When he’d kissed Eliza, she’d responded eagerly to his embrace. She’d not been frightened, had in fact pushed him for more. She seemed as aware of him as he was of her, sparks flaming between them whenever they were in the same space. Their attraction was mutual, he was sure of it. But would she turn away from him, be repulsed by him as Mirabelle had been, if things went farther in the bedroom?
His heart tore at the thought, of seeing the desire in those deep sapphire eyes turn to rejection, even as his pulse raced and parts of him throbbed at the image of Eliza underneath him. Perhaps most men were unconcerned with whether or not the woman found actual pleasure, considering it a triviality. But it mattered to Deveric.
He liked Eliza. Truly liked her, as well as longed for her more than he’d ever longed for any woman.
Was it possible he could find true emotional and physical satisfaction with her?
He paused in the grooming of the horse, a sudden thought hitting him. This Cat of whom Eliza spoke, she wrote stories. Love stories, Eliza had said, had she not, stories in which men had come to life for this Cat, men meant to be suitors? Eliza claimed only that she’d wanted to come to England during this Regency, but Deveric felt she was concealing something, something more. He’d thought at first it pertained to her claims of being from the future. But maybe ... Had this Cat written a love story for Eliza? For Eliza to come here, to be with him?
And if so, did this mean Deveric was a fictional creation?
The idea was so preposterous, he actually snorted out loud. Lightning turned his head and nickered in response.
“It’s not you, old chap,” Dev murmured, dismissing the idea. He was no more fictional than Lightning was a unicorn. Of that, he was sure.
But could this Cat have chosen him, somehow, as Eliza’s destiny? Were they, could they be ... soul mates? He’d never believed in the idea, had figured it for emotional rubbish best left to poets and actors. And yet, the idea sparked a hope he’d never felt before. His insides were on fire, every inch of him burning for it to be true, to be a possibility, at least. For life, for God, to let him atone for his sins, to give him something to believe in, someone to live for.
Good God, what was wrong with him, indulging in such ludicrous, maudlin fantasies?
“It’s me. I’m as mad as she is, thinking someone would come back two hundred years from the future, just to love me.”
To love him? When had love entered the picture?
Lightning whinnied.
“That’s right. It’s all a bunch of—” He sighed as Lightning released the contents of his bowels. “Well, yes, but I didn’t need such a graphic demonstration.”
He handed the brush to the stable hand. One advantage of being a duke was not having to deal with horse manure. “Finish grooming, and then muck out that stall.”
The lad nodded and ran to comply.
Deveric strode toward the house. Between the smell of the manure and the sweat he’d worked up that afternoon, he needed a bath.
Entering the house, he bade the servants to draw one. He’d had a tub installed in the dressing room off of his main chamber several years ago, which drained right down out of the house—a miracle of modern plumbing. He often soaked for great lengths of time, letting the heat and salt ease the aches and pains of the day.
Striding up to his chamber, he glanced across the hallway. The door to his wife’s chamber was closed. Was Eliza within? He stood for a moment, a vision of her in his tub springing to mind, with her blonde hair down and eyes welcoming, those luscious blue eyes that had pulsated when he’d pulled back from kissing her that morning. She hadn’t wanted to let go, and he hadn’t wanted to let her go.
His breeches grew uncomfortably tight. It was astonishing to be led more by his cock than his head. A gentleman of good breeding maintains control over his physical person at all times.
As if he could control it, this response to that damnable American. She’d thrown his whole life in chaos.
Opening the door to his chamber, he stomped in and flung it shut. The servants rustled about in the adjacent room, and he could hear the sounds of pouring water. Good. They were fast today.
He pulled off his cravat and then sat down on the bed to remove his boots. His valet, Myers, entered the room to assist him, carefully setting the boots aside while tsk-tsking at the scuffs. Deveric allowed him to remove his riding coat and then sent him away. He knew Myers wished to perform more services. “But, Your Grace, a valet is to serve in all ways,” the man often lamented. Dev had never enjoyed others dressing and undressing him, though. Many of his friends gave no thought to parading about in front of servants. They were part of the wallpaper. But not to Deveric. Not when he was naked.
