Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
Haven and Logan.
They were a singularity.
It was silent other than the loud erratic beats of their hearts, the thrumming of the blood through their veins, and the heaving breaths they took.
When Logan pulled out of Haven’s still-spasming pussy, he laid his head against her breast, his breath hot on her sweat slickened skin.
It was bliss, pure bliss.
She refused to believe that something that felt so right could be so wrong.
She was trying to find a way home, so she didn’t understand why she was getting into a hot, heavy affair with a man broken by the actions of a beautiful woman.
When the time came, she honestly didn’t know if she could leave him. Would she want to?
Don’t think about it. Not now. Feels too good.
Her breathing slowed, and her heartbeat returned to a normal, anaerobic speed.
She whispered, “Logan?”
A deep, satisfied rumble answered.
“I’m hungry.”
His laughter sent tremors of desire through her quickly rousing body. How could she be ready for more already?
This is so bad. This is so good.
“What’s so funny?” She smiled at him, his gaze meeting hers over the crest of her nipple. She gasped. His eyes devoured her, their black depths deepening with desire.
She nearly jumped from the bed when his hand slid its way down her stomach, and into the slick heat of her folds. His gaze traveled the length of her torso, connecting with his hand, which was busily building her ardor. Her breath caught when he licked his lips.
“It’s funny because...I was thinking the same thing.”
Haven hid behind the bed curtain when the maid brought in a very late dinner, and fought back nervous giggles at the utter craziness.
Not only had she just made earthshattering love to a nineteenth-century duke for the third time, she was also ducking behind a silken curtain to keep their indiscretion a secret from his household staff.
If they were in 2025, there wouldn’t be a need for the secrecy; they’d be uncaring about who knew.
In 1817, sex outside of marriage was juicy gossip that could literally turn an entire society on its head.
As if no one had affairs. She’d read enough Regency-era romance novels to know better.
Struck again by the overwhelming disparities in their times and cultures, she blew out a pent-up breath.
The door clicked shut, so she let her legs fall from their bunched position behind the curtain.
Logan set the tray of food on a footstool, made his way to the bed, removed his dressing gown, and climbed in.
“God, Haven, your legs are so long, luscious, and as smooth as silk. I can't help but touch them. How are you so sleek?”
A rush of blood buzzed behind her ears. She couldn’t concentrate on his words with his hands slowly caressing her bare leg.
Smooth? Sleek? She tilted her head and blinked. It took her a moment to figure out what he meant.
Hairless.
A loud laugh burst from her. “You mean why aren't they covered in a layer of prickly hair?”
He raised an eyebrow and hesitated. “Covered in hair, yes.”
Women's razors, Nair, cosmetic wax, and other hair-removal beauty treatments were commonplace in the twenty-first century.
In 1817, women didn't have the luxury of electrolysis, so unlike the historical romance novel portrayals of sexy, bare-legged heroines, realistically, women in Regency England had gams that could double as cacti in stockings. At least many of them did. Historically, there were a few who would shave their legs, but apparently Logan hadn’t slept with any of those.
“Well, in 2025, a woman can go to a dermatologist, a skin doctor, or a special oasis for stressed out women called a spa. At the spa, or dermatologist, you can get a procedure called electrolysis. Using a laser, a beam of concentrated light, they burn out the root of the hair along a targeted area. I had the procedure on my legs. They will never grow hair again.”
Eyes wide, he murmured, “That sounds painful.”
“It’s totally safe, I didn’t feel a thing, but afterward I did get a terrible rash at the top of my right thigh.”
She shuddered when his hand slid its way from her calf to the top of her inner thigh.
“Now that’s a shame, but I do appreciate the results.”
A sexy smile lit up his face, and her tummy flipped.
God, this man was too gorgeous.
It was her turn to ask a question she’d been dying to ask.
“So, how do you still have all your teeth? And they’re pearly white and gleaming clean to boot.”
