Page 5 of The Devil’s Submission

No way would this all end in disaster.

No way at all.

Chapter Two

As promised, Eliza slept soundly on the left side of the bed.

Well, not precisely on the left side anymore. During the night she’d inched closer and closer, and Devil was currently hard to the point of agony. Her citrusy scent surrounded him, locks of her wild, sunset-red hair spilled over his pillow, and as for her body—even a modest nightgown couldn’t disguise her mouthwatering hourglass lushness.

“Grayson,” she said. He froze, then sighed in relief at the realization she’d merely mumbled his name in her sleep. Until she rolled onto her side and tucked her head against the curve of his neck, allowing her breasts, those ample, dusky brown-tipped curves of perfection, to press against his naked chest. One tug of a satin bow and he could lick her left nipple. Suck it. Scrape it with his teeth. If he slid his hand down and lifted the hem of her nightgown just a few more inches, he could cup her mound. Part the crisp red curls, stroke her petal-soft labia, tease her clit until his fingers were soaked in her wetness and she arched and screamed his name…

Devil shuddered, muffling a groan.

All in all, he was in sexual hell. Had been for hours. The erection he’d sported upon learning Eliza had returned was nothing compared to now, when he relived the moment she’d disciplined him for his purposefully goading comment. The incredulous joy at the sharp crack and delicious, heated prickle exploding along his cheekbone. If Eliza had touched him anywhere, he would have come in his trousers. Obeyed any instruction she uttered. But while he’d been aroused beyond belief, his wife had been appalled and tearful.

Yet again, the crushingly familiar shame and guilt enveloped him. How typical, that the one woman who had gotten under his skin, who tormented him with glimpses of the power and authority he craved from her, wanted no part of it. But Eliza was in London for some damned reason other than Sin and Grace’s wedding. It would just be a matter of extracting the truth from her before he became a prime candidate for Bedlam.

Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply. Even just a half hour’s rest would be better than nothing.

“Grayson. Grayson! Wake up!”

He didn’t open his eyes. That was not the tone used when one’s wife was about to suggest hours of torrid and athletically amorous activity, and he couldn’t think of another good reason to be awake. “Frightfully bad idea, my dear. It’s the middle of the night.”

Eliza’s snort probably could have been heard down the hallway. “It’s not the middle of the night; it is a quarter past ten in the morning. We are going to be late for the wedding if you don’t get up right now.”

Incredulous, he opened one eyelid the merest slit. But it was true. The heavy curtains were drawn, and golden sunlight streamed through the diamond-paned windows. Christ. He’d actually slept. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Well, as long as I don’t strangle myself attempting to tie a cravat.”

His wife tilted her head and shot him a curious look. “You still don’t have a valet?”

Under the blankets, his fists clenched, and cold sweat gathered at the nape of his neck.

Don’t react. Don’t. She doesn’t know about Reyburn’s valet and his damned fists. Don’t let her guess.

“No,” he replied eventually, with a semblance of a laugh. Hell, even in his mind he couldn’t bear to call the Marquess of Reyburn “Father,” yet another entry on his pathetic list. “Never could be bothered. Still can’t, no matter what society says.”

Eliza grinned. “Anything other than charmingly crumpled wouldn’t really be you. At least you’ve taught yourself how to shave. Your jaw looked positively civilized yesterday.”

A genuine chuckle escaped this time. “Actually, I haven’t. When I get too furry, Charlie marches me to a chair and attacks me with a razor blade. She’s a dab hand, so I always try to stay on her good side.”

“She? Oh. Oh. You mean Charlotte Lewis.”

“Yes,” he said crisply, irritated at the sudden coolness in his wife’s voice and the frown creasing her brow. Not everyone had the good fortune to be born legitimate. “Her half brother was a soldier turned valet. Taught her well before he passed. I’ll ring—”

“No need. I called for hot water, and it was delivered a few minutes ago. I’ll help you with your cravat, then you can help me with my stays.”

Devil raised an eyebrow at the unexpected offer, but he got out of bed and padded in his unfastened trousers over to the ceramic washbasin behind an embroidered screen. Stripping off the trousers, he swiftly washed himself with his preferred sandalwood soap, then pulled on the fresh shirt and trousers one of the maids had left hanging on a hook nearby. “All right, I’m decent.”

Eliza stepped around the screen, a length of silky white fabric in her hands. “Well then, sit down so I can tie this properly. You’re as bad as Papa when it comes to hating cravats.”

Obediently, he perched on a comfortable leather-covered stool, and she began expertly winding the cloth around his neck. The position put her luscious breasts right in his face, and he almost groaned as they moved and jiggled in front of him. Hadn’t he endured enough torture for one damned day?

“Hell,” he muttered as his cock twitched.

“What? Is the cravat too tight?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll wait out there while you wash.”

Before he could escape, Eliza’s slim fingers encircled his wrist. “Grayson. What is wrong?”