Chapter 8
Philip’s heart thundered as he watched Lily ascend the stairs, her lovely full bottom swaying beneath her soaked skirts. Had he been imagining the desire in her eyes, the parting of her lips and breathy sighs as he removed her gloves and boots?
He tried—unsuccessfully—to tamp down the hope that she was warming to him, even if all she felt towards him was lust. Could he prove with his actions, simple as they were, that she could trust him?
“Uncle Philip!”
He started, blinked several times before he realized Matthew was standing in front of him, hands planted on his slim hips and scowling. “Ah, yes, drinking chocolate.” He motioned to the back of the house and the kitchens with his thumb. “Shall we?”
With Cook’s permission, he heated a saucepan of milk on the stove and helped the boys spoon in and stir the cocoa powder. After adding a liberal amount of sugar, he stirred the mixture and poured it into waiting mugs.
His nephews grinned when they showered him with praise after taking their first sips.
Even Cricket settled in a furry ball at Reggie’s feet, apparently satisfied that an entire roast chicken was unlikely to fall from the table into his expectant jaws and sleeping was a better use of his time.
The kitchen fell silent, warm and sweet-smelling as they drank, and his mind drifted back to Lily.
She must have changed by now; the idea of her fully clothed was disappointing, but he couldn’t presume she’d welcome him into her space while she was vulnerable.
She welcomed me into her bed.
His cock kicked at that and, realizing tenting his trousers in the presence of children was less than ideal, busied himself with cleaning up after himself. He was here to earn her forgiveness, not to turn her into an object of his desires.
Reggie cleared his throat. “You should make this for Aunt Lily.”
He paused in wiping off the stovetop. “Why is that?”
“Chocolate makes everyone feel better.”
He glanced into the saucepan; more than enough remained to bring Lily a mug. “You’re a smart lad.”
“I know,” Reggie said with a shrug, then took his and his brother’s mugs to the washbasin and fixed Philip with a perplexed stare. “Well? What are you waiting for?”
“Right.” He poured the remaining liquid into a fresh mug, the contents warming his palms. “Thanks for the advice.”
He took the stairs two at a time—a risky choice, considering the hot mug—but he needed to be with her, to give her this small offering. He rapped twice on the door with his knuckles.
“Come in!” Lily called, breathless. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him.
What he saw made him nearly drop the mug to the floor.
With the curtains drawn over the windows, the room was dusky, like the dawn was only now pressing into the bedchamber.
Flames licked greedily at a fresh log on the fire, but the chamber still held a chill.
Her back was to him, her plait messy and damp against her skin.
Her jacket lay discarded on the chair beside her bed, but she was tugging at the buttons and ribbons holding her soaked skirt in place.
Her shoulders dropped with relief. “Thank goodness you’re here. I managed my petticoats, but I—I can’t get my skirt unfastened.” Finally, she peered over her shoulder and held his gaze. “The knot is so wet I can’t untie it, and my fingers are still cold. Would you help me?”
She hadn’t called for a maid or a sister to help her, but waited for him. Interesting. “Of course.”
When he reached her, he wrapped an arm around her front to hand her the mug. She stiffened as she took it. “For me?”
“Should help warm your hands.” He examined the ties holding her skirt in place and set to work untangling them.
Her short stays, still tightly laced, wrapping her rib cage, and his eyes kept darting to the paper-thin chemise that brushed under the wings of her shoulder blades, the bare skin on the muscles of her upper arms. This was the body of a woman who had worked his estate, had kept it flourishing while he fell apart.
Had remained strong while he’d been so weak.
How could he possibly prove himself worthy before Christmas?
She lifted the mug to her mouth, then released a moan that made his already half-hard cock stiffen. “Good Lord.” She pressed her fingers to her lips. “This is delicious. I’ll have to ask Cook what she did differently.”
He released one knot, and her skirt dropped further on her hips. “I made it with the boys.”
When she looked over her shoulder, a divot appeared between her brows. “You did?” A smile danced across her wet lips, gone too quickly for him to admire it. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
His chest tightened, but he kept his hands steady. “Are you warmer?”