Pulling off his shirt and breeches, he laid them to the side then peeled off his smalls. He looked down. Apparently, his mind was still on Eliza. Hopefully, the bath would, er, soften him a bit. Walking into the next room, now empty of anyone, he climbed into the water, hotter than most people could stand, and slid down into it with a large sigh.
He’d let the water wash all thoughts, all those damnably tempting images, of Eliza James away.
Chapter 19
Footsteps echoed outside her door. The forcefulness of the stride let her know it was Deveric—what other man would walk with such assurance in this grand cavern of a house? Suddenly, the noise stopped. What was he doing? She resisted the urge to peek out. Nothing to see, Lizzie. Nothing to see. After a moment, his door opened and then closed rather forcefully.
She paced about in her room, not sure what to do. She needed help to get out of her dress. It was embarrassing and frustrating that she couldn’t undress herself in gowns like these, but it was the reality. She wasn’t sure how to call for a maid; Betsy had always just appeared. Maybe if Eliza quickly asked Deveric, he could send someone up.
Her mind made up, she opened her door and walked across the hallway. She knocked on his door. There was no answer. He was in there, wasn’t he? She knocked again, more loudly this time.
“Come in!” His irritated voice sounded farther off than she expected; perhaps this chamber was particularly well insulated. Opening the door, she walked in. And had to stop and gape. The giant bed encompassing the center of the room was the most magnificent piece of furniture she’d ever seen, all heavy wood, masterfully carved, of a deep, deep mahogany. She wandered over to run her fingers along one of the posters, tracing her thumb across an intricate leaf, marveling at the craftsmanship.
“Bring it in here,” came the voice again, and she followed it without thinking. Walking through a small connecting door, she found herself in another chamber–and face-to-face with Deveric. Naked Deveric. In a bathtub. She shrieked as his face purpled.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I had no idea! I just, um—” Turning back and forth, she couldn’t decide whether to run or stay.
“What are you doing in here?” he demanded, sinking lower in the tub. “I thought you were Myers with my shaving soap.”
It was a large tub, almost the size of a modern Jacuzzi, but it still couldn’t hold all of him, and his shoulders rose above the water like icebergs. They made her feel anything but cold, though, reminding her as they did of the statue of David she’d seen in Florence. How did a man get so muscular without being a weightlifter? It’s not as if he did manual labor. Did he?
“I, uh, I needed assistance. Um ...” She looked at the ceiling. “Amara told me it’s time to dress for dinner, but I, uh, can’t get out of this dress on my own.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’re asking me to get you out of your dress?”
“No!” she shrieked, her eyes flying back to meet his. “I mean, yes. I mean, no, not you! But I, um, don’t know how to call for help.” She turned away and stared at the wall, twisting her fingers together.
She should leave. At once. She knew it. And yet, she couldn’t. She bit her lip, peeking at him over her shoulder before yanking her head back to the wall in front of her. Holy cow,
the man was magnificent.
Deveric was starting to enjoy this. Clearly, she was even more discomfited than he was, and he was the one who was naked. She wasn’t close enough to see down through the water, was she? If so, she’d realize just what his reaction was to the idea of undressing her.
Her eyes darted to him, even as she pretended to focus on the wallpaper in front of her. Does she like what she sees? She hasn’t run. And she’s peeking at me, those cheeks burning so prettily. Maybe he should stand up and give her the full view.
The smile left his face as he pictured what she might do. Run screaming, as Mirabelle once had? He couldn’t help that he was so ... large in all areas. Many women preferred the more effete, lean dandies of the day, but his broad shoulders and muscled thighs precluded anyone ever calling him fashionable. That was of no matter to him. He dressed as befitted his status, but wasn’t as consumed with finding the proper waistcoat, much less being a pink of the ton, as a number of his acquaintances were—Arthington, in particular.
