the last moment was what brought him thrills.
His fingertips gently grazed down the outsides of her legs. Grace’s muscles tensed beneath his fingers’ touch. Reaching the stockings, slouched at her ankles, he lifted her left leg and pulled her green slipper from her foot.
He grinned.
Her feet were anything but dainty. In all the years he had known Grace, he had never looked at her slippers. With every tick of the clock, he learned something new about the woman, whom he thought he had known entirely when he was a young man.
He grabbed the thin material webbed between her toes and pinched it. She didn’t make a sound or a motion. Sliding the other hand down to cradle her calf, his fingers pulled on the stocking.
He needed to hear her…the sound of her breath hitch.
The quiver of her foot beneath his hands…
Anything!
He needed to know physically she was affected by his touch. Mentally, her thoughts were already with him.
Ever so slowly the length tugged down her foot, and with each bit, he listened. Waiting…willing her to react to the stocking’s slow caress.
He stared at the stocking as he pulled. The last covered parts of her body were revealed to him bit by bit. All by his doing, the subtle contrast of her pale white ankle, the arch of her foot, and her long fingerlike toes. The top band of the stocking reached the crease of her toes—
Grace’s breath hitched and her calf beneath his palm trembled. His muscles relaxed and he sighed. He had not realized his muscles had been so tense as he waited for her response.
The stocking traveled to the floor, leaving her wearing nothing at all on that side of her body.
She blew out a long, broken breath.
The sound trembled through his body, and his heart sped. He shifted in his crouched position, adjusting to remove the next stocking. She quivered again. Anticipation built within her and him. The rush of air through her lips was the sound he wanted more and more of. The proof he affected her, and how deeply.
He set her foot back on the thick wool carpet and reached for her second ankle.
“No doubts, Winston?”
He stared up at her face. There was a pinch between her brow, and her eyes shone soft and caring. She worried, an insecurity or some such…. “No doubts whatsoever.” He was not sure what she was asking him; the question lacked specifics, but at the moment, it didn’t matter. This was what he wanted and he was positive about that. Nothing mattered but Grace trembling to the ministrations of his hands, of his words, of his will.
He trailed his hands down the outside of her opposite calf to the stocking gathered in a slouch of wrinkles. Her muscles jumped and she smothered back a giggle.
He remembered from their younger years, she was ticklish. He grasped her heel once more and slid the slipper from her foot. He dragged his fingers down to the top of her foot, gently tapping, then twisted his wrist to lightly pet the arch on the underside.
She squirmed but didn’t pull her foot from him. He didn’t look up at her, but he grinned. Oh, the fun he would have teasing her.
He gripped the stocking by her big toe and twisted the fabric. Each twist of the loose material coiled into a rope, tugging as it slid from her smooth ivory skin. Grace trembled, her legs shaking as the last section slid from the tip of her foot. An intense rush of breath tumbled from her lips.
His eyes narrowed. There were so many questions about her to which he didn’t know the answers. Questions to which he was not sure he wanted to understand the answers. The thought of her in another man’s bed…the thought of her as she was down in the ballroom with Emma—these were at the edges of what he could bear to think about Lady Wentland.
He held her foot extended out from her body, his hand firmly clasped about her ankle.
He stared at her foot; he knew he shouldn’t consider asking this, but this was Grace. As young adults, they had talked about everything. He had to know some of what happened in her marriage. “Grace, I can tell you have been instructed more so than a typical English wife. What I don’t understand is for what purpose?”
Her body tensed. “I don’t understand what you ask, Winston.”
He glanced up to her jade eyes, which were filled with fear.
He inwardly grimaced. He shouldn’t have pushed. Not yet. “No matter, I will discover all your newly formed secrets.” And he would. He would pair each one with one of her old ones. Like her kiss with Tommy, the butler’s son. Finding out her new secrets would not be hard; he would simply do so, one touch at a time.
“Grace, I am going to fill the bath. We will clean each other.” Winston stood and walked to the large tub, which was set into the floor. The smooth copper shimmered with water. Thank heavens he had the servant fill the tub with boiling water when he arrived. The water should still be warm, and the coals on the underside kept it nicely heated.
He ran his finger along the edge of the first container’s lid and opened it. A mixture of cloves and lavender resided within. Taking a large pinch of the spices, he dropped them into the steaming bath.
He glanced over his shoulder to see Grace watching him. She sat in the same position that he had left her in, legs parted and hands on each side of her.
He could see all of her—from her rounded shoulders to the slope of her generous breasts tipped with a dusty coral hue, down her smooth stomach to the accentuated curve of her hip. He wanted to drag his tongue over her body. The sweet salt of her skin would tingle his taste buds. The curled hairs at the apex of her thighs glistened with moisture. Moisture he had created, but had yet to touch. He licked his lips. Nor had he tasted. He needed to taste her, to slide his greedy tongue down between her sex lips, spreading them wide so he could flick her bud and lap at the honey spilling from her core.
“Come, Grace.”
She stood with a smooth motion and walked toward him. Her muscles were like soft butter that slightly jiggled as she stepped. She turned out to be a beautiful woman, like the heavenly creatures in paintings that hung on the walls of museums. She was what men adored and women aspired to be. His cock grew heavy in his pantaloons. She would be his after this night—his to explore, cherish, and adore.
“Winston, I am confused.”
“What about, Grace?”
“Why did you not simply take me there on the bed? I saw the desire in your eyes. Why do you wish to bathe me?”
Winston smiled contentedly. She was his straightforward Grace. “My intimate preferences all come from Indian traditions. One of them is bathing—cleaning each other so that you can touch and taste each other’s essence without the tastes of other elements. Smell and taste are so much a part of the Indian culture that it is also in the way they futter.”
“We will bathe each other?”
“Quite so. I will also shave you.”
Grace’s eyes widened. “Shave me?”
He
