"Lookwhat I found." His voice was a low rumble at her ear. "A brassy baggage, waiting in her bath for a man to wander by so she can entice him with her skills." The odd thing was that the sound of his voice sent heat to her legs even faster than the sight of his hands caressing her breasts, even faster than feeling him caress her.
"Villiers," she said, dropping her head back against his shoulder and ignoring his foolish comment.
He bit her ear, and growled. "What did you call me?"
It was a command, a brand, a thrilling display of domination and authority. She felt her mouth curve. "Leslie."
One hand slid over her stomach.
"Try again."
"Landry."
He snorted and his hand slid down another few inches, hovering. Eleanor just stopped her hips from arching toward him. Inside, she kept thinking, Please, please, please...
"Leopold," she whispered. "Leo."
He turned his head and caught her in a kiss, an erotic, dizzying kiss that was so absorbingly like a conversation that she didn't even realize at first that his hand was between her legs. Then it all blended together into the taste of his tooth powder, flavored with something—cinnamon, perhaps—and the smell of him, and the dancing, sleek power of those wicked fingers.
It wasn't until after he made her arch so high that water rolled off her body, until she cried his name aloud, until her body flared into brief, blazing perfection, that she remembered Gideon.
Gideon was back. He was in love with her. Why was she lying in a bath waiting for a different duke to prowl illicitly through the door?
What sort of woman did that make her?
Obviously Leopold was wasting no time thinking about Gideon, or his own fiancee, for that matter.
Before her knees had regained strength, he bundled her out of the bath, wrapping her in a towel. She swayed on her feet, her body still singing with pleasure, her mind confusedly trying to sort through her moral iniquities.
"No going to sleep," he muttered at her.
"That felt so good. I could do it all night."
He laughed. "Just what a man most wants to hear."
"Untrue," she said, opening her eyes. He had put her on the bed and was rubbing her hair dry with a towel.
"I assure you that it is."
"Men don't want their wives to be too desirous," she said flatly. "I believe it makes them nervous."
"Never having been married, I couldn't say. But just in case you're right, I'm glad we're not married,"
Villiers said, throwing aside the towel and standing back as if he were a pirate about to ravish a fainting maiden.
"Don't be like Lisette, and pretend that rules don't matter," she said, raising her head and then letting it flop back down because he wasn't looking at her face. "They matter.
We're not supposed to make love like this without marriage, because marriage matters." "I agree. It does."
She studied him for a moment, but he had bent over so he could run his lips over her ribs, and tease the curve of her breast. He wasn't following the conversation very closely. "Immoral, illegal—and yet so—beautiful." She sighed. "Come on, princess." Villiers pulled her upright.
She hadn't realized that he was wearing a wrapper. It was deep black velvet, embroidered with pearl arabesques.
"I don't like this garment," she said, tracing an embroidered design with her finger. "I didn't buy it for you."
She eased the thick velvet apart in the front. Suddenly she wasn't in the least sleepy. Leopold's chest was broad and ribbed with muscle. He didn't say a word, so she put her face against him and just inhaled.
He smelled wonderful. Faintly of starched linen. But also of decadence, and privacy, and plain dealings.
Even better, of private sin.
She slid her hands inside the robe and the fabric fell over her arms, too thick, too luxurious. "I don't like this wrapper," she murmured. She found his nipple and licked it. The tiniest shiver passed through his frame.
"I didn't ask for sartorial advice," he said. He managed to sound indifferent, but she wasn't fooled by him any longer. Leopold had perfected a blase, ducal manner. But he wasn't indifferent.
"You care," she said, nipping him with her teeth because he had done the same to her. And, she discovered, he liked it as much as she had.
So she slid her hand down to his bottom. It was firm and muscled and about as different from her rear as it could possibly be. She kept kissing him, exploring all the curves and angles of his body, the places that made him suddenly draw in breath, or sway toward her.
A brutal-looking white scar marked his right side. "Your duel?" she asked, tracing it with her fingers.
"It doesn't seem large enough, does it?" "For what?" "For death."