“In this century, a woman isn’t to enter a man’s bedchamber unless she is his wife.” He sluiced water casually over his shoulders. Better not to let her know how off-kilter she’d set him upon appearing in his room.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I wasn’t sure what to do and I heard you in here. I’m sorry, I’ll go.” Her voice trembled as she spoke to the wall. Desire? Fear?
“No, no, we will have to check first to ensure no one sees you. It would not do for us to be caught in my private chambers alone together. Especially with me in this state of dress. Or undress, rather. Hold on.”
Reaching over, he grabbed a large towel sitting on the chair next to the tub. “Close your eyes!” he commanded, lest she peek again. Though Lord knew he wanted her to, so he could gauge her reaction. If it were the one he wanted, however, if her eyes burned as hotly as he hoped, there’d be no turning back. A man only had so much restraint, and a woman in his bedchamber while he was naked—no, this woman in his bedchamber—was too much for it.
Eliza did as told, squeezing her eyes so hard she saw dots. Did he think that would erase the memory of those lovely shoulders, or of his strong neck rising from the water? Dear Lord, the man was gorgeous. She even liked the hint of five o’clock shadow gracing his face. He must have a lot of hair, to need shaving twice a day. He was all man, no doubt about it.
She heard the water sloshing around in the tub as he rose, and her ears burned. She may not be watching, but she wasn’t having a hard time imagining what it would be like to see the water sliding down across his chest, down his belly, over his ... She shivered. Oh, to be that water. She needed to get a grip. What I’d like to grip, her belligerent mind said, and she had to clasp her elbows firmly with each opposite hand to keep herself from turning around.
This was real. It wasn’t a fantasy, wasn’t a daydream. She was standing in Deveric Mattersley’s private dressing room, and he was naked.
Footsteps approached. “Here,” he said, his voice suddenly tickling her neck as he loosened the back straps of her gown. Gracious, he was right behind her, the heat of his body radiating into hers.
“What are you doing?” she yelped, jumping and coming down on his foot.
He didn’t move. “Thank goodness you’re a tiny little thing, or that would have hurt.”
Eliza had been about to apologize, but his words stopped her short. Tiny little thing? He thought she was tiny little thing? She grinned, in spite of the awkward situation. How nice to have a man who didn’t object to a little extra padding.
As his fingers traced their way down her back, his touch raising goosebumps even through the layers of clothing under the dress, she remembered where she was—in 1812, not 2012, and in a man’s bedroom, where she shouldn’t be, no matter how much she wished to stay. Not if she wanted to avoid a scandal, at least. The Dowager Dragon would kick her out on her ass in an instant if Eliza were discovered in the duke’s chamber. Much less discovered with him naked.
“Stop it! You can’t, you shouldn’t—” Without turning around, she fled, racing across his room, although she was careful to peek out the door before darting across to her own chamber. Thank goodness no one was there.
Dev ran his fingers through his hair, standing at the edge of his dressing room, water pooling beneath him on the floor. What had got into him, touching her in such an intimate manner? He knew better. Though he’d just loosened the dress, as she’d requested, nothing more. He would have sent her away once the task was done. Wouldn’t he?
He was a man of principle. A man of honor. He wasn’t the type to seduce young women, or even a slightly older widow, in his own bedroom. No matter how much certain parts of him wanted to.
He glanced at his bed, imagining Eliza spread out on it, naked, those glorious breasts on full display. He pictured her beckoning to him, acceptance and desire radiating from her brilliant eyes as she opened her arms, and legs, to welcome him in.
It was too much to bear.
He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of frustration. Dropping the towel, he prepared to dress, though the bath hadn’t softened his desire for her one bit, hadn’t slaked the thirst apparently only Eliza James could quench.
Good God, what was wrong with him? He’d kept this side of himself under control for years. Two nights with this woman under his roof, and he was ready to abandon it all, ready to risk everything, just to taste her again.
Who was she?
