling hair lay rumpled and sleep-tossed.
She saw only one side of his face, and it lay, thank God, slack-jawed in sleep. Still, she saw his high cheekbones, the slight dusting of beard, and of course, his lips, full and sensuous even in sleep.
Though he displayed nothing she had not perused before in her book of sketches, she still was overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of seeing a man in the flesh. The naked flesh. Of course she’d expected that a living, breathing man would be more interesting than a statue, or in her case, a sketch of a statue. Still, she was unprepared for the sheer masculinity of the viscount’s body. His flesh was almost golden, with intriguing areas of paleness over the lower half. There were crevices and dimples, mounds and bulges all over.
What would it be like to touch him? She was already stepping forward to find out when she suddenly came back to herself.
Good Lord, what was she thinking? Pressing her hands to her heated face, she chided herself for her sinful behavior. And yet she still stood, staring at him. Wondering.
Then he moved.
Where before he lay flat across the bed, now he shifted slightly, bending one leg up as he tilted slightly on the pillow. In fact, his hips were now canted slightly, enough to give her the slightest view of…
Good God! She gasped and spun away back to his bedroom, only belatedly remembering her attire. Moving faster than she ever thought possible, she snatched her clothing, not even caring what it was, and ran from the room.
Her heart was pounding, her hands were sweating, and it wasn’t until after she had shut the adjoining door and completely dressed that she dared allow herself to breathe. She forced herself to take deep breaths, drying the palms of her hands on her skirt.
Still the image persisted. Closing her eyes, she moaned into her hands. The sight remained as if seared upon her mind’s eye: A shadowy pouch of flesh nestled between firm, masculine thighs.
Abruptly turning, she rushed from the room, seeking someone, anyone, who might turn her thoughts in a safer direction.
The baroness was waiting for her. The tea was poured and already cold. A biscuit lay uneaten, while another crumbled in the lady’s fingers. Lynette rushed forward, already voicing her apology as she hurried into the room.
The baroness did not even look up. She waved
away Lynette’s explanations with a weary expression. Indeed, thought Lynette as she peered closer, the older woman appeared grim.
“Baroness?”
Without looking up, the lady pushed another one of his lordship’s notes at her. Lynette accepted it in as composed a manner as possible, praying that the woman did not notice the slight tremor of her hand as she opened the pristine white envelope.
Be silent and learn.
M
Lynette stared at the note, her thoughts at least temporarily diverted. She read it again, followed the curve of Marlock’s letters, the bold slash of his hand, and still understood nothing. She looked up to see the baroness shaking her head.
“We are to buy your wardrobe today.”
Lynette brightened. Shopping! Exactly what she needed to take her mind off…other things. But before she could express her enthusiasm, the baroness quashed it.
“Your clothing is under my complete control. You may make suggestions, voice your opinion, but rest assured, you have no say in this matter whatsoever.”
Lynette looked at her, shocked to her toes. “I cannot choose my own clothing?” It was the one luxury she had been allowed all her life. So long as her dresses were appropriately modest, her father had allowed her complete control over her attire. In fact, she had chosen so well that her mother allowed her to buy all her siblings’ clothing.
She adamantly refused to relinquish that one freedom. “I have an excellent eye for color,” she offered, hoping gentle persuasion would change the baroness’s mind.
The older woman did not respond, seemingly completely focused upon her biscuit.
“I know many excellent ways to make a single dress appear like a dozen. It’s all in the choice of laces and other accessories.”
Again, no response.
“Truly, Baroness, I can be counted upon to buy appropriate clothing.”
At this, the woman looked up and cackled. “Appropriate for whom? A minister’s daughter? You forget, you are one of
his
girls now. And clothing for them must be entirely
in
appropriate!”
Lynette bit her lip, silenced by an overwhelming sense of shame. She had seen scandalous dresses before. Low-cut bodices, wetted underskirts. Was she to wear those? What would her family think? What would her father say?
