Chapter Five

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.

“Take it off,” he directed.

She did so, pushing it off her shoulders, letting it fall.

But when she stood in front of him, in her shift, he asked, “Why are you doing this? Reading letters to me. Trying to clean me up. Why not simply take the money I offer and find a better protector? Why are you so determined to convince me to let you stay? This can’t be about avoiding your former madam.”

“I am afraid of my madam, and I’m afraid of poverty. I want to be a duke’s mistress.” Words spilled out of her. She was so afraid of telling him the truth, of just letting it fall out, that she began to babble. She’d had no idea a secret would sit so heavily in her heart and would want so desperately to get out.

She couldn’t confide in him. It was insane to be tempted. “I know of no other way for a woman like me to find independence and freedom. I want my own house, clothes, food, and the knowledge that someday I shall be in charge of my own life. And I—I like you, Your Grace.”

He tipped his head back, shutting his eyes. “You like me? I’m blind, half mad, and, according to you, an unkempt mess. You have very questionable taste.”

“I did not mean you are a mess! Only that your beard was.”

He laughed, and her thundering heart slowed a bit.

“Now that the scruffy beard is gone and my face is smooth, angel, there’s something I’d like to do to please you.”

It must be a good sign he was thinking of sex again, but she could not imagine what he wanted to do that required a smooth face. And she told him so.

“You don’t know?” His voice deepened to a richly sinful rumble. “Angel, you must.”

“No, I’ve no idea.”

“This is something you’ll enjoy very much. All women do.” His lips curved in a dazzling grin. “I think there’s a stool somewhere. Bring it here and sit down. Then open your legs.”

She obeyed. She had no idea what he wanted to do. Not knowing made her nervous.

“There,” she said awkwardly when she was ready. Her silky shift was bunched up at her waist, and she perched on the stool, close to its edge.

Guided by the sound of that one word, he lowered to his knees in front of her. He tilted his head to the side. “You must know now, love.”

“I don’t.”

He reached out, felt for her knees, and clasped them when he found them. “This I can do without sight. This I can be very good at without sight.” Determination glinted in his violet eyes. With his shirt open at his throat, his hair a wild tangle of black, and his feet bare, he looked like a pirate. At this moment, he didn’t look like a man who had given up caring and he didn’t look haunted. He looked like a man bent on proving a point.

Then he said, “I want to please you.” And doubt slammed into her.

Each time they’d been together, she had moaned and cried out and had made him believe he’d pleasured her. Hadn’t she?

She never felt actual pleasure. For some reason, it wasn’t possible for her. She never felt anything at all while making love. But she gave the best performances she could.

Had the duke guessed her shouts and wild thrashing were an act? Since she’d never had a climax, she didn’t know what a woman really experienced. She’d cobbled her act together based on tales told by other women in Madame’s brothel.

The duke eased her legs even wider apart, until she felt the tug on her inner thighs. She sat on the small stool, both hands wrapped around the edge of it, her spine rigid. He wouldn’t want to do anything bad, she was certain, but she couldn’t stop apprehension from welling up inside.

He leaned forward and kissed her inner thigh.

It tickled. Nothing had prepared her for such a sensation. His smooth cheek stroked her skin, teasing her madly. She gasped as he nipped the inside of her leg. Then he nibbled and licked his way to the nest of blond curls between her thighs, and she shrieked in surprise.

What on earth was he doing? Did he know where he was kissing her? He couldn’t see, after all. Had he meant to place a kiss somewhere else? Her breasts, perhaps. Should she direct him?

“Uh, Your Grace, your … your mouth is almost at my … my private place.” Then, as she stumbled over the words, she saw her horrible mistake. Of course he knew what he was doing. She could breathe in her own intimate scent, and his lips had brushed the crisp curls nestled there. She had brought up his blindness. He stopped and rested his chin on her thigh.

She ran her tongue around suddenly dry lips.

But he didn’t look angry. He cocked his head in an engaging way, his dark hair drifting over his brow, his eyes so brilliant they were the vivid color of amethysts.

“You really have no idea what I am doing? No gentleman has ever done this to you?”

