Free Engaged in Sin by Sharon Page

would be very … erotic.”
    “Indeed.” He grinned for a moment, but then his mouth straightened into a serious line, his eyes haunted. “I am worried about how I will react to the pressure of the razor on my neck.”
    Heavens, she’d not thought of that. “All you must do is remember that I am shaving you, that there is no danger, that you aren’t in battle; instead, you are here in your dressing room. Just remember you are completely safe.”
    “All right, angel, I’m willing to try. But I wish this didn’t involve a sharp blade.”
    His humor touched her heart, and she prayed she could do this. She had never shaved a man in her life, and she’d had only a few glimpses of her father’s valet shaving him. She would have to be careful and try very hard not to cut the duke’s throat.
    While she was finishing her breakfast, the duke had gone to one of the enormous library windows. He had tapped his way there with his walking stick, then he’d laid both his bare palms against the panes and rested his head on the cool, damp glass.
    It was a posture of such longing and pain. Suddenly she’d understood. The duke
wanted
to go home. What kept him away from his estate and his family was fear. She had no home to go to. If she had one, she now knewshe would slay any dragon to reach it, she would take any risk to go to it. But would she hurt someone else? That was what he feared he might do.
    This was about more than her safety, her escape. She truly wanted to help him. And right now she had to shave him without cutting his throat. Gathering her courage, she faced his dressing table. The footman had delivered two bowls—one to dip the blade in, the second for rinsing his face. Steam coiled off each one.
    Grandpapa would ask her to speak, so he would know where she was. She touched the duke’s cheek gently and said, “I am going to lather you now.”
    With trust she didn’t deserve, he tipped back his head. He rested his fists on his thighs.
    She swallowed hard as she took his shaving soap and rubbed it along his taut neck. His muscles tensed beneath her touch. He shut his eyes and breathed slowly. Obviously he was executing intense control of himself. She stepped up to him from behind. “I am going to touch the razor to you now.”
    Suddenly he lifted his arm, and Anne gasped in horror. She had been moving the blade forward. She’d almost sliced his forearm.
    “No. I can’t do this, love,” he said grimly.
    “You can trust me,” she said nervously. He had agreed to let her stay because she’d wagered him she could help him heal. They hadn’t yet set a value on the bet, but if he could not let her do this, wouldn’t it be proof she must go?
    “Angel, I cannot trust anyone. It’s the sorry truth.” He held out his hand. “I can shave myself. I did it in camps often enough without the aid of a mirror. This is something I should still be able to do.”
    She hesitated, then gave in. Taking great care, she put the handle of the razor against his palm. His long fingers curled around it and she noticed the numerous scarscrisscrossing the back of his hand. She remembered the soft scrape of his callused palm on her breasts and the way it made her skin tingle. He was a duke, but he no longer had a gentleman’s hands.
    With the razor in hand, he tipped his head back and ran the sharp edge along his throat with a smooth, firm stroke. Lather piled up on the blade. He reached out, found one of the basins, and dipped the metal into the water, swishing to clean it. Another stroke took off more of the white foam and left a second trail of smooth skin beside the first.
    Anne watched, rather breathless. It seemed so intimate to do this, to watch him shave. More intimate than it had felt to make love to him.
    He removed all the stubble from his neck, then attended to his cheeks and jaw. She marveled at the ease with which he negotiated the dip at his chin, the curves of his lips, the high planes of his cheekbones. Of