Page 89 of A Portrait of Love

He sat up, watching her watch him as he wrapped the towel snuggly around his hips, tucked in one corner and stood. She eyed him as if he were a demon sprung from the hideously patterned carpet.

“You look very beautiful,” he said, his eyes hovering on the exceptionally—for her—low neckline of her bodice. “That is one of the new gowns?”

She blinked, thrown off balance by either the change of topic, the compliment, or both.

She’d been correct in the carriage; Simon enjoyed keeping people off balance, but her especially.

He could see it was a struggle to wrench her eyes from his towel and the erection that was growing beneath it. It was bad of him to keep her with him when he was all but naked, but he did not want to hide himself from her. And he had no intention of allowing her to hide from him.

She smoothed her gown with one hand. “Mrs. Fenton worked very quickly on it but the others are not ready, of course.”

Simon wagered they’d be ready before the week was done. A sharper businesswoman he’d yet to meet.

“Turn around.”

She cocked her head.

He twirled a finger in the air. “Turn around, I want to see you.”

Her blushes were an aphrodisiac to him, he’d realized that early on.

She turned rather awkwardly, the diaphanous silk rippling like water against her long, subtle curves. When she came to a halt Simon was full hard. Her eyes dropped to his towel and it was all he could do not to tear it off, rip that pretty new dress from her body, and bend her over the back of the nearby chair.

It was a struggle, but he suppressed his savage urges. This was civilization; such behavior would be viewed harshly.

Besides, she was a maiden; he wanted to take her slowly and make her first time a pleasure for her.

Thinking about being the first man to enter her body made him almost woozy with desire. He’d never been interested in virgins, but something about being her first made him burn to possess her.

She was clenching the letter so tightly it was almost bent in half. “Are you not yet healed?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Hmm?”

She gestured to his shoulder, to the raw scar from the poacher’s bullet. “Was your valet applying medication?”

“That ointment wasn’t for this scratch. It’s a salve to keep the burnt skin supple. The scarring has left me without the essentials that keep skin pliable and oiled. I will have to apply it for the rest of my life.” Simon felt his resolve not to touch her slipping, like shards of rock shearing off the face of a cliff. He took a step toward her and she tensed. “It is difficult for me to reach some of the scar tissue, so Peel applies it for me.” Not to mention the fact that Simon was lazy and too impatient to massage his battered body.

Her eyes flickered over him as she digested this information.

“How is the other injury?” her lips twisted mockingly. “The one you just called a scratch.”

“It is a scratch,” he said, shrugging. “The bullet did little damage. Poor Raymond came out of that far worse.” With barely a pause, he asked, “Do you find my scars repellent.”

Her eyes flickered over him again lingering on his hips. “No.” The word was barely a croak.

He took the letter from her unresisting fingers and tossed it onto a nearby table.

“Don’t you want to read it?”

“No.” He had absolutely no interest in anything Wyndham had to say. No doubt it contained orders cloaked as suggestions. “I want to talk about you.”

“M-Me?”

He nodded slowly. “Last night I bit you and handled you quite roughly.” He reached out and pushed back the neck of her gown, exposing one of the marks he’d likely left.

She trembled under his hand and her jaw dropped in a comical expression of shock.

“Did I hurt you?”