Engaged in Sin (8 page)

“Did she end up in a brothel, angel, and bring you with her?”

“No, she worked as a seamstress. Eventually she died and I ended up in the brothel—I had nowhere else to go.” That was the truth.

Five years ago, a few nights after she had approached the duke outside the theatre, she had run out of money and had to go back to Drury Lane. She had approached another man, who turned out to be Viscount Rutley. Rutley hadn’t been as noble as the duke. He’d said he wanted her as his mistress. She had believed him—he gave her an allowance, enough money to pay for her mother’s laudanum. Then after only a few weeks, Rutley had grown bored with her. But instead of giving her a settlement, he’d handed her over to Madame to settle his unpaid accounts.

“I’m sorry.”

She jerked her head up. She didn’t want him to pity her. Was there a way she could stop him from asking more questions and convince him to keep her?

“Let me try to help you,” she said impetuously. “I saw how frustrated you became when you walked across the library and hit your shin on that table. My grandfather was blind, and I know the things he did to cope with it. Perhaps those things could help you—”

“Angel, I don’t need help. The only way I can be ‘healed’ is to get my sight back and, as delightful and intriguing as you are, you can’t do that for me.”

“Once, my grandfather told me he believed his blindness was actually a gift.”

“Then your grandfather was a madman.” He reached for his coffee, and she could see he was going to knock over the cup. She lunged and snatched it up before he could. If he did something like that now, she would never win him over. And she had to. Thinking of Madame’s death was like the prick of a blade. She had to make haste to survive.

“Perhaps I could show you why he felt that way, Your
Grace. I know I can’t give you back your sight—I wish I could—but I do believe I can make you happy. I know you used to love to game and wager. Why don’t you make a wager with me? I believe I can help make you into the man you were before you were blind. I know I can! I have weapons you can’t even imagine.”

“A wager?” He leaned back in his chair, his brow arched dubiously, but at least she had captured his attention. And distracted him from his previous questions.

She knew she’d thrown down a gauntlet, and she had to win. But where to begin?

The duke scratched along his jaw, his fingers stroking through his uneven beard.

Of course! She had been in the care of starchy and efficient nurses and no-nonsense governesses until she was fifteen—until her father’s death. What did her nurses do when she came home with a dirty face and unkempt hair? Firm hands would propel her to the claw-foot tub, where she was deposited into the water, then scrubbed thoroughly. She knew from living in the stews how hard it was to escape unhappiness if you couldn’t escape being dirty and disheveled.

That was where she would begin. She would clean him up.

OU’RE ASKING ME
to let you go for my throat with a razor?”

“I want to
shave
you.” With her hands on the duke’s lower back, Anne propelled him to a stool in front of his mahogany dresser. Nerves made her take charge and act swiftly. His shaving kit was laid out upon a towel, apparently left by his valet. She’d instructed a footman to bring a basin of water. “You are sorely in need of a good shave. Now, please sit down, Your Grace.”

“Angel, this is not a good idea.”

“It is. You’re scratching at that mess of stubble again. You would feel better with it gone.”

“I do not know about this,” he said warily. “I don’t like the idea of you touching my throat with a blade.”

“Nonsense, I shall take great care,” she promised. She hoped she was not hammering nails in her coffin by arguing with him. As he had observed, she was supposed to be paid to do as he asked, not to speak her mind.

Kat, who had been lover to many peers, had explained exactly what a mistress was supposed to do. Avoiding arguments had been quite close to the top of the list. It appeared a clever mistress had skills beyond the bedroom.
A successful one knew how to flatter her protector, how to make him feel like a god among men. Herding him into his dressing room like a clucking nanny was
not
the best way to flatter him.

Bother. But she had to do this—sex hadn’t worked, so she must do something else to make her appear so valuable and indispensable he would not dream of sending her away. “I certainly wouldn’t hurt you deliberately,” she said. “And I’ve”—the lie slipped out with dreadful ease—“done this many times before. I think this would be very … erotic.”

“Indeed.” He grinned for a moment, but then his mouth straightened into a serious line, his eyes haunted. “I am worried about how I will react to the pressure of the razor on my neck.”

Heavens, she’d not thought of that. “All you must do is remember that I am shaving you, that there is no danger, that you aren’t in battle; instead, you are here in your dressing room. Just remember you are completely safe.”

“All right, angel, I’m willing to try. But I wish this didn’t involve a sharp blade.”

His humor touched her heart, and she prayed she could do this. She had never shaved a man in her life, and she’d had only a few glimpses of her father’s valet shaving him. She would have to be careful and try very hard not to cut the duke’s throat.

While she was finishing her breakfast, the duke had gone to one of the enormous library windows. He had tapped his way there with his walking stick, then he’d laid both his bare palms against the panes and rested his head on the cool, damp glass.

It was a posture of such longing and pain. Suddenly she’d understood. The duke
wanted
to go home. What kept him away from his estate and his family was fear. She had no home to go to. If she had one, she now knew
she would slay any dragon to reach it, she would take any risk to go to it. But would she hurt someone else? That was what he feared he might do.

This was about more than her safety, her escape. She truly wanted to help him. And right now she had to shave him without cutting his throat. Gathering her courage, she faced his dressing table. The footman had delivered two bowls—one to dip the blade in, the second for rinsing his face. Steam coiled off each one.

Grandpapa would ask her to speak, so he would know where she was. She touched the duke’s cheek gently and said, “I am going to lather you now.”

With trust she didn’t deserve, he tipped back his head. He rested his fists on his thighs.

She swallowed hard as she took his shaving soap and rubbed it along his taut neck. His muscles tensed beneath her touch. He shut his eyes and breathed slowly. Obviously he was executing intense control of himself. She stepped up to him from behind. “I am going to touch the razor to you now.”

