Pressing his thumbs on either side of her spine, he began a firm rubbing motion.
“How about a back rub instead of tea?”
“I’m the one who lost,” she reminded him. “You should be getting the back rub, not me.”
“The bet was all just in fun, remember?” He found a tense muscle and worked it gently with his fingertips. “Besides, maybe this particular master enjoys giving back rubs better than he does receiving them.”
“Hmm.” She arched her slender back and made a little sound in her throat that reminded him of a cat purring. “Oh, that’s nice.” She leaned into the massage, letting the heels of his hands support her. With another little purring sound, she bent her head slightly forward to better accommodate him. “Oh, Luke, that feels—absolutely wonderful.”
“It’d feel even better without this robe in the way.” He smiled, admitting, if only to himself, that he’d never been a man to give up easily. Maybe it was that soft purring sound she kept making. It reminded him of the saying that there was more than one way to skin a cat. Or, in this case, to disrobe one. “Can I push it down just a hair?”
He felt her shiver slightly, and he doubted it was with cold. “Hmm,” she murmured. “But only just a bit. The gown, remember.”
How could he forget?
He ran his fingertips under the collar of the robe and drew the heavy velvet downward off her shoulders. She immediately caught the folds, clasping them modestly over her breasts. Luke grinned. For the moment, he was content to admire the loveliness of her bare shoulders. Her skin was so pale as to be nearly translucent and as soft as satin beneath his fingertips.
To give her a sense of space and a false sense of security, he relaxed back in the chair a bit, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The mirrors provided him with an unimpeded frontal view of her. With skilled hands, he massaged the muscles in her shoulders until her body began to give with every pressure of his grip. Going nearly limp, she sighed and murmured something unintelligible. Her hold on the robe relaxed a little. He started massaging her shoulders, then her upper arms, inching the robe downward as he went. She’d evidently forgotten the reflective ceiling, for she made no attempt to stop him and never glanced up. Luke supposed ceiling watching was an acquired habit.
At last, the velvet fell from her breasts, the heavy, thick folds catching at the bend of her arms. Creamy skin, ivory lace. Luke couldn’t resist cupping his palms over her upper arms and sliding them up to caress the sweet roundness of her shoulders. God, she was lovely. Even beyond his expectations. A compact little goddess, every inch of her generously rounded and perfectly formed to please a man’s eye. Ample breasts, a tiny waist, full hips. And, best of all, no bony sharpness anywhere. Just a delectable creation of feminine softness…
One look, that was all it took, and his gut was tied in knots. She hadn’t lied. V-necked and extremely low-cut, the lacy nightgown had holes that displayed a wealth of flesh. Her breasts were like ripe melons, thrusting so taut and firm that her creamy skin had a satiny sheen. The crest of one nipple protruded through the ivory mesh. It was the exact same color as the wilted edges of a pink rose blossom, a delicate, dusky mauve.
A completely unexpected and inexplicable stab of guilt went through Luke. She’d been hugging that robe around herself for over four hours, and she clearly had no idea of what he was seeing now. Luke closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what the hell was the matter with him. A conscience? Just the thought made him want to laugh. Life had been a cruel teacher, and he’d learned long ago to look out for himself and no one else, to grab his pleasures in any way he could and never berate himself. Ethics were for fools. The man who hesitated was the man who got ground under the heels of smarter men’s boots.
Determined not to be plagued with stupid sentiments that might interfere with his gratification, he opened his eyes again. She was his, dammit. Bought and paid for, with her signature on the bottom line. If he wanted to look at her, he’d damned well do it.
The view made his heart start to pound. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to catch her around the waist and bend her back over his arm. God help him, but he wanted her. If completing the act wasn’t possible tonight, at least he needed to touch her, to hold her, to savor the taste of her.
Continuing to massage her spine with the pad of one thumb, he slipped his other hand to her neck on the pretext of rubbing it. There he began a campaign to assault her senses, pressing in deeply with his thumb and fingers one second, then lightly caressing the next. At the nape of her neck, silken tendrils of hair lay like down against her skin. He trailed his touch up the graceful slope of her neck, traced the shape of her ear, lightly smoothed her hair.