She shook her head vigorously. “Not ever, Your Grace.”

“Men are a sorry lot, aren’t we, sweet?”

She frowned. She didn’t know what he meant and she had no answer. The question sounded very treacherous—as though any answer could begin an argument.

He tickled her pubic hair, making her giggle nervously. “You’re quiet for a change, Cerise. I meant that men want their own release and do not give enough attention to their partners.”

“You do,” she argued.

He laughed. “I intend to. I intend to give you pleasure with my mouth, while I enjoy the taste of you.”

She lost her breath. “I—I had no idea such a thing was done.”

“You did the same for me last night, angel.”

“I am supposed to do things you like.”

“And not expect anything in return.” His expression became serious, which worried her, but before she could say a word to reassure him she was quite happy, he whispered, “Tell me if you like it.” Then he bent and flicked his tongue at the very top of her sex, above the plump lips, to the small nub that screamed with sensation when it was touched.

Anne almost jumped off the stool. She never touched there—it was too much. She was as rigid as a rock now, enduring the way he ran his tongue over her most sensitive place. Oh, God. It was so powerful. It left her dizzy. It made her whimper for mercy. He flicked his tongue over it and she cried out. He took the taut little bump between his lips gently, and she melted a bit with relief—then he suckled on it. She screamed.

He paused, releasing her. He blew a soft breath, and even that made her scuttle back on the stool. “Relax, love. It will be good.”

Relax. She tried, she truly did. But as soon as he licked her again, she tensed and drove her fingers hard against the unyielding wooden seat.

He expected this to be pleasurable for her. It wasn’t, it wouldn’t be, but she couldn’t let him know that. He would expect enthusiastic moans. Perhaps a climax, too, at the appropriate time.

But with him flicking his tongue over that place, she couldn’t think. She couldn’t even make sounds that sounded arousing and not like a choking goose.

It was so intense. She wanted him to stop. She wanted to grasp his head and pull his mouth away. Her feet were curled almost into balls, her hands in tight fists. The feelings were too much. They made her clench every muscle tight to bear them. She didn’t want this. But she didn’t dare tell him.

He stopped, and she almost gave a sob of relief before she choked it back.

“What’s wrong, angel? I can feel how tense you are. Would you like it gentler?”

“Wh-whatever you desire, Your Grace.”

“Cerise, you can tell me what pleases you best.”

“Your Grace, I’m supposed to please you. I will do whatever you want.”

“Dear God,” he muttered. “Cerise, I don’t want that if you aren’t enjoying yourself. Would you like me to be more gentle?”

“There was nothing wrong with what you did, Your Grace,” she breathed nervously.

He nipped her inner thigh. It stunned her. “What do you want?” he growled.

“I—I don’t know.” It was the truth. She wanted independence and freedom and security. She wanted hope for a future, a good one with a house and food and safety. But in this—in making love—there wasn’t anything she wanted.

“More gently, then.” He blew a warm stream of air over her sensitive nub. He nibbled her with just his lips. It was the lightest, softest, most teasing brush of his full, firm mouth.

She quivered. It was … not so terrifying, not so intense. She slumped back on the stool, her back braced against his dressing table. Almost nice. Truly, it was almost quite nice.

Her legs weakly flopped wider apart. As he licked her gently and teasingly, she felt as if she’d downed three glasses of sherry in a row and her head was filled with ribbons, not brains.

She had to gather her wits. She was always in control. Her future might depend on her giving the grandest exhibition of her life. Yet all she could do was make incoherent whimpers.

His Grace moved down and he licked the astonishingly sensitive bridge of flesh between her wet, aching private place and the entrance to her bottom. Anne almost toppled over, taking the stool with her. It lurched precariously. Even though he couldn’t see, he caught her.

“Touch yourself for me, love,” he growled. “Show me how you like it.”

She blushed but moved her hand over her thigh. Touch … herself? She’d never done that when with a man. Nervously, she stroked her curls. They were sticky and damp from her juices, from his mouth. Her pulsing little bump was slick and wet, and she gently brushed her fingertip over it. His fingers touched her wrist, slid down to her hand, and rested gently there.

