Free Engaged in Sin by Sharon Page Page A

course, he’d done this for about a decade of his life. She knew, from all the stories in London about his heroics, that he was six-and-twenty.
    He gave the blade a slosh in the basin, then laid it down. He rinsed his face from the other basin, which he found with his hand, then patted his skin with a towel. “Is there a bottle of witch hazel on my dresser?”
    She put it in his hand. He poured some in his palm, rubbed his hands together, slapped it to his face and throat. The gentle bite of the astringent filled the air. He winced, and she saw droplets of blood on his skin at the exact moment he put his fingers against them.
    “Not as skilled as I thought,” he muttered grimly. “Perhaps I should have let you do it.”
    She prayed that meant he was recognizing there was reason to keep her. Tentatively, she touched his cheek. “It is so smooth now. It feels like velvet.”
    He laughed. “It’s not as soft as yours.” Then his smile faded. “Funny, I haven’t really touched you yet, have I?”
    She remembered where he had touched her. Foolishly, she blushed. “You have.”
    “Not to truly explore you. The first time I felt my own face was a week ago. I didn’t want to know how badly it had been cut up.”
    Her heart gave a swift leap as she thought of him running his hands over his face to discover if he had been scarred. “There is nothing wrong with your face,” she assured him. “You are an astoundingly handsome man, Your Grace.”
    “Come here. Let me touch your face. Let me know what you look like.”
    Her grandfather used to ask to do that. To touch and explore her face. She took the duke’s hand and lifted it to her cheek.
    Gently he stroked the curve with his fingertips. It brought forth memories of her grandfather cupping her face, fanning his fingers over her cheeks. Grandpapa would tell her how pretty she’d become, what a lovely lady she was going to be. Even though
everyone
had despaired of her ever behaving like a polite and proper lady, Grandpapa did not. He used to whisper to her that the hoydens made the most interesting ladies. How ironic it was that she had never gotten a chance to be a lady.
    She pushed that thought away, locked it deep inside.
    “You have beautiful skin,” the duke murmured. His fingers coasted down to her jaw and found her lips. Little explosions of sensation burst as his fingers lightly traced her mouth.
    She’d never been touched like this. So slowly. With such care. She couldn’t tense at such a beautiful caress. The way the duke touched was so slow and sensual, it made her knees tremble.
    “I am not a ravishing beauty.” She might as well be truthful about this. “Nor am I a particularly voluptuous woman—though I suppose you have guessed that already. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
    Perhaps she shouldn’t have encouraged him to explore. Ashton had wanted Kat to be the duke’s lover, and Kat was an exotic beauty with ebony curls, full lips, almond-shaped eyes, and high cheekbones. If that was the type of woman Lord Ashton believed the duke desired, she couldn’t begin to compete with that.
    She was somewhat pretty. But her nose was too long, her eyelashes too fair, her chin too sharp. Men had liked her in the brothel because she had a fragile look to her, even though, when she’d been young and behaving like a hoyden instead of a proper young lady, fragile was the last word that would describe her.
    The duke brushed her eyebrows with his fingertips. He lightly touched her eyelids—heavens, they were very sensitive. He cupped her face. His eyes did not meet hers, but he said quietly, “Your skin is smooth as a new peach. Your lips feel lusciously plump. I noticed you have an intriguing bump at the end of your nose. I am hardly disappointed. You feel lovely.”
    “Th-thank you.”
    He touched one of her loose tendrils of hair, winding it lightly around his finger before releasing it. “What color is your hair?”
    “Bl—” She checked