Her breathing became shallow and quick. He felt her shiver slightly and smiled to himself as she bent her head sideways to give him better access. Jesus, she was sweet. Wonderfully, incredibly, impossibly sweet. He no longer doubted he was the first to touch her like this. That was evident in everything she did, in every little huff of her breath. It wasn’t a case of catching her with her defenses down, for she had none. Luke doubted she even realized he posed a threat.
Kneading her muscles, touching her in ways he knew would arouse her, he watched as the changes came over her. His pulse started to slam against his ribs when he saw her start to squirm, moving her sweetly rounded derriere on the heels of her feet, as if she suddenly couldn’t get comfortable. The heavy robe, which was still caught at her elbows, lay rumpled about her breasts, the velvet grazing one exposed nipple. The peak, teased to erectness by the cloth, grew more distended and swollen with each pass.
“I feel funny,” she whispered.
“You do?” Luke bent his head, pressing his lips ever so lightly against her hair. “Funny, good? Or funny, bad?” He moved his lips to her ear, letting his breath waft warmly against the lobe, knowing even as he did that most women were disarmed by the sensation. “Want me to stop?”
“No, it’s just…”
“Just what?” he whispered against her temple.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to feel this way,” she said faintly, breathlessly.
“What way is that?”
“Shivery all over. I…I don’t think nuns are supposed to.”
Cautiously, Luke touched the tip of his tongue to the shell-like contours of her ear. “Is it a good shivery feeling?”
“Yes, but—”
“If it feels good,” he whispered huskily, “then what’s the worry? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
The soft huff of her breathing became more pronounced. The sound made Luke’s blood rush, his pulse drumming in his temples. Jesus. He’d never gotten this hot just by kissing a woman’s ear and touching her—
“Do I smell bad?”
Her voice was so faint that it took Luke a moment to register the question. He froze with his tongue thrust into her ear canal, tried to say “What?”, which came out more a slurred grunt, and opened his eyes. He drew back and tried again. “What?”
She looked over her shoulder, fastening worried blue eyes on his. “You were sniffing.” Drawing the robe higher on her arms, she said, “I used bath salts. Do I stink?”
“I wasn’t sniffing.”
Luke realized suddenly that he was still hearing the huffing sound as well—and that it wasn’t Cassandra grabbing for breath with passion-starved lungs. She seemed to register the noise at the same moment he did and glanced around. “What is that?” she whispered.
Damned if Luke knew. Nudging her gently out of his way, he pushed to his feet, the hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end. When Cassandra started to speak again, he pressed a finger to his lips. Cocking his head, he turned in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the noise. It was growing louder, almost a snorting now—a wet, muffled snorting. His gaze became fixed on the door that opened onto the outside hall. Cassandra followed his gaze, her face going pale.
“What is it?” she asked again in a barely audible voice, reaching out to grab Luke’
s trousers.
He jumped and immediately wanted to kick himself. What was he, some kind of Nancy-boy? It was one thing for Cassandra to be scared; the girl believed in leprechauns, for Christ’s sake. But he was a grown man with both feet firmly rooted in stark reality.
After prying her hand off his trousers, he strode to the door, twisted the knob, and flung open the portal. Something large shot past him, a blur of white, yellow, and mud-brown.
“Lycodomes!” Cassandra cried with a relieved laugh. “I’d forgotten you were here, you silly dog!”
The silly dog, Luke noted, had been wallowing in mud. And he was extremely wet, to boot. In Luke’s experience, wet dogs usually waited until they were near humans to rid themselves of the excess moist—
“No!” Luke shouted.
He was too late. Legs already spread for balance, Lycodomes gave himself a hard shake, showering Cassandra, Luke, and a good portion of the room with mud and murky rainwater. When Luke lowered his arm from shielding his eyes, he saw that Cassandra had acquired what appeared to be a bad case of freckles.
“Son of a—a—a bitch!” He advanced on the dog, murder in his heart. “Come on, you mangy cur. The house is no place for you.”
