Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
M atilda stumbled out of Christopher's office, her body afire—uncomfortable, unsatisfied, and aching for fulfillment that had been so cruelly denied.
Reaching the grand staircase, she clutched the polished wooden railing for support, her breath shaky, her thoughts scattered. She needed to regain some semblance of calm, though it seemed an impossible task. Not when her body still tingled with the promises Christopher’s wicked mouth had whispered through every touch.
She covered her mouth with her hand to stem a frustrated curse. She would never be the same again after this afternoon, and nor did she wish to be.
Her cheeks flamed red when two maids passed and threw her a curious glance. She straightened and started up the stairs, desperate for the sanctuary of her room. She craved privacy—a quiet place to quell the fire raging inside her.
Thankfully, the corridor was empty, and she reached her room without encountering anyone else. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, her hand pressed to her chest as if to contain the erratic pounding of her heart.
She rang for her maid. A bath, she decided, would soothe her restless thoughts and wash away the lingering traces of Christopher's touch—not that she could ever truly erase the memory of his hands, his tongue, or the sinful way his lips had teased her.
A shiver ran down her spine.
Dear God, he was wicked. And she adored being wicked with him.
Her maid arrived promptly, thankfully distracting Matilda a little from her thoughts. "Please have a bath brought up immediately. And have my jasmine soap laid out. I wish to use that scent today." She walked to her dressing table and sat to remove the pins from her disheveled hair.
"Of course, Lady Matilda. I’ll see to it at once."
Though it was unusual to bathe in the afternoon—especially since she hadn’t been out riding or walking—a bath would help her feel refreshed for the evening.
Duchess D'Estel had mentioned dinner this evening would include the local reverend and his new wife. The prospect of polite conversation should have been welcome, yet all Matilda could think of was Christopher—his burning gaze, the way his fingers had coaxed pleasure from her, the promises left unfulfilled.
By the time the bath was prepared, steaming buckets of water carried in by sturdy footmen, Matilda’s heart had settled into a normal rhythm. Her maid added a few drops of fragrant oil and placed soft towels on a nearby chair.
"Will there be anything else, my lady? Do you require assistance bathing?"
"No, thank you. I’ll ring when I need help dressing for dinner."
"Very well, my lady."
Left alone, Matilda quickly shuffled out of her dress, which her maid had helped loosen, and stepped into the bath, the jasmine-scented water embracing her in soothing warmth. The sunlight streaming through the window bathed her skin in a golden glow, and she sighed, leaning back and letting her tension ebb away.
Outside, the gardens stretched toward the lake, their orderly beauty a sharp contrast to the chaos in her heart. She closed her eyes, but the image of Christopher’s smoldering expression rose unbidden in her mind.
Her skin prickled with heat, her body remembering the delicious torment of his touch. Without shame, her hand slid between her thighs, her fingers mimicking the way he had teased her. She gasped, her movements tentative but growing bolder with every flick of the tender nub that ached for release.
Her imagination conjured him: his dark eyes fixed on hers as he knelt between her legs, his tongue tasting her, his lips caressing her most sensitive flesh. She moaned, her back arching against the porcelain.
"Christopher." His name, scarcely audible.
She imagined the feel of his manhood pressing against her, the way he had teased her so mercilessly, so achingly close to giving her everything. If only she had taken him fully…
Her climax washed over her in waves, her body trembling with the intensity of it. She gripped the tub's sides, her breath shallow as the euphoria ebbed, leaving her spent yet longing for the man who had ignited such passion.
Her gaze drifted to the window, and movement in the garden caught her eye. Leaning forward, she spotted Christopher strolling across the manicured lawn beyond the terrace.
He was smoking a cheroot. She’d never seen him smoke before, and it gave him an air of mystery. His shoulders, broad and strong, caught the light as the sun outlined him in a golden halo. Close enough to the window, she leaned on the windowsill and drank in the sight of him. How delicious the man was, his bottom particularly delightful in his buckskin breeches.
As if sensing her presence, his gaze lifted, looking toward her suite of rooms, and their eyes met.
Held.
Her breath hitched.
Did he know which room was hers? Surely he did—this was his childhood home, after all, and he must know it better than anyone.
Christopher stopped at the base of the terrace stairs, leaning casually against the stone balustrade. He watched her, his cheroot balanced between two fingers, exuding a nonchalance that only heightened his appeal.
Matilda took in the gardens at his back, but no one else seemed to be about. A daring thought crossed her mind, wicked and thrilling. If he could see her, perhaps she should show him precisely what he was missing.
A smile curved her lips as she considered it.
Determined to make him as uncomfortable as she had been, Matilda stood, water cascading down her bare skin in rivulets that glistened in the sunlight. Meeting Christopher’s gaze through the window, she reveled in the shock that flickered across his face, followed by a raw hunger that made her pulse quicken.
For a moment, she let him admire her. Naked, unashamed, and his for the taking—if only he would.
A grin tugged at her lips as she noted the darkening of his expression. His jaw clenched, and his fingers tightened atop the stone terrace as if trying to keep himself grounded.
Before anyone else could stumble upon her display, Matilda stepped out of the bath, wrapped herself in a towel, and moved out of sight.
Her body burned—not with embarrassment, but with anticipation. She ached for him, her earlier release only stoking the fire rather than extinguishing it. Could he truly deny her after what she had just done?
She doubted it.
Dinner tonight would be a battle of restraint, with each glance across the table sparking in the tinderbox of their shared desire.
Matilda smiled as she began to dress, imagining how Christopher’s resolve might waver beneath her teasing. Perhaps she would push him further, provoke the lion she so desperately wanted to devour her.
And when she finally had him alone, perhaps he would not be able to resist her.