“Yes.” Her throat worked with her swallow, and he fought the need to wrap her plait around his palm, move it aside and press his lips to the nape of her neck, to chase the soft skin around to her jaw, her collarbones, her—
Blast. He’d untied the knot. “It’s, uh, it’s untied now.”
Her ribs swelled with her shaky inhalation. “You can let go.”
The fabric fell to the floor in a rush, creating a halo of coarse wool at her feet. She made no move to step away from him, but wavered slightly. His hands wrapped around her waist before he could remind himself that he shouldn’t touch her yet, not without her permission.
A soft sound came from her throat, something between a gasp and a moan that left him painfully hard. He thought he’d been imagining the heat in her eyes when he’d removed her boots, held her foot in his hand. Could she want him as much as he wanted her?
Take care of her.
A low chuckle escaped him. “You’ve only taken off one stocking.”
“My fingers were too cold to unfasten it.” Her voice was rougher than it had been moments ago, languid. “I gave up.”
“Would you let me…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. There were too many things he wanted from her that went far beyond managing her garters, but if she could allow him this one moment, this simple caretaking, perhaps the rest would be possible.
His breath escaped in a rush when she nodded, a flush climbing from the edges of her chemise to her throat.
He endeavored to keep his steps measured as he paced around her, putting his back to the fire. Her lips parted, and her pupils had blown wide, leaving a thin ring of flickering green and gold.
He dropped to his knees.
During his eight years away from his wife, he’d visited countless churches in a desperate attempt to find salvation, a miracle that would take his dependence on opium away and return him to the woman he loved.
But this moment, penitent before her as he prayed for her forgiveness, for her trust, was more humbling than any cathedral, any homily or prayer.
She was his icon, his altar. And he would worship her.
He wrapped his palms around her ankles, the slim bones moving beneath his touch as he dragged them up with painstaking slowness.
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he justified the pace as giving her the chance to refuse him, to retreat.
But he was savoring her, avariciously memorizing every inch of her.
The hard line of her shin, the taut muscle of her calf, the tendons on the underside of her knee.
The strength of her thigh, that of a woman who lived on horseback, of a woman unafraid of the world. A woman deserving of praise.
Pushing up the hem of her linen drawers, he found the clips on her garters and unlatched first one, then the other.
The wool stocking sagged. He swallowed his groan when his fingers touched the bare skin, the glance of his knuckles on her flesh nearly unmanning him as he lowered the fabric, retreating down her leg in the same painstaking manner that he had advanced.
When he’d slipped the last inch of stocking over her ankle, the arch of her foot, and from her toes, he wanted to weep from the pleasure of it, the overwhelming gratitude of being given access to her like this, and the frustration of the task being complete.
“Philip,” she whispered, and she lowered her hand to drag her fingertips through the cropped hair at his temple.
He turned towards her touch, craving it, starved. “Tell me, Lily.” Tell me, wife. “What do you need?”
He knew. He could smell it on her skin, could taste the tension sparking between them.
Her belly, at his eye level, moved with her ragged exhale, as though she were fighting to maintain the last vestiges of her resistance. “I need… I…”
She was too proud to admit that she needed him; he’d spoiled the trust required for such an admission.
But he needed to care for her, to give her the release she wouldn’t name.
He strained his neck to meet her gaze, to implore her for her trust. “I asked you to let me care for you.” He took the mug from her trembling hand and set it on the floor beside them. “Will you let me now?”
Her lips were parted when she nodded, her chest pressing against the confines of her stays with each inhalation.
“Thank you,” he breathed, and pressed a kiss to her navel. She gasped, but he continued, his lips brushing over the bone at one hip. “Thank you.”
He held the hem of her chemise where it brushed against her shins and lifted, slowly. Her fingers curled at her side and released, curled again. The hand in his hair tightened.
Another kiss to the knot of her knee. Thank you.
The muscles of her thighs. Thank you. He breathed his gratitude into the touch of his lips against her skin, glancing and chaste, were his nose not brushing the maddening edge of her drawers, the fragrance of her arousal teasing him, calling to him like a siren.
He wrapped his hands around the back of her thighs, and she wavered. “Stop?” he asked.
“No,” she breathed. “Don’t stop.”