Cassandra was giggling, so she apparently didn’t hear Luke’s nearly snarled edict. Wrapping her arms around the dog’s neck, she said, “Oh, Lye-Lye, you’re a mess. What happened, sweetkins? Did you get locked out in the rain?”
At this point, Luke wished Lye-Lye would go drown himself in an inch of standing water. The animal was covered, absolutely covered, with mud. Luke’s robe would never be the same. The rug probably never would be, either.
Luke grabbed the dog by its collar. “Come on, Lycodomes. There’s only one place for you, and that’s outside.”
“Oh, but it’s raining!” Cassandra cried.
“He can stay perfectly dry on the porch,” Luke insisted, dragging the dog in his wake as he made for the door. “There’s an overhang out there.”
“Can’t he visit, just for a minute?”
Luke shot her a look that should have spoken volumes. “Until he has a bath, this dog is not going to be in my house.”
Once in the hall, Lycodomes began to snarl. Luke, in no mood to be intimidated, growled an obscenity under his breath. The two of them continued the exchange all the way down the stairs. By the time they reached the foyer, Luke was almost baring his teeth. “Go ahead. Bite me, you mangy, stinking bastard,” he muttered under his breath. “Get your licks in while you have a chance, because I promise, your days are numbered.”
Luke threw open the front door and shoved the dog out onto the porch. Lycodomes snarled one last time as the door swung closed.
Luke held up his hands. Mud and dog hair. And, oh, God, the smell! He started back up the stairs, so furious he wanted to gnash his teeth. He’d almost had her, dammit! A few more minutes, that was all he’d needed, and he would’ve had her in bed. Now, because of that goddamned, stinking dog, he would have to start all over again.
First, however, he had to wash up. He doubted Cassandra would find him very appealing with Lycodomes’s stench all over him.
After rinsing her hands and wiping off her face, Cassandra played for a few minutes with the twa-let in the bathing chamber. Like everything else in her suite that wasn’t red or white, the flush chain was gold. When she pulled it, water surged from a porcelain tank into the bowl, swirling round and round until it disappeared. She could only wonder where it went.
That thought made her stop tugging on the chain. If, as Ambrose had suggested, the water went to a sewage hole outside somewhere, she could cause a flood. Remembering how muddy and wet Lycodomes had been, an awful thought occurred to her. She sniffed at the sleeve of Luke’s robe. Nope. Just plain old mud, thank heavens.
She wandered back into the bedchamber. After standing before the fire for a moment, she grew restless and began to explore the room. On the dresser were a brush and comb set and a hand mirror laid out on a lacy scarf. She picked up a dainty-looking bottle with a funny little rubber ball on top. There was amber liquid inside, and the faint scent told her it was perfume. Only how did you get it out? She tugged on the ball. It didn’t come off, so she pulled a bit harder. Ssspphh, went the bottle. From nowhere, it seemed, a cool spray hit her full in the face.
Gasping, she put the perfume back and waved a hand before her nose. Lavender. Evidently Luke frequently had a lady guest who liked that particular scent. His mother, maybe? Cassandra couldn’t feature an older woman wearing a nightgown that was held together by ribbons. Unless she was eccentric, of course. Maybe it ran in the Butler family.
The left-behind perfume reminded Cassandra of the clothes she’d seen in the armoire. She really ought to mention them to Luke so he could return them to their owner. She stepped over to open the wardrobe doors as a reminder.
Buttoning the fresh shirt he’d just pulled on after a fast bath, Luke walked to the door that adjoined his suite of rooms to Cassandra’s. When he stepped into her bedchamber, he froze. She stood before the armoire, holding a knee-length black lace pinafore up to herself. Luke’s stomach dropped to somewhere around the region of his knees.
The costume was one of several he’d had made specially for female “guests” to wear for his private entertainment. Complete with black silk hosiery and black lace garters, the frontless pinafore was very fetching on a well-proportioned and otherwise nude female.
