Free Wicked Seduction by Jade Lee

off his neckerchief, but had yet to pull off his shirt. Still, he had left the rough cotton open, exposing a small part of his chest if she dared to look.
    She didn’t. She kept her eyes firmly trained on his face, and her expression carefully blanked, though it took her two attempts before she could speak. “I—Um, if you would s-sit right here,” she said, gesturing to the chair by the large kitchen table, “I can shave you while you wait.” She offered him a white towel. “This will protect your shirt.”
    He curled his lip at the fine linen in her hand. “That towel cost ten times what my shirt did.” Then he tilted his head in challenge. “Have you never seen a man’s chest before?”
    She stiffened in outrage. “I am the daughter of a surgeon, Mr. Frazier. I have seen naked chests aplenty.”
    “Good. Then mine shall cause you no shock.” So saying he pulled off his shirt in a single swift movement. He meant to do it quickly, to reveal the horror that was his body as one might uncover a monster at a traveling fair. It had once been a favorite thing to do with the whores. Reveal his body, hear them scream. He could learn a lot about a whore from the way she reacted to his scars.
    So he stood half naked before his angel, silently daring her to run. She should be grateful she was only being treated to the sight of half his deformities.
    Except she didn’t run. She didn’t even scream, though he heard her gasp in shock. For a moment, he feared she was like the dead-inside whores who no longer cared about anything, least of all the condition of their customers. But one look at his angel’s face and he could see that she was not dead inside. Far from it.
    Her eyes were narrowed in thought as she inspected his chest. The large crescent scar was most obvious, beginning at his collarbone, curving around his torso to end at his waist. Most people stared at that, but she saw more than the large sweeping cut. He watched as her eyes picked up the pattern of smaller slashes, deeper, darker wounds.
    “You have been whipped,” she said softly.
    He nodded.
    “And stabbed, as well.” Then she pointed to a series of parallel lines just above his navel. “But these lines . . .”
    “A razor,” he rasped. “Wielded with great skill.”
    “And designed to give pain.” She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Mr. Frazier,” she whispered. “I am so sorry.”
    He meant to say something cutting then. He had come across sweet women every now and then, usually innocents abducted as he had been. Girls too shocked or dim-witted to realize the hell that would be their lives from then on. He always said something cruel to reinforce that there was no room for tender emotions there.
    But he was not in the bowels of a slave ship. He was in a London kitchen standing in front of a woman who had simply offered soft words. Suddenly, he felt ashamed of himself, for ripping off his shirt just to frighten her and for treating her as he did a common whore. He grabbed his shirt, his fingers fumbling with the coarse fabric.
    She stopped him with a touch on his arm. “Please sit. It will be easier that way.”
    He had no choice but to obey. He had abused her enough already. He sat in the chair as she wrapped the starched white linen across his chest. “There’s no need to soil—” he began.
    “Of course there is,” she said as she clipped the drape behind his back with a clothespin. “You can’t possibly want the shaving lather dribbling down your chest. And besides, I need something to wipe the blade on.”
    He had no argument to that. She was right. And perhaps, he thought belatedly, she was avoiding the sight of his scars. Either way, he sat still, his hands gripping the side of the chair as she set about the business of lathering his face. Kit, of course, had felt such civilized wonders before. He’d had a valet once. One with a bad hand at shaving, as he recalled. His angel’s hand was sure and