She looked down at her hands where they gripped her teacup. They were trembling, and so she carefully set down the delicate cup onto its saucer. But for some reason, she could not release it. Try as she might, her hands continued to rattle the cup against the saucer.
She was supposed to be married in her father’s church. She would wear white and hold flowers. But now…now she was counting her ribs and staring at pouches. What was happening to her?
She had not realized she was holding her breath until she suddenly had to exhale. She did so in a gasp that sounded more like a strangled sob. There was
nothing she could do about it. It was as if she stood beside herself, silently cataloging her breakdown.
And still the teacup rattled in her white-knuckled grip.
Lynette watched as if from a great distance as the baroness carefully disengaged the cup, gently prying her fingers away. Then, with a gentle smile, she wrapped her hands around Lynette’s, stilling the tremors.
“You came here of your own accord,” she said softly.
Lynette turned, her movement stiff, her gaze unfocused.
“You chose all of this. Your wardrobe. Your future. Even your…evening discussions with
him.”
She lifted her chin slightly, gesturing upstairs where the viscount still slept. “That is what you started the moment you wrote to me.” She paused, waiting until Lynette focused on her face. “Do not turn coward now. You have nothing to go back to.”
Lynette shook her head, struggling to remember what she had thought, what madness had prompted her to begin this charade in the first place. “I am a minister’s daughter,” she whispered. “I am supposed to be pure.”
The baroness didn’t answer at first. Instead, she appeared to be thinking, her mind turning inward as her expression hardened and her hands slipped away. “You are supposed to be your own woman, making your own choices. Even if it is this life, this way.” Her eyes focused outward again, capturing Lynette’s gaze. “Many women do not have as much. Ever.”
Lynette shook her head, anxiety making the motion tight. “I do not think I can do this.”
The baroness sighed, the sound coming from deep within. “You will have to learn. As have we all.”
If she was feeling more confident, more herself, Lynette would have questioned the baroness, pushed for an explanation. Clearly there was something here, a tale to tell that might explain the dark happenings in this household. But she found herself taking the coward’s way out. She simply did not want to know the answers, and so she turned her thoughts elsewhere.
“But the clothes,” she began. “Surely if I am to pay for them, I should be able to choose.”
“You will choose nothing,” the baroness snapped. “Be ready to leave within the half hour.” Then she stood and, without so much as a nod, quit the kitchen.
Lynette watched her go, wanting to call her back but unable to form the right words. As the door clicked shut behind the older woman, Lynette at last found her voice, speaking the words as if in a litany. “I will be able to sponsor Amy. And buy a commission for my brother.” Her siblings’ images floated before her mind’s eye.
Then, overwhelmed, she lay her head down on the table and cried.
Lynette looked pale.
Adrian shifted in his seat, turning his attention away from his charge. He was sitting across the table from Lynette, his aunt, and the modiste. He was supposed to be examining fabric. Indeed, he was supposed to be discussing dress designs, depth of décolletage, even the length of the tiny puff sleeves
on this gown or another. But all he could think of was that Lynette looked pale.
He should not be surprised. After last night’s debacle, he’d half feared she would run screaming from his home. Thankfully, she was stronger than that. However, that did not negate how shockingly he had abused her the previous evening.
He did not know what happened. One moment he had been speaking with her, accustoming her to his presence. The next moment she had been like a fever in his blood. He had wanted her more desperately than his next breath.
Never before had he been so consumed by a woman. And never, ever, had he allowed such a breach with one of his girls. But Lynette was different.
God help him, she was so very different. Little Lynette was more of a woman than he had even guessed. She used her mind, reasoning things out. She challenged his thoughts, his edicts, the very nature of his instruction. She listened and learned and then surprised him with her understanding.
Lord, when he had realized she was inspecting his body this morning…He had pretended to be asleep, but not one cell in his body had been resting. It seemed as if his entire soul had been attuned to her curiosity. What was she looking at? Did she like what she saw? Would she touch him?