Page 8 of One Night with an Earl

“You must take exercise.”

“I’m a pugilist. Do you tell all your men this?”

“All my men…” She bit her tongue. “No, my lord.”

“Oliver,” he corrected.

Her lips twitched with amusement. “No, Oliver. I’ve never told another man he looked like a classical painting.”

“Let’s see what you look like, shall we?” His tone was teasing, light.

She was suddenly thankful for the dim candlelight in the room. She suspected her heated cheeks had turned an uncomely shade of pink.

Could she do this? She considered everything that had already occurred this night and whether she would be attracted to Oliver had she met him years ago at a ball or at one of the beau monde’s many routs—years ago when she’d had a dowry and suitors had expressed interest.

Yes.

Absolutely yes.

She stood and offered her back. “If you would be kind enough to help me with my fastenings?”

He rose from the chair, and his fingers were at her back before she could finish her request. He pushed aside her hair, and she felt his breath on her neck, and she hoped her knees wouldn’t give out. He worked deliberately as, inch by inch, he unbuttoned the red silk, then unlaced her stays. She held the gaping gown to her breasts. Each brush of his fingers sent tremors down her spine and heated a secret place between her thighs.

“Red will forever be my favorite color,” he murmured at her neck.

She turned to face him, then released her hold on the fabric. The silk slid sensuously down her body to pool at her feet. Her corset followed. She stood before him in the sheer chemise and silk stockings that Lady Crescent had provided. The gauzy fabric was far from her usual cotton chemise, and the stockings were so fine, her legs felt naked. She reached down to remove her shoes, then met his eyes.

His gaze raked her from head to toe. “Lovely.”

She sucked in a breath and calmed her racing heart. What now? Should she wait for him to act?

A woman must be in charge of her own pleasure.

Madame Crescent’s advice bolstered her courage. She alone was responsible for how the evening progressed. She would not squander this opportunity.

Ana boldly reached for the hem of the chemise and lifted it over her head. It whisked to the carpet. She stood before him naked except for the silk stockings. It took all her bravery to meet his dark eyes.

His gaze was riveted on her face, then moved slowly over her body. His nostrils flared and his eyes widened when his attention lowered to the hairless skin between her legs.

She’d wondered what he would think. Women from her mother’s culture removed their body hair by sugar waxing, or using sukkar, a custom that dated back thousands of years to the Egyptians. When Ana had grown into womanhood, her mother took her to visit an Arab woman in the Soho district who prepared the wax by heating sugar, lemon, and water until a sticky wax formed on trays. After years of applying the sukkar, the hair grew in more sparsely over time until the skin remained hairless and smooth. With heated cheeks, Ana had confessed her secret to Madame Crescent, but Madame had merely shrugged and told Ana not to worry, that a man would find it novel.

But now, facing Oliver without a stitch of clothing, a trickle of unease coursed down Ana’s spine that wasn’t entirely due to her nakedness. Any mention of her Middle Eastern background could possibly lead to her true identity. She could not let that happen.

“Do you find it unattractive?”

“God, no. You’re beautiful. You’re so smooth and lush. An erotic fantasy.”

She would not have to concoct a lie after all. Her trepidation eased. His words, along with the fascination in his gaze, caused a delicious tingling in her veins. He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He kissed a breast, licked the tip, then sucked it full into his hot mouth.

Ana gasped at the sensations. Never had she imagined a man’s touch could cause such pleasure. When he moved to her other breast, she anticipated his touch and wantonly arched her back. She had only one night to remember, and she refused to waste a moment with shyness or inhibitions.

He untied the pretty bows of her garters and slipped the stocking off each of her legs. He had long, strong fingers, and the heat of his callused palm was scorching as he trailed it down her stomach to cup her between her thighs.

“You are so lovely and perfect. I want to feast upon you.”

When he ran a forefinger across the tiny bud at the apex of her thighs, she bit her lip and her eyes fluttered. He dipped a finger inside, then ran the digit over and over her sensitive, aching bud. Sizzling delight made her limbs tremble. Never had she suspected how a skillful man’s touch could make her body quiver.

“Do you like that?”