Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,261

of a gorgeous, if slightly unruly head of hair. Wister longed to tease her fingers through it. She was certain that the mere notion of cutting his dark brown mop was a sin.

From out of the kitchen drawer, she reluctantly took a pair of long scissors and placed them on the table, then stood staring at them.

I wonder how he normally has his hair cut. Please, lord, not a tight Bedford crop. I couldn’t stand it.

No matter his wishes or indeed protests, she was not going to cut Rhys’s luxurious mane anything close to his head. She would throw the scissors in the fire before she did that.

After checking the kettle and making sure there was still plenty of hot water, Wister gathered towels and flannels from the nearby linen cupboard and stacked them on the table. Next came a large bowl, some shaving paste, and finally the open razor.

“I hope that is nice and sharp,” said Rhys.

Wister held the razor out in front of her as he stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

“You can run your finger along the blade if you like, but I can assure you that it is very sharp. The village blacksmith used to sharpen it for me every week. A dull blade doesn’t give a clean shave,” she replied.

He waved her offer away. “I shall have to trust you. You don’t want to know the mess I made of my face each time I tried to do the job myself.”

“Hopefully I will draw less blood. Jacket and shirt off please, then wrap the towel around yourself,” she replied.

Giving a command to a man such as the devilishly handsome Baron Rhys Morgan set Wister’s pulse to a fast clip. She turned away as he stripped.

How am I going to spend the next month trying to resist the urge to touch him, to kiss him? And if he tried to kiss me, I would melt in his arms.

Wister pulled out a chair and motioned for him to take a seat. She quickly tucked the end of the large towel over, secretly regretting not having sneaked a peek at his naked torso. Standing behind him, hairbrush in hand, she began to smooth Rhys’s hair in readiness for a cut. “I was thinking we could go with a Brutus. It would allow you to have the sides closely cropped, but with a nice unruly style of hair on top. A little wax each day will hold it in place. What do you say?”

Rhys harrumphed. “You would have me looking like Beau Brummell? And then take up a spot in the bow window of White’s club while watching and judging the world as it passes by? No thank you.”

Wister laughed. “You don’t follow London’s finest dandy? I thought you chaps considered him to be all the kick.”

“The man is a pompous waste of money and effort. No, I haven’t the time nor inclination to put wax in my hair. How about we go with a Bedford, nice and short?”

Wister stopped brushing, leaned in close, and spoke softly in his ear. “How about you trust me?”

Chapter Ten

Wister might well have wished for him to place his faith in her, but it was his body Rhys wasn’t prepared to trust. His lust was doggedly fighting him at the end of its tightly held leash. If she had the slightest inkling as to the effect her standing this close was having on him, she would drop that hairbrush and go racing up the stairs, pack her things, and flee. His secret thoughts and desires of her were fast turning scandalous.

Rhys’s bone-deep ache for Wister was something he had never experienced with another woman. The scent of her perfume made his heart pound. His cock was throbbing so hard, he was sure there was no blood left in the rest of his body. When Wister brushed her fingertips on the side of his neck, he almost came on the spot.

“Cut my hair however you wish,” he said, then swallowed deeply.

Hidden under the large towel, his hands were both clenched in tight fists. Heated lust and need coursed through him at a furious rate. At least the evidence of his arousal was concealed from sight.

Count backwards from one thousand.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine. Nine hundred and…Oh god.

As he counted in his head, the only sound in the room was the snip, snip of the scissors. How long he sat there Rhys had no idea—every second was constant, delicious torture.

“Yes, I think