Read Online The Wicked One by Danelle Harmon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Danelle Harmon
Ads: Link
could feel the heat radiating from his body, hear the breath moving through his lungs, feel it stirring the tendrils of hair at her temples. He let his fingers graze her cheek; unflinchingly, she met his gaze. He pulled a pin from her hair. Another. And yet another. A thick, powdered tress tumbled to Eva's shoulder, then down her back.
Another.
She shut her eyes, her nerves on fire, her knees so weak she feared they would give out beneath her. She heard the thin tinkle of pins hitting the floor. Shivered as Blackheath's fingers brushed the delicate shell of her ear, the nape of her neck . . . the line of her jaw. More hair tumbled down. The horsehair pads atop which her coiffure had been piled fell out. Eva stood before him, heavy masses of hair, stiff with powder, spilling down her back.
He reached for her —
But no, not yet. She mustered a coy smile, then walked a little distance away; there, she shook the powder from her hair until it was its natural, vibrant red once more, glowing like claret in the light of the fire.
And then she faced him.
Assessed him.
Made a brief circle around him, letting her fingertips trail around his waist as moved behind him. He was smiling now. Eyeing her like some lethal, barely restrained, predator.
"Are you hard for me yet, Blackheath?" she purred, lifting her lips to his ear.
"I have been hard for you for the past two weeks."
"And what if I disappoint you , Your Grace?" Deftly, she unbuckled his dress sword and let it drop to the carpet. "Will you kill me ?"
"I do not think you will disappoint."
She smiled. He didn't move. Her hand drifted back up, unbuttoning his velvet waistcoat, peeling it away from his chest until she could feel the muscles just beneath his shirt. A blood-red ruby was pinned to his stock. Eva removed it and placed it on the lowboy. She pinched one end of the silky cravat between thumb and fingertip and pulled, slowly, until the knot collapsed and the long strip of fabric was in her hand.
"I thought you wanted me to undress you ," he murmured, an amused smile dancing about his lips.
"I do. But I am the one in control here — and right now, I prefer to undress you."
She pulled off his waistcoat, let it fall to the floor. He stood before her in shirt and breeches now, the rich lace of the former tumbling over the backs of the finest, most beautifully male hands she had ever had the pleasure of looking upon. There was breadth across the palms, and a lengthy elegance to the fingers that proclaimed the finest breeding in England, generations of bluest blood — perfection. They were a gentleman's hands, though there was nothing soft about them, nothing foppish, and certainly nothing benign. Eva knew those hands had killed; most recently, they had taken the life of her odious stepcousin, Gerald, when Gerald had tried to kill the duke's brother, Andrew. She was not fooled into thinking they were anything less than dangerous . . .
And she wanted those hands on her. All over her. But not just yet. For now, she wanted to be the one doing the touching.
And so she walked another circle around him, this time, her fingers tracing his ribs beneath the fine shirt, trailing around his hip, and finally coming to rest in the faint curve of his lower back, just above the waistband of his breeches. She stood just behind him, admiring the lean, beautifully inverted triangle of that proud, splendid back — then she grasped his shirt at the waist, pulled it free of his waistband, and let it drop, its hem coming down, as was the fashion, almost to his knees.
"Will you not take it off?"
She smiled. "I wouldn't want you to be cold. It might have a disastrous effect on your . . . condition."
"I can assure you, madam, that my condition is quite a hard y one. And I am far from cold."
"Then step out of your shoes."
He inclined his head and, giving her a sidelong glance from over his shoulder, did as she
Another.
She shut her eyes, her nerves on fire, her knees so weak she feared they would give out beneath her. She heard the thin tinkle of pins hitting the floor. Shivered as Blackheath's fingers brushed the delicate shell of her ear, the nape of her neck . . . the line of her jaw. More hair tumbled down. The horsehair pads atop which her coiffure had been piled fell out. Eva stood before him, heavy masses of hair, stiff with powder, spilling down her back.
He reached for her —
But no, not yet. She mustered a coy smile, then walked a little distance away; there, she shook the powder from her hair until it was its natural, vibrant red once more, glowing like claret in the light of the fire.
And then she faced him.
Assessed him.
Made a brief circle around him, letting her fingertips trail around his waist as moved behind him. He was smiling now. Eyeing her like some lethal, barely restrained, predator.
"Are you hard for me yet, Blackheath?" she purred, lifting her lips to his ear.
"I have been hard for you for the past two weeks."
"And what if I disappoint you , Your Grace?" Deftly, she unbuckled his dress sword and let it drop to the carpet. "Will you kill me ?"
"I do not think you will disappoint."
She smiled. He didn't move. Her hand drifted back up, unbuttoning his velvet waistcoat, peeling it away from his chest until she could feel the muscles just beneath his shirt. A blood-red ruby was pinned to his stock. Eva removed it and placed it on the lowboy. She pinched one end of the silky cravat between thumb and fingertip and pulled, slowly, until the knot collapsed and the long strip of fabric was in her hand.
"I thought you wanted me to undress you ," he murmured, an amused smile dancing about his lips.
"I do. But I am the one in control here — and right now, I prefer to undress you."
She pulled off his waistcoat, let it fall to the floor. He stood before her in shirt and breeches now, the rich lace of the former tumbling over the backs of the finest, most beautifully male hands she had ever had the pleasure of looking upon. There was breadth across the palms, and a lengthy elegance to the fingers that proclaimed the finest breeding in England, generations of bluest blood — perfection. They were a gentleman's hands, though there was nothing soft about them, nothing foppish, and certainly nothing benign. Eva knew those hands had killed; most recently, they had taken the life of her odious stepcousin, Gerald, when Gerald had tried to kill the duke's brother, Andrew. She was not fooled into thinking they were anything less than dangerous . . .
And she wanted those hands on her. All over her. But not just yet. For now, she wanted to be the one doing the touching.
And so she walked another circle around him, this time, her fingers tracing his ribs beneath the fine shirt, trailing around his hip, and finally coming to rest in the faint curve of his lower back, just above the waistband of his breeches. She stood just behind him, admiring the lean, beautifully inverted triangle of that proud, splendid back — then she grasped his shirt at the waist, pulled it free of his waistband, and let it drop, its hem coming down, as was the fashion, almost to his knees.
"Will you not take it off?"
She smiled. "I wouldn't want you to be cold. It might have a disastrous effect on your . . . condition."
"I can assure you, madam, that my condition is quite a hard y one. And I am far from cold."
"Then step out of your shoes."
He inclined his head and, giving her a sidelong glance from over his shoulder, did as she
Similar Books
