Free Wicked Seduction by Jade Lee Page A

steady, her movements efficient enough to show that she had done this many times before.
    “Who did you shave before?” he asked, his words unexpectedly harsh.
    Her hands were busy dabbing on the lather about his face, but her eyes were steady as she looked at him. “Patients, from time to time. And then my father during his last months. This is his shaving kit.”
    There was a melancholy in her voice that pricked his conscience. He had no cause to be jealous of any man she may or may not shave. And from the sound of things, she could very well be performing this duty for Uncle Frank soon enough. That thought soured him enough that he grimaced.
    “Stay still,” she admonished. “I do not wish to cut you.”
    He almost smiled at that. Given what he’d lived through, he doubted a little nick would bother him. But she was applying a blade to his throat, so he closed his eyes and appreciated the wonder of her touch. Firm. Efficient. With only the slightest hint of a tremble.
    No, he realized with shock. That was not her shaking but him. Why was he shaking? She moved to his side, and her skirt brushed against his forearm. It was coarse cotton, this time. She had changed from her white gown when she’d gone to fetch the razor. Now she wore a dark blue thing that somehow looked more appealing than her white frilly thing.
    “You changed your gown,” he said, rather than allow himself to think about his reaction to her. “I like this one better.”
    Her hands stilled against his cheek. And when they did not resume, he opened his eyes in question.
    “Why would you say such a thing?” she asked, obviously wounded.
    He frowned, confused. “This one fits you better. And you should be in bolder colors.”
    “It is a work dress.”
    “It is not too small with panels on the side and an extra flounce at the hem.”
    “It is a work dress.”
    “Then your musicale dresses should look more like your work dresses.”
    She had no answer to that. Neither did he. Of all the things to be cross with him about, this was the oddest. But it did set his mind to churning. And before long, he began to speak, moving his lips as little as possible when she resumed her task at his beard.
    “At the musicale this evening . . .” he began.
    “Yes?”
    “I must have been the topic of the hour.”
    He chanced a look at her face and saw her lips quirk in a half grimace, half laugh. “Yes, you were.”
    “And you must have been the woman of the hour too for bringing me to your home.”
    “Oh no, that was Rose. She painted quite a picture of you as the doomed pirate returning home to fresh heartbreak.”
    “Me? But Alex—”
    “Alex was cast as the insane servant, defending your honor but so mad as to not know he was attacking an earl.”
    He swallowed, wondering how all that the boy had experienced could be narrowed down to so few words. “Did they . . . Did you spend the whole time recounting the tale? Or did you hear anything else?”
    She finished with one side of his face and shifted to the other. “Anything else?”
    “Yes,” he said. He looked at her, the hunger surging anew. He did not want to ask her these questions. He wanted to be strong and whole for her. But he had to know, and she was the only one here to tell him. “About my family,” he finally forced out. “I have three brothers. And there is the question of Scheherazade. How could she . . . Is she really . . .”
    “Is she truly Lady Blackstone?”
    “Yes.” He flushed. He had given up thought of her years ago, but still part of him yearned to know.
    She sighed, a soft puff of air that cooled his ear where the water had splashed. “Are you sure you wish to know?”
    “Yes.”
    “Very well. I will tell you everything I heard, but I cannot guarantee that it is true.”
    “Whatever you know would help.” And it would distract him from his desire to cross the bare inch that separated them and caress her, hold her, take her.
    Obviously unaware of his thoughts, she