Page 35 of Duke of Rath

“Do you ever remove it?”

“Do not talk of my hand or my glove.”

She licked her lips. Yet another thing she was not supposed to do. But was she right that it pained him? “Do you like to do this to a lot of women?” she asked, and a pinch of pain in her heart told her she really wanted him to say no.

“No,” he said. “I don’t. I haven’t done anything to any woman since I married you.”

She nodded, somehow reassured. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “You need to tell me.”

“Just come here.” He stretched out his hand.

It was his left hand, with long, beautiful fingers. Not the gloved one, which rested on his thigh. Which one would spank her? she wondered. Another pleasant shimmer of sensation went through her at the thought of that strong, bare hand on her body.

“Something must be wrong with me,” she said as she took his warm and dry hand, so large it enveloped her small, cold one.

“Why?” he purred as he pulled her to him.

All she could hear was the strong beat of her heart in her ears and his velvety, buttery voice.

“I should be afraid, shouldn’t I?” she asked.

“Are you?”

“Well, yes. And no… I trust you.”

“Oh,” he said, and there was a sudden change in his face, like he was puzzled, like he didn’t know what to do with this information.

She was surprised, too.

They were still holding hands, and his warm touch was comforting and reassuring, the rightest thing she could ever do was to hold his hand like this and tell him about her feelings.

“My parents never punished me,” she said. “They never punished anyone. Especially not John…”

She regretted talking about John the moment she said his name. Had she just spoiled the fragile trust, the tenuous connection they had?

She remembered John fondly. She was six when he brought her the book on botany from Oxford that would change her life and define her passion. He was someone who loved having fun, had sense of humor. Whenever he was there, she remembered laughter, even though some of her sisters didn’t join in.

But Dorian’s eyes only darkened and glimmered with interest.

“Did you ever do something you weren’t allowed?” he asked. “Something you were supposed to be punished for?”

“Yes.” She chuckled. “I secretly worked on my roses while I was supposed to be plucking weeds in the kitchen garden. Mama and Papa still don’t know.”

While they thought she spent many hours caring for carrots and parsnips, she sketched, artificially fertilized roses, experimented with grafting on fruit trees, recorded observations, and corresponded with two members of the Linnean Society of London—Mr. Jay Essop and the society’s president, Sir James Edward Smith.

“Hm. Naughty girl,” he murmured with satisfaction and pulled her closer to him.

He had her lie across his lap, with her elbows supporting her against the bed. She stared at the silky cover of his bed, and felt her cheeks and neck grow red-hot with embarrassment.

She felt him pull up her dressing gown and chemise, and cool air kissed first her ankles, then the backs of her thighs, and finally, her buttocks—which now felt quite as hot as her face.

He sucked in air and made a strange, guttural growl. Was that good?

A wave of fear mingled with exhilaration washed over her. It was like standing on a cliff’s edge before a tumultuous sea for the first time, knowing that diving in could be thrilling, yet potentially deadly.

He exhaled slowly, then fell utterly still, leaving her uncertain whether he would act or remain motionless.

“Good God,” he murmured. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”