Shit! he thought as he bolted forward. Not entirely sure why, Luke snatched the black lace costume from Cassandra’s grasp. He didn’t want her to drape it against herself or, for that matter, so much as touch it.
“What are you doing?” he asked sharply.
“N-Nothing! I just saw some clothing in the armoire earlier, and I thought you might want to return it to the lady who owns it.”
“What lady?” Luke reached past her to jerk all the other garments at the back of the wardrobe off the hangers. “Yes, of course…the owner. You’re right. I should return all of this.”
He bunched the milkmaid costume under the crook of his arm so Cassandra wouldn’t see it. Next he grabbed the shepherdess outfit, rolling it into a wad as well. The shepherdess’s staff, the handle of which had been hooked around the neck of the hanger, came loose and fell onto the floor. Cassandra gazed down at it in bewilderment.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” Luke bent to pick up the damned thing. As he straightened, he realized he was sweating. He shoved the armoire doors wide to make sure no other scanty garments lurked inside. Satisfied that he had everything, he said, “Excuse me for a minute, honey. I, um…” He gestured with the staff. “I’ll just put these in my suite so I remember to, um, return them.”
Once back in the privacy of his own suite, Luke tossed the offending clothes onto a chair, then stood in the darkness, holding the staff in one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. What in God’s name was wrong with him? What difference did it make if Cassandra saw these things? It wasn’t as if she could stay innocent forever. In fact, if he had his way, the quicker she lost her innocence, the better. So why was he racing around like a madman, trying to hide things from her?
He was losing his mind, that was what. And getting a bitch of a headache while he was at it. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, forcing the tenseness from his muscles. The oxygen cleared his head a bit, and he wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, smiling slightly. A momentary lapse, he assured himself. Caused by that damned dog of hers. Someday soon, he might even have Cassandra model that black lace pinafore for him. In fact, he’d look forward to it.
He tossed the staff onto his bed and stepped back to the adjoining door, pausing to take another deep breath. “Well,” he said as he reentered her rooms, “I’ve got that all taken care—” The breath he’d just inhaled rushed from his lungs as if a fist had impacted with his solar plexus. “Cassandra,” he managed to croak, “what are you—”
“What’s this?” br />
She turned from an open dresser drawer, holding up an intricately carved wooden dildo. Fashioned in lifelike proportion, the thing looked wickedly huge, held aloft in her slender hand. Luke’s heart gave a violent kick against his ribs.
“Good God Almighty,” he cried. “Get out of that stuff and put that damned thing down!”
She leaped as though he’d struck her. The dildo flew from her hand, striking the floor head first, then bouncing across the rug. Barely aware he’d even moved, Luke took a giant leap and snatched the thing up before it stopped bouncing. Slipping it under his shirt, he turned back to Cassandra.
“You really shouldn’t be looking in all the drawers,” he said, descending on the dresser as he spoke. He cringed when he looked into the drawer she’d already opened. It was chock-full of salacious gadgets he’d forgotten were in this room.
“I thought this was my bedchamber.”
“It is your bedchamber,” Luke replied, trying to gentle his voice as he jerked the damned drawer off its runners. “It’s just—” Objects clattered and clunked as he clutched the drawer to his chest. “Excuse me for a minute.”
Back toward his suite he went. At the door, he hesitated to glance at her. “I won’t be but a minute. Stay out of things while I’m gone. Okay?”
Once back in his own bedchamber, Luke set the drawer on his bed, then lit a lamp. After jerking a case off one of his pillows, he emptied the contents of the drawer into it, vowing that they would meet with the same fate Cassandra’s clothing had earlier that day: incineration.
When he returned to Cassandra’s room, she was standing with her back to the fire, looking downcast and chastened. He hadn’t meant to snap at her. But, damn! Once he had put the emptied drawer back where it belonged, he systematically searched the others to make sure she wouldn’t run across any more gadgets.
Finally satisfied that all things depraved or obscene had been removed from her proximity, Luke leaned a hip against the dresser and crossed his booted feet. He felt as if he’d just run a footrace through a shoulder-deep vat of congealed porridge.