Seemingly inspired by her words, he nipped the sensitive area beneath her right ear, which sent delicious shivers through her. He smiled again when his actions elicited a moan.
He furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn't I have all of my teeth, and why wouldn't I take care to keep them clean?”
She giggled. “When you've seen as many photos of Europeans in history books as I have, you'd know the answer. The running joke in America is that men and women in historical England are a smile's worst enemy. Hence, my surprise at your perfect teeth. They are white, clean, straight, and all there.”
The smile in question appeared. “That isn’t a fair assumption. It cannot possibly be true of all Britons. While I haven't examined my aunt's teeth as I would a horse I was eying at Tattersall’s, I do believe her teeth are still there. She snaps them at me often enough.”
She threw her head back on the pillow and laughed.
Rising over her, Logan looked at her, his eyes burning black, desire and want etched into every feature.
“I love your laugh. You don’t do it often enough.”
His husky voice sent shivers over her quickly warming skin.
Her playful smile transitioned into one of sensual appreciation. How could this man say something so innocuous, and still turn her inside out?
After a long, deep, body-humming kiss, Logan’s expression turned contemplative. Was his pensive face ever a good face?
Bracing for a sour turn in their sweet interlude, she waited.
“Haven, the night of the dinner party, after I’d...ahem...accused you of slashing my mother’s portrait, you said something that didn’t stir my mind until now.”
A low flutter beat against her stomach. “What?”
She took a fortifying breath.
“I believe you said you hadn’t ‘asked to be spied on and creeped out’. What does ‘creeped out’ mean, and who was spying on you?”
She let her breath out with a rush, the flutters in her stomach dying away.
Squeezing the bridge of her nose, she paused, unsure of where to start.
She explained, “Creeped out means I felt uncomfortable, uneasy, because I thought someone was standing outside the powder room waiting for me.” Thinking back to their earlier confrontation over the misplaced, or rather, purposely placed glove, she continued.
“Apparently, I was right. My glove didn’t get up and walk into the gallery by itself.
Someone followed me to the powder room, waited for me to go in, stole my glove, shredded the painting, and then left my glove there as planted evidence.
” Fury unfurled within her like a slow burning blaze.
“Who the hell would do that? What could they possibly gain from framing me? I am nothing, no one.”
Especially to you....
She looked at him.
He sat silently, a quizzical look drawing his brows together.
“Why didn’t you tell me this immediately?”
She huffed in frustration. “I tried. When you get on your high horse and are hell bent on cramming someone’s guilt down his or her throats, there’s no getting through to you. Although, you must have heard some of what I said.”
Chagrin flooded his expression. “I do hear you, Haven.” She pinched her expression in disbelief and he amended, “I heard you. The words just didn’t fully form in my mind until the heat of the situation cooled.”
She laughed. Their current situation was much hotter than that of their earlier argument.
Much hotter.
Trying to get her mind out of the gutter where it swam amongst debris shaped like rock-hard cocks, she bit her lip. The sharp pain focused her mind.
“Who’d want to slash a painting of your mother, and then blame me? Who would have motive?”
Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he made to stand up, but turned to her instead.
“Honestly, I do not know. My mother didn’t have an enemy in the world.
As per her wishes, everyone loved her, would do anything for her, and she thrived on the attention.
She would do anything for the adoration.
” His voice hitched as the last words rumbled passed his lips.
His face darkened, and his eyes turned a smoldering black.
A bitter, inky black.
She should tread lightly, change the subject and let the cards fall where they may, but where had that gotten her so far?
In a sweltering, loveless hell, that’s where.
She wanted to pull out the sledgehammer and smash through the walls he’d erected around his heart, and show him he didn’t have to be bound by the shadows of his past.
She swung the hammer.
“So you can’t think of anyone who would want to destroy your mother’s portrait? Maybe someone she’d wronged? She can’t have been a saint, no one is.”
“No,” he ground out, “not a saint.”
His voice flattened, and his expression blanked. “She tried to kill me.”