Suddenly he lifted his arm, and Anne gasped in horror. She had been moving the blade forward. She’d almost sliced his forearm.

“No. I can’t do this, love,” he said grimly.

“You can trust me,” she said nervously. He had agreed to let her stay because she’d wagered him she could help him heal. They hadn’t yet set a value on the bet, but if he could not let her do this, wouldn’t it be proof she must go?

“Angel, I cannot trust anyone. It’s the sorry truth.” He held out his hand. “I can shave myself. I did it in camps often enough without the aid of a mirror. This is something I should still be able to do.”

She hesitated, then gave in. Taking great care, she put the handle of the razor against his palm. His long fingers curled around it and she noticed the numerous scars
crisscrossing the back of his hand. She remembered the soft scrape of his callused palm on her breasts and the way it made her skin tingle. He was a duke, but he no longer had a gentleman’s hands.

With the razor in hand, he tipped his head back and ran the sharp edge along his throat with a smooth, firm stroke. Lather piled up on the blade. He reached out, found one of the basins, and dipped the metal into the water, swishing to clean it. Another stroke took off more of the white foam and left a second trail of smooth skin beside the first.

Anne watched, rather breathless. It seemed so intimate to do this, to watch him shave. More intimate than it had felt to make love to him.

He removed all the stubble from his neck, then attended to his cheeks and jaw. She marveled at the ease with which he negotiated the dip at his chin, the curves of his lips, the high planes of his cheekbones. Of course, he’d done this for about a decade of his life. She knew, from all the stories in London about his heroics, that he was six-and-twenty.

He gave the blade a slosh in the basin, then laid it down. He rinsed his face from the other basin, which he found with his hand, then patted his skin with a towel. “Is there a bottle of witch hazel on my dresser?”

She put it in his hand. He poured some in his palm, rubbed his hands together, slapped it to his face and throat. The gentle bite of the astringent filled the air. He winced, and she saw droplets of blood on his skin at the exact moment he put his fingers against them.

“Not as skilled as I thought,” he muttered grimly. “Perhaps I should have let you do it.”

She prayed that meant he was recognizing there was reason to keep her. Tentatively, she touched his cheek. “It is so smooth now. It feels like velvet.”

He laughed. “It’s not as soft as yours.” Then his smile faded. “Funny, I haven’t really touched you yet, have I?”

She remembered where he had touched her. Foolishly, she blushed. “You have.”

“Not to truly explore you. The first time I felt my own face was a week ago. I didn’t want to know how badly it had been cut up.”

Her heart gave a swift leap as she thought of him running his hands over his face to discover if he had been scarred. “There is nothing wrong with your face,” she assured him. “You are an astoundingly handsome man, Your Grace.”

“Come here. Let me touch your face. Let me know what you look like.”

Her grandfather used to ask to do that. To touch and explore her face. She took the duke’s hand and lifted it to her cheek.

Gently he stroked the curve with his fingertips. It brought forth memories of her grandfather cupping her face, fanning his fingers over her cheeks. Grandpapa would tell her how pretty she’d become, what a lovely lady she was going to be. Even though
everyone
had despaired of her ever behaving like a polite and proper lady, Grandpapa did not. He used to whisper to her that the hoydens made the most interesting ladies. How ironic it was that she had never gotten a chance to be a lady.

She pushed that thought away, locked it deep inside.

“You have beautiful skin,” the duke murmured. His fingers coasted down to her jaw and found her lips. Little explosions of sensation burst as his fingers lightly traced her mouth.

She’d never been touched like this. So slowly. With such care. She couldn’t tense at such a beautiful caress. The way the duke touched was so slow and sensual, it made her knees tremble.

“I am not a ravishing beauty.” She might as well be truthful about this. “Nor am I a particularly voluptuous woman—though I suppose you have guessed that already. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t have encouraged him to explore. Ashton had wanted Kat to be the duke’s lover, and Kat was an exotic beauty with ebony curls, full lips, almond-shaped eyes, and high cheekbones. If that was the type of woman Lord Ashton believed the duke desired, she couldn’t begin to compete with that.

She was somewhat pretty. But her nose was too long, her eyelashes too fair, her chin too sharp. Men had liked her in the brothel because she had a fragile look to her, even though, when she’d been young and behaving like a hoyden instead of a proper young lady, fragile was the last word that would describe her.

The duke brushed her eyebrows with his fingertips. He lightly touched her eyelids—heavens, they were very sensitive. He cupped her face. His eyes did not meet hers, but he said quietly, “Your skin is smooth as a new peach. Your lips feel lusciously plump. I noticed you have an intriguing bump at the end of your nose. I am hardly disappointed. You feel lovely.”

“Th-thank you.”

He touched one of her loose tendrils of hair, winding it lightly around his finger before releasing it. “What color is your hair?”

“Bl—” She checked herself. Her hair wasn’t blond any longer, not after the dye. “Red.”

“ ‘Titian’ was how my butler described it. He described your eyes as dark green, like ivy.”

She started at that. Never had she thought of the dark color of her eyes in that way, yet it was very accurate. “I wouldn’t have thought your butler to be so …”

“Poetic?” he suggested.

“Yes.” Anne had never expected the odd-looking servant to have such awareness. “I suspect you don’t employ him only to keep people away. I think—I think he worries about you.”

“He does. Too much so. Makes him poke his nose in my business.” The duke’s fingers trailed down her neck. That was the only place his fingertips caressed, but her skin everywhere seemed aware of his touch. He stroked the base of her throat, where her pulse thudded. He found the velvet lapels of her robe, drew them apart with both hands.