When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,67
of making love in a proper bed with a proper man for the first time in ages, Matilda acknowledged an exhaustion that had little to do with food or sleep. She was tired of being self-sufficient, tired of being alone.
Would this interlude with Duncan sustain her when she was forced back into unrelenting self-reliance, or weaken her? She was too soul-weary to care.
“If you would please unlace me,” Matilda said, “I will oblige you with reciprocal courtesies.”
He drew open the bow holding her bodice closed, then stepped near. “This is the last time I will ask you: Are you sure, Matilda? If we grant each other this intimacy, we can never un-grant it. I become yours in a way I have never belonged to anybody.”
She kissed him to stop his words. Of course she wanted to claim him, to claim his body, his ferociously imposing mind, and his equally impressive decency, but she lacked the freedom to surrender herself in the same measure, and, thus, what he offered was impossible.
Frustration—physical and emotional—turned her kiss desperate. She lashed her arms around his neck and willed away all thoughts of treason and tomorrows.
“You should lock the door,” she muttered, fingers going to the buttons of his falls. “We can’t have a maid or footman stopping by to build up the fire if we’re—” He was in her hands again, as magnificently aroused as he’d been in the study.
“We will have fire enough and privacy enough. The staff knows to knock, and they know I occasionally tell them to go away. Hold still, please.”
His fingers were deft, drawing the fabric of her bodice aside, button by button, to reveal the old-fashioned laces beneath. He untied her corsetry, then undid the bow on her chemise.
“Your move,” he said, hands falling at his sides.
Oh, yes. Matilda considered options, strategies, and analogies. She slipped the pin from his cravat and untied the knot, leaving the ends trailing.
He drew the cravat off and laid it over the open door of the wardrobe. “Your slippers,” he said, “and stockings.”
Matilda sat and endured the warmth of Duncan’s hands on her feet, ankles, and calves. He untied her garters, rolled down her plain wool stockings, and what should have been a mundane step in the process of disrobing became unbearable seduction.
He lingered at her ankle, shaping the bones with his fingers. His touch was warm, and so intimate Matilda couldn’t bear to watch.
“I’m too skinny,” she said, stroking his hair.
He rose and stood by her, such that she could press her cheek to his thigh. To rest against him was an exquisite pleasure, as was his hand caressing her neck.
“You have been through a trial,” he said. “Flesh can be regained. Your move.”
He took half a step back, and Matilda went for the buttons holding his shirt closed, then stopped, lest she give up every advantage in this game of arousal.
“To you, Mr. Wentworth.”
He waved a hand. “The dress, if you please.”
Matilda very much pleased. She drew the dress over her head and laid it on the sofa, then wiggled out of her jumps and set them on a chair. “The shirt.”
Duncan pulled off his shirt and tossed it atop her dress, then sat and yanked off his boots. “I forfeit,” he said, shoving his breeches down and stepping out of them. “I forfeit the whole match provided you’ll join me in that bed.”
He was naked in the winter sunlight, a mature god in lean, robust good health. His body hair shaded reddish, his proportions made Matilda ache. Duncan wasn’t the idealized David, with head and hands too big, a torso too slender, posture contorted the better to convey artistic priorities. He was a flesh-and-blood man, and when he held out a hand, inviting Matilda onto the bed, she hesitated.
“You make me wish I had your ability to sketch,” she said.
“You make me wish all manner of things. I intend to see many of those wishes come true in the next hour.”
Matilda lifted the hem of her chemise, and before she could lose her courage, she pitched the garment to the floor. She’d lost much of her figure, her hands were no longer the soft hands of a lady, and her hair needed a serious encounter with a pair of shears.
None of which mattered when she beheld Duncan in his adult male glory.
He lifted her in his arms, laid her on the bed, and came down over her. “You’ve granted my first wish. What wish can I grant for you?”