He was feeling her as she explored herself. She gave an embarrassed giggle and stopped moving her hand.

“Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely, “what you do to pleasure yourself.”

“I don’t. I’m not supposed to.” Oh, she felt miserable. She’d done this only once and she’d stopped because it wasn’t proper. She might have been a hoyden in many ways, but she’d been too afraid to be sinful and naughty. After she went to the brothel, she’d wanted only to sleep and not have nightmares when she was alone in her bed.

“You’re not supposed to? Angel, you’re a courtesan.”

Even though she’d hinted at what life had been like in the brothel, he didn’t understand. What she let men do to her had been to ensure she didn’t starve, didn’t freeze to death on the streets. It had been for survival alone.

“Try for me, angel. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“It’s sinful.” Goodness, she did sound ridiculous to her own ears.

“You said you would do everything I asked to please me,” he teased. “It would please me to explore you together.” With his hand over hers, he made her fingers rub faster. She had to close her eyes. She saw bursts of bright lights against velvet black.

“You like it fast, do you?”

She nodded. She was a wretched mess at this, clumsy, inexperienced, unknowing. But he was determined she would enjoy it. The stool rocked beneath her as she moved with their fierce strokes. He must want her to reach climax this way. And the sooner she did, the sooner this would be done. In fact, now would be the perfect time. He was breathing hard with anticipation and he’d shut his eyes tight, his long, thick lashes brushing his cheeks. Sometimes men did that when they were very aroused and close to orgasm.

She let out a loud cry. “Oh! Oh! It’s too much! I’m going to come.”

He lowered his head to her sex at once. He slid his tongue into her passage, while she mercilessly sawed her fingers back and forth over her sensitive place.

She threw everything into the act. First, she thrashed on the stool, bucking her hips. Then she clutched his head, threading her fingers into his silky hair. She had to appear to be out of her wits with ecstasy. She lifted her bottom, pushed her hips against his mouth, and squealed all the while. No matter how much she bounced, he kept his mouth on her, teasing her with his tongue.

She moved too vigorously and tipped to the side. Beneath her, the stool rocked and started to fall. She cried out in shock, but the duke grasped her hips and they both tumbled to the floor. She landed on top of him, her privates against his mouth. He held her bottom so he could continue to lick and nuzzle her.

But she didn’t want this anymore. She must pleasure him.

She drew his hands away, moved down swiftly so he could not stop her. In her haste, she was clumsy with the fastenings of his trousers. Her hand trembled as she took hold of his hard shaft, and she was so nervous she jerked his erection up rather roughly. At least she didn’t hurt him—he merely groaned lustily as she took him inside. Thank heaven, now she knew what to do. And as she bounced up and down, he rasped, “Yes, angel.”

She braced her hands on his shoulders while he thrust up into her as hard and powerfully as he had last night. When he came, he shut his eyes tight, slammed his head back on the rug, and his hips arched up beneath her, driving him deep.

Relief left Anne giddy. He must have enjoyed it.

She had obviously enjoyed it.

Dragging in long, deep breaths, Devon shifted his hips to slide out and lowered himself slowly against Cerise’s hot, dewy body. He felt her heart pound against his. His body felt lazy and heavy from his pleasure. Also from relief.

He’d pleased her. He could do this without sight and still with considerable skill, apparently. The first times he’d made love to her, he’d ached for his sight. He’d wanted to see her climax. It had frustrated him, given his pleasure an edge of anger. Anger he’d tried to keep locked inside.

This time, he’d thought only of her pleasure. His whole world had been her: the taste of her, earthy and ripe, the silky feel of her nether lips, the crisp tickle of her pubic hair, and her lovely, frantic moans. He hadn’t thought about war or loss. All he’d thought about was Cerise.

He’d felt her tension at first. She’d been almost fearful as he knelt between her legs and suckled her. What had happened to her? He wanted to know, but he didn’t want to remind her of hellish things she’d been through. He just wanted to soothe her. Then she’d begun to respond. From the sound of her cries, she must have enjoyed herself a great deal.

