Read Online Wicked Intentions 1 by Elizabeth Hoyt - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Hoyt
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like a diamond in an exquisite ring. It was exacting, meticulous work, and it could consume him for hours at a time.
His valet, Small, entered sometime later, and Lazarus looked up to see that the room was bright with sunshine.
“Your pardon, my lord,” Small said. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”
“It’s of no consequence,” Lazarus replied, his gaze back on his translation. The words were calling him, but he hadn’t quite found the right arrangement yet.
“I’ll ring to have your breakfast sent up, shall I?”
“Mmm.”
“And if you’re ready for your toilet?”
Bah! The thing was lost now. Lazarus threw down his pen impatiently and leaned back in his chair. Small immediately laid a steaming cloth over the lower half of his face. The valet’s movements were quick and efficient, his hands delicate like a woman’s.
Lazarus closed his eyes, relaxing as the moist heat soaked into his skin. He remembered Mrs. Dews’s light brown eyes last night. The way they’d closed in bliss when he’d fed her the plum tart. The way they’d narrowed in anger when he questioned why she wouldn’t take it from him initially. For one such as he—a man who could not feel emotion—her moods were irresistibly alluring. The flare of her temper had created a heat he could almost feel. He’d been drawn to it as surely as a cat was to the warmth of a hearth. Her emotion was foreign, wild andexciting, and entirely fascinating—and she tried so very hard to hide it. Why? He wanted to spend time with the source of such powerful emotion. Wanted to experiment, poke and prod, see what else made her cheeks flush, her breath come fast. What would make her laugh? What frightened her? How would her eyes look at the point of orgasm? Would she try to hold back, or would the bodily sensation overwhelm her defenses?
The thought was oddly arousing this early in the morning. He’d never cared one way or the other about a woman’s response. She was but the vessel for his own lust. But with Mrs. Dews, it was the woman herself who was the interesting part.
Small removed the cloth and brushed warm lather over Lazarus’s jaw. Lazarus kept his eyes closed, refusing to flinch at the first scrape of the razor against his bare cheek. Surreptitiously he gripped the arms of the chair. To let another touch him was a ghastly physical trial, which was part of the reason he permitted this ordinary intimacy each morning. It gave him a kind of satisfaction to confront this most basic fear and overcome it daily.
The valet finished his left cheek, and Lazarus tilted his head to receive the razor on the right, repressing a shudder of revulsion. He’d had this loathing of another’s touch for as long as he could recall. No. That wasn’t correct. Lazarus couldn’t repress a wince as Small ran the razor over his upper lip. Once upon a time, when he’d been a very small child, there had been a touch that did not cause him fear and loathing and outright pain.
But that was long ago and that person long dead.
Small wiped the last of the soap foam from Lazarus’s face, and Lazarus opened his eyes. “Thank you.”
If the valet had any idea of the pain he’d caused his master, the knowledge did not show in his placid expression. “What shall you wear today, my lord?”
“The black silk breeches and coat with the silver worked waistcoat.”
Lazarus stood and dropped the banyan to the chair. Small handed him the clothing and he dressed himself—there was a fine point between endurance and self-torture.
“My stick as well,” Lazarus said as he allowed the valet to club back his hair with a black velvet ribbon.
“Of course, my lord.” Small looked doubtfully at the window. “You have an appointment so early?”
“I’m to visit my mother.” Lazarus smiled without humor. “And that is a task best done as early as possible.”
He took the stick that Small proffered and strode from the room without waiting for the valet’s reply.
The
His valet, Small, entered sometime later, and Lazarus looked up to see that the room was bright with sunshine.
“Your pardon, my lord,” Small said. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”
“It’s of no consequence,” Lazarus replied, his gaze back on his translation. The words were calling him, but he hadn’t quite found the right arrangement yet.
“I’ll ring to have your breakfast sent up, shall I?”
“Mmm.”
“And if you’re ready for your toilet?”
Bah! The thing was lost now. Lazarus threw down his pen impatiently and leaned back in his chair. Small immediately laid a steaming cloth over the lower half of his face. The valet’s movements were quick and efficient, his hands delicate like a woman’s.
Lazarus closed his eyes, relaxing as the moist heat soaked into his skin. He remembered Mrs. Dews’s light brown eyes last night. The way they’d closed in bliss when he’d fed her the plum tart. The way they’d narrowed in anger when he questioned why she wouldn’t take it from him initially. For one such as he—a man who could not feel emotion—her moods were irresistibly alluring. The flare of her temper had created a heat he could almost feel. He’d been drawn to it as surely as a cat was to the warmth of a hearth. Her emotion was foreign, wild andexciting, and entirely fascinating—and she tried so very hard to hide it. Why? He wanted to spend time with the source of such powerful emotion. Wanted to experiment, poke and prod, see what else made her cheeks flush, her breath come fast. What would make her laugh? What frightened her? How would her eyes look at the point of orgasm? Would she try to hold back, or would the bodily sensation overwhelm her defenses?
The thought was oddly arousing this early in the morning. He’d never cared one way or the other about a woman’s response. She was but the vessel for his own lust. But with Mrs. Dews, it was the woman herself who was the interesting part.
Small removed the cloth and brushed warm lather over Lazarus’s jaw. Lazarus kept his eyes closed, refusing to flinch at the first scrape of the razor against his bare cheek. Surreptitiously he gripped the arms of the chair. To let another touch him was a ghastly physical trial, which was part of the reason he permitted this ordinary intimacy each morning. It gave him a kind of satisfaction to confront this most basic fear and overcome it daily.
The valet finished his left cheek, and Lazarus tilted his head to receive the razor on the right, repressing a shudder of revulsion. He’d had this loathing of another’s touch for as long as he could recall. No. That wasn’t correct. Lazarus couldn’t repress a wince as Small ran the razor over his upper lip. Once upon a time, when he’d been a very small child, there had been a touch that did not cause him fear and loathing and outright pain.
But that was long ago and that person long dead.
Small wiped the last of the soap foam from Lazarus’s face, and Lazarus opened his eyes. “Thank you.”
If the valet had any idea of the pain he’d caused his master, the knowledge did not show in his placid expression. “What shall you wear today, my lord?”
“The black silk breeches and coat with the silver worked waistcoat.”
Lazarus stood and dropped the banyan to the chair. Small handed him the clothing and he dressed himself—there was a fine point between endurance and self-torture.
“My stick as well,” Lazarus said as he allowed the valet to club back his hair with a black velvet ribbon.
“Of course, my lord.” Small looked doubtfully at the window. “You have an appointment so early?”
“I’m to visit my mother.” Lazarus smiled without humor. “And that is a task best done as early as possible.”
He took the stick that Small proffered and strode from the room without waiting for the valet’s reply.
The
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