Eliza leaned back against her door, her heart thumping. Closing her eyes, she tried to catch her breath, but nothing could calm her down from the image she’d just seen: Deveric Mattersley, naked, in the bathtub.
Sure, she hadn’t seen down through the water—trying to get a glimpse would have been too obvious—but Oh. My. God. He put most modern men to shame, and that included the gym rats she’d seen while occasionally working out at UVa’s Aquatic and Fitness Center.
What did the man do? How did he stay that fit? In spite of the hunks peppering the pages of her romance novels, she’d assumed in real life most members of the peerage never had to lift a finger for anything and were therefore likely to be on the softer side.
This one broke the mold.
Thank God for that. She grinned. If this all worked out in the end, she’d write Cat a big old thank you letter, and figure out a way to get it to her friend. A man with shoulders like that. Yowza. If only she’d been able to see his thighs under that towel. If only she’d been able to see...
She wanted to touch him, to run her fingers through the hair on his chest, to trace the elegant expanse of his shoulders, feel the contours of his body. Heat flamed out to her breasts and the lower half of her as she imagined lying underneath him, his hardness pressing into her, being enveloped by all man.
His responses to her were assuaging her self-doubt, whittling away at her fears about her own body far more quickly that she ever would have imagined. With him, with the way he looked at her, she felt desired, truly desired. All of her seemed to please him, not just her pretty face. To be accepted for who she was, emotionally and physically—that was the ultimate dream. A dream more and more within reach, given the obvious chemistry raging between them. Thank you, Cat.
Shaking off the image of Deveric buck-naked as best she could, Eliza pulled her arms from the sleeves of her dress. At least this afternoon encounter had accomplished something; she could escape the layers of clothing she had on. These dresses were warm, true, but the fabric constricted her arms and shoulders, especially since the dresses had been made for Amara, not her. What she wouldn’t give for a T-shirt and jeans.
She strolled over to the fireplace, where a fire blazed merrily. Someone had refreshed the logs. She froze. Betsy? Had Betsy known where she was?
A knock sounded at the door. Eliza quickly threw her arms back into the gown. Was it Deveric? Surely it wasn’t Deveric. Even though you want it to be Deveric. “Who is it?”
The door opened and Betsy walked in, holding a pitcher of
water. She dropped a curtsy upon seeing Eliza, and then strode to the sideboard, setting the pitcher into place.
“I brought some fresh water, milady, in case you want to wash before dinner.”
“Thank you, Betsy.”
The maid walked over to Eliza, moving around to her back. “Who undid your laces?”
“Um.” Blood rushed to Eliza’s face, setting it on fire. Thank goodness Betsy was behind her. “Amara did after she walked me back to the room.”
“Hmm.”
Was that doubt in the maid’s voice? If so, she said nothing else.
Betsy removed the morning gown and laid it carefully across the bed, then held up Eliza’s twenty-first-century imitation of a Regency ball gown she’d worn that first night.
“This is a pretty gown, my lady,” said Betsy as she helped Eliza into the dress. “It’s different. The fabric isn’t like anything I’ve ever felt before.”
Eliza wasn’t sure what the dress was made of. It looked silky to her, but she guessed maybe rayon or polyester. That wasn’t something she wanted to explain to a nineteenth-century maid. “Perhaps it’s an American style.” You know, two hundred years in the future.
“Shall I do your hair?”
Eliza nodded, taking a seat in front of the dressing table mirror. Although the pampering was fun, it still bothered her to have someone wait on her hand and foot. She wished she could offer Betsy some form of payment. Not that that would be appropriate, or that she had anything to offer.
In fact, how could she turn her jewelry into money? Being entirely dependent on others didn’t sit well with her; she’d prefer to have funds of her own ready at hand. Hmm.
As Betsy pulled the brush through her hair, Eliza closed her eyes, letting her thoughts drift. What is Cat doing right now? Well, obviously not right now, not in 1812.
The Magic of Love Series Page 42