He kissed her breasts. “Thank you, angel,” he said softly. “For the shave.” But what in blazes was he going to do? He had barely slept last night—he’d forced himself to stay awake so he wouldn’t dream. He needed to force her to go, but right now, all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and sleep.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t risk having a nightmare and hurting her. He was sure that when he was in the depths of sleep, the feel of her body against him would set him off, just as he’d confused her touch for that of a soldier trying to kill him.

“I’m not quite finished,” she murmured, underneath him. “All that lovely hair of yours needs a trim.”

He was supposed to be pushing people away. For their own good. That had been the direction he’d given to Treadwell and the handful of other servants he kept here.

Yet Devon sat on the stool with his back to his dressing table while Cerise washed his hair. She had forced him to sit, then had tipped his head over the basin while she soaked his hair with handfuls of water.

Now she massaged soap into it. He groaned, shut his eyes, and savored the firm, circular caresses of her fingers.

He had fought against battalions of French soldiers—at Waterloo, they had faced more than seventy thousand men—yet this slip of a woman was bustling him around his dressing room with more capability for direction than his vice general had shown.

It was amazing how good a woman’s hands felt on his scalp. How good her hands felt. She wasn’t trying to make this sensual. She rubbed his head too hard for that to be her plan, and she massaged every spot—his temples, behind his ears, along the nape of his neck.

He could hear rain thrumming against the windows, rattling the panes.

“Tip your head back farther, please, Your Grace.” She rinsed his hair, using her hand as a barrier to keep the soapy water off his face. He jerked instinctively as the warm water sluiced over his head, and rivulets ran down into his eyes.

“Please keep still,” she admonished. “Or I will end up splashing your face by mistake.”

“Yes, dear,” he murmured obediently.

Her hands twisted his hair behind him, gathering it up, squeezing the excess water from it. She let it go, and it fell wetly against his neck. Vigorously, she rubbed his head with a towel.

He almost laughed. She definitely wasn’t trying to artfully seduce him. She tugged his hair as she patted it between the towel, dabbed up the water that dribbled from his hairline. Then she laid the towel around his shoulders.

Suddenly his hair was yanked as though she were trying to scalp him. He tried to jolt away.

“I am sorry, but I must get the comb through.” Suspicion, not apology, laced her tone. “When was the last time you took a comb to your hair?”

“Before Watson left. It must be at least a week ago.”

She clicked her tongue. “It is very wrong to let yourself go to seed like this.”

She spoke to him like a governess with a recalcitrant charge. He wanted to fill in details of the vague story of her past she’d given him. She did not behave like a girl who had spent much of her life in London’s stews. “Why didn’t your grandfather help you after your father died? Why didn’t he take you in?”

“He had died by then. And we had no other family. My mother and I truly had nowhere else to go.” Her voice trembled, and she sounded as though she did not wish to speak of it.

Then cold brushed against his neck, and he jerked away again. “What is that?”

“The scissors, Your Grace.” She tipped his head and he felt the comb run through his hair, pulling it straight, then he heard the first swift snip of the blades. She worked around his head, telling him everything she was going to do, directing his head this way and that while she trimmed his hair.

“Angel, in London, did you have much call to shave your clients and trim their hair?”

She paused, and he felt pieces of hair feather past his cheek. “No,” she said slowly. “Do gentlemen ask for such things?” She sounded utterly innocent and surprised.

“Then why did you think of doing this, love?”

“I thought it would make you feel better,” she said. “I know a mistress is supposed to do things such as warming brandies and … and pleasuring a man with her mouth. But this, I thought, was what you needed.” She stroked the comb through his hair, caressing his scalp. “Do you feel more like yourself?”

She was right. He did feel more like himself without the itching beard and the dirty, unkempt hair. A light clunk told him she’d set down the scissors. And he was certain he’d heard a blush in her tone when she’d said pleasuring a man with her mouth. Amazing she had stayed so ingenuous.

“I wondered if you would want to come with me,” she said. “For a walk outside.”

That he hadn’t expected. “Outside? It’s raining, love. Even I know that. I can hear it.”

“I know. I’m asking you to go outside because it is raining. I think it will help you. Come with me and find out.”