Who was she?
The door opened behind her. "Emilie?"
"Here," she said softly, without turning.
The door clicked shut. She listened for the sound of his footsteps on the carpet, but nothing came. He stood utterly still, his gaze burning the back of her bare neck.
"I see," he said at last.
Emilie placed her fingers on the edge of the mantel. "I was thinking, while you were gone, that . . . that we have both engaged ourselves to a great degree, in a rather short period of time . . ."
"I see."
"You are prepared to enter into . . . into a permanent arrangement with me. And it would not be fair . . . We cannot continue, without seeing each other as we truly are. As our real selves, face-to-face."
Ashland's feet shifted. "I offered to remove the blindfold last week. You refused. I assumed you were not ready to see what I am."
"And you would ask me to marry you without my having seen this face of yours? Without your seeing mine?"
His footsteps moved the floorboards at last, approaching. He came to a stop directly behind her and laid his hand softly on her shoulder. "What happened to your hair, Emilie? A fever?"
"No. Not a fever. I cut it off."
His breath tickled her neck. "Emilie, if I have understood anything during the past decade, I have understood how we poor mortals are deceived by beauty. My wife was beautiful, extraordinarily so, and when I married her, I naively presumed this physical perfection went through to her soul."
"You mistake me, sir. I am not afraid of your face. I know your character, your heart, and there is no part of you I couldn't imagine the most beautiful in the world."
"Ah, Emilie. You're afraid of my seeing you, then? That I'm not capable of the same generosity?"
Emilie gazed at the floor in wonder. This was the stiff and arctic Duke of Ashland saying these tender words to her. The reserved and formal Ashland: Where was he now?
His lips touched the nape of her neck. "In the beginning, you wore that blindfold because I chose to remain anonymous. Later, as I came to know you, I didn't have the courage to ask you to take it off. I couldn't bear the thought of you recoiling from me, your look of horror."
Emilie lifted her hand and laid it atop Ashland's.
"A moment ago, Emilie, I told you what I wanted. But what do you want?"
She shook her head. Her throat was tight, her eyes stinging.
"Tell me. Will it matter, Emilie? My face?"
She shook her head. "Will mine?"
In answer, Ashland's hand slipped around the ball of her left shoulder. His other arm came up to hold her right.
He turned her around.
She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn't hurt him, she couldn't deceive him like that. Ashland's masked face shifted into view before her, jagged and familiar, his blue gaze so soft and tender with love she nearly cried out.
She stood waiting under his regard. He was blurred at the edges, a little indistinct without her spectacles. Was that recognition in his expression? How could he not recognize Tobias Grimsby in her face, in her eyes? Any second, and that all-seeing eye would widen, that skin would draw tight over his cheekbones. He would step back in horror, in disgust.
The clock ticked behind her ear. Ashland's warmth radiated through her chemise. His left hand released her shoulder to brush her cheek with his knuckles.
"Beautiful," he said, and he lowered his face to kiss her.
She kissed him back. Her shaking arms enclosed him. Dazed with relief, shamed with her own cowardice, she said nothing at all and simply gave herself up to him.
"Emilie." He hauled her off her feet and carried her to the round table at the other side of the room. He tossed the book on the floor, parted her legs, and sealed his mouth over hers in a deep and ravaging kiss, stroking her with his hot tongue, running his hand up her thighs to her belly and breasts. "Reach in my pocket, Emilie. The left pocket."
Her brain was spinning with lust. She put her hand in his pocket and pulled out a small packet.
"Open it." He took her earlobe gently between his teeth.
She opened it.
"Not the sort of thing a man uses in bed with his wife, you understand. But as my lady commands."
She stared at the gossamer-thin object in her hands. "Where did you find it?"
"The hotel keeps them-discreetly, of course-in case a guest requests one."
Emilie hid her burning face into Ashland's shoulder.
He said, "I've never used one. I can't . . . You'll have to help me put it on. You'll have to tie the strings for me."
"But I don't . . ."
He took the sheath from her hand and went to the pitcher of water on the drinks tray. "It needs to be dampened. I know that much."
"How do you know it?"
He sent her an amused look. "I was in the army, you remember."
He returned to her with deliberate steps. His gaze devoured her, as if she were something he might eat. Her blood thudded in her ears. She reached out as he drew near, but he didn't touch her. Instead he took off his coat and waistcoat and slid his braces from his shoulders. Her gaze dropped to his trousers.
"Take me in your hands, Emilie," he commanded her.
Something in his voice burned away the last vestige of shyness. She unbuttoned his trousers, and he sprang free, stiff and dark and . . . well, rather enormous. Far larger than she'd imagined, larger than the drawings in her books had ever led her to expect. Had he really pushed this inside her last Tuesday? All of it?
She should be frightened at the sight. She should swoon with maidenly shock.
Instead, she wet her lips. She wrapped her hands around his heavy length, ran her fingers along the velvety circle of skin at the tip. A drop of moisture welled free, and without thinking, she bent to lick it off.
Ashland shuddered.
He tasted sharp and tangy. Wild. She licked again. Her tongue found the fissure and dipped inside.
"You'll kill me," he growled. He took her hand. "Help me with this."
She struggled with the sheath, her eager fingers too clumsy for such delicate work. He strained under her touch, bumping into her belly as she bent over him and tied the strings at the base. The action was so forbidden and shameless, so charged with erotic purpose, she felt another surge of warmth between her legs.
"I can't wait, Emilie." He lifted her chemise and found her with his fingers. "God, you're drenched. Come here. Closer. That's it." He urged her to the very edge of the table, bracing her with his right arm, caressing her with his left. His fingers grasped her thigh. His tip parted her, settling just inside her lips. He said huskily, "Now, watch us. Watch me join us together, Emilie."
"Here?" she gasped, astonished.
"Here."
She gripped the edge of the table, breathing in shallow gasps. His damp forehead touched hers, his breath warmed her face. She looked down, and there he was, hard as steel, rope-veined, disappearing millimeter by millimeter into the V between her legs. The sight of it, of Ashland feeding his thickened member into her body with utmost control, sent wild shocks pulsing in her blood. Her delicate flesh stretched and stretched, stretched almost to the edge of pain, and she cried out at the fullness of him, of the solid weight rubbing against her sensitive tissues, too much sensation to bear.
Ashland was breathing hard. His face was hot and damp with perspiration; heat radiated from the arms that gripped her. At the base of his throat, right before her eyes, his pulse thrust aggressively against his skin. He tilted her backward slightly and worked himself even deeper, another precious inch, until his snug ballocks pressed her below and the strings of the scandalous French letter tickled her outer lips.
Emilie gripped the edge of the table with all her strength, fighting to keep herself from disintegrating under the impossible pressure. Ashland's breath pumped into her ear. He slid his hand to her bottom and braced himself. "Put your legs around me, Emilie," he whispered, and she put her legs obediently around him, digging her heels into his upper thighs. Another shock of pleasure rippled through her body. "That's it. Good girl," he told her, and with a kiss to her shoulder he began to move. He glided out slowly, in a rush of slickness, and eased himself back in. "All right?"
"Yes . . . yes . . ." She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The table was hard and unyielding beneath her bottom; Ashland's rod was hard and unyielding between her legs. She was squeezed between the two. A rock and a hard place, she thought wildly. No escape now.
"Love, I can't hold back any longer."
"Then don't," she gasped out.
His next thrust rocked her to the core, making the table rattle. His hand tightened on her arse and he thrust again, again, faster, stopping her breath with his strength. He made little growls as he went, punctuating each ramming shove into her body, and her own cries of pleasure shot out from her throat at the force of him.