Page 67 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

He raised an eyebrow. He knew her too well.

She narrowed her eyes in response.

And then he dropped to his knees in front of her and she nearly lost the ability to speak. Everything that was not Keir faded into the background: the crackling fire, the cold draft at the window, the messy counterpane behind her because she had forgotten to make her bed again. There was only Keir, his mouth, the expanse of his burly chest, his hands fisting in the hem of her skirts. “Eyes on me,” he demanded.

He didn’t shove her skirts up abruptly, not this time. He was methodical, precise, as he pushed them up to her knees, dragging his fingers back down along the inside of her calves. He pulled at the laces of her shoes and put them aside. Next, he reached for her stockings, catching and keeping her gaze as he rolled one down and then the other. She wished she was wearing a prettier gown, silkier stockings.

His palm brushed her ankle and she winced.

He froze. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, biting her lower lip. No need to get all missish and silly over a few scars. He must have noticed them before, even if he had not said anything. Then again, everything they did was usually furtive and tucked into the shadows. She had not removed her stockings the night of the fireworks. There was no time. “I… have some scars,” she said. “You needn’t look.”

His fingers tightened around her, as if she had threatened to bolt. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes, of course.” She forced a smile, feeling foolish. “It’s nothing.”

He waited a moment, another. His jaw clenched. “I know about Eastbourne.”

She stared at him. “You do? How?”

“I just do. May he rot.”

“Oh.” He rubbed her ankles, up her legs, and it was nice. More than nice. Some of the tension released from her, and she could concentrate on the much more pleasurable warmth tingling through her from his touch. “You look angry.”

“I am angry.”

“Someone burned down his cellar,” she said. She was glad for it. It helped a little, even if it shouldn’t.

“I know,” Keir said. “It was me.”

Sybil blinked at him. He had never taken her quite as much by surprise as he did with that statement. And that was including that day by the front door. The time he had climbed a tree to rescue her cat. “But that was before…”

“Before?”

“Before.” She made a helpless motion with her hand meant to encompass everything that was between them. Everything that wasn’t. “This.”

“Was it?” He sounded so calm. So unlike a man who had burned down a cellar. “Sybil, I’ve known you for a long time, and there has only ever been this. No before, and certainly no after.”

“So you burned down his cellar?”

“I would have burned down his house too, but there were servants inside.”

She giggled—she couldn’t help it. It was so… unexpected. Lovely in its own way. And mad. Definitely mad. “That does not sound like the actions of the Marquess of Most Righteous Order and Decorum.”

“It was justice, plain and simple. And I know Parliament—they might have taken too long to act, if at all.” He nudged closer, widening her knees. “How many lordly titles do you plan on giving me?”

“As many as I can think up.”

“You only make them up when you think I am being pompous and stodgy.”

She grinned. “Yes.”

“Then I hope you have a good imagination,” he added drily.