Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)

“Him again?” He heaved a bored sigh as he turned another page.

“Gervais stood up”—Sophia pushed back from the table and rose to her feet—“wrenched off his coat, and rolled his shirtsleeve up to the elbow.”

She placed her hand flat on the table, directly in front of Gray.

“He took my hand and dragged my fingers over every slope and sinew of his arm.” As she spoke, Sophia traced the tendons of her planted wrist with her free hand. When she skimmed her fingers up to the hollow of her elbow, she heard his breath catch. Good. More progress.

“And after touching them,” she said, “I had no trouble sketching those muscles at all.”

Gray snapped his book shut, tossed it aside, and stared up at her in challenge. The dark intensity in his eyes gave Sophia a heartbeat’s pause. Slowly, she stretched one hand toward his face. “Now … hold perfectly still.”

His eyes closed as she touched one finger to the bridge of his nose. With deliberate slowness, she traced the uneven, bronzed slope with her fingertip. His breathing grew husky. At last she broke the contact. He kept his eyes closed.

She ran a thumb across his left eyebrow, then drew a bold line from his temple to his cheekbone. His skin was softer than she’d expected, and oddly cool beneath her fingertips. She dragged her fingers down into the rough growth of beard along his jaw, flattening her hand to let the bristles rasp against the sensitive skin of her palm.

He drew a ragged breath that verged on a groan, but his eyes remained shut. He held perfectly still.

Something hot and hungry surged through Sophia’s veins. Desire, mingled with the heady thrill of power. She traced the contours of his brow, skimmed over the soft, vulnerable curves of his eyelids. His lashes, long and curved as a child’s, trembled under her touch, and a sweet pang of tenderness swelled in her heart. She followed the circumference of his face, running one fingertip down to the cleft of his chin, then climbing the thin scar slanting to the corner of his mouth. He exhaled roughly, and Sophia felt the heat of his breath swirling through her blood. Emboldened, she slid her thumb along the ridge of his lower lip.

His hand shot up to capture hers, holding it pressed against his cheek. He looked up at her mournfully, his hair mussed and his breathing labored. Oh, yes. Fluster accomplished.

“Gray.” She leaned closer, the damp fabric of her shift tangling around her thighs.

He tensed. “Don’t do this. I’ll only hurt you.”

“I’m not an innocent, Gray. I know what you want. Can’t you tell I want it, too?” She leaned over to whisper in his ear. “I could show you colors. Colors like you’ve never dreamed. The cool blue of my eyes …” She blew gently over his neck and watched the tendon there go rigid. “The golden silk of this hair …” She wound a stray lock around her finger and brushed it over his cheek.

“Sweetheart …”

Sophia hovered above him, bringing her lips within an inch of his. “I could teach you the taste of perfect, luscious, rose-petal pink.”

He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “I said I wouldn’t pursue you.”

“Is that so? Well, as it happens, I’m tired of being pursued. I’m rather enjoying taking the other role.”

“Sweet, believe me, I’m not worth pursuing. And if I …” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. “If I let this happen, I never will be. I gave my word, and for once I want to keep it. I’m a scoundrel, by trade and vocation, and I’m all wrong for a girl like you.”

“A girl like me? But I’m already ruined.”

“Ruined? Because you’ve known pleasure? There’s nothing about you that’s ruined. You’re young and beautiful and full of dreams. You’re exquisite.” He touched her face. “Perfect.”

Tears pricked at her eyes. Such sweet words. How she wished she deserved them.

His fingers caught a stray lock of her hair. “This tutor who attempted to ruin you, he was clearly an amateur. But sweet … to my shame, I’ve had a great deal of practice. I’m trying to go respectable. I’m trying to be a better man.”

“You’re trying to be someone you’re not. And it’s making you miserable.”

She pressed her free hand to his other cheek, framing his face between her palms. “You do have the face of a scoundrel …”

“You see me clearly, then.”

“But what of the man beneath? There’s so much more to you, I know it. I feel it. A passion for life. Such strength …” Hooking her fingers under his collar, she slid her palm toward his muscled shoulder. “And this heart.” Her fingers strayed lower over his chest, grazing the border of his scar. He winced. With a low growl, he pulled her hands away. “Sweetheart, I …”

He released a gruff sigh, and his face shuttered. “I can’t.”

“I see.” Sophia sat up, feeling the sting of defeat.