Clio supposed she deserved that skepticism. As far as Rafe knew, these feelings were a recent development.
“I’m certain. It’s been coming on for some time now. I’m not even sure when it began, but . . . long before this summer. For years now, I’ve read everything I could find of your career. I cheered your successes; I worried when you were hurt. Why else would I keep reaching out with all those silly invitations and holiday greetings? I’m a nice girl, Rafe, and yes, I was raised to be the model of gentility and good breeding. But even I’m not that polite.”
She took his hand and kissed it. “I love you. And I understand if it’s difficult for you to believe that fully today. But it’s just as well. It’s a short little phrase. I can repeat it as many times as it takes. You can practice taking it the way you take jabs.” She raised her fists the way he’d taught her and boxed his shoulder. “I love you. I love you. I—”
He caught her in his arms. His eyes were fierce. “Clio, no. You have to stop.”
“I won’t stop. Not even a heavyweight champion of England is strong enough to make me.” Giddy with the power of it, she laced her arms around his neck. “I love you. Take that.”
Oh, Rafe intended to take it, all right.
He was going to take it, hold it tight with both hands, and never, ever let go.
“On second thought, never mind the blankets,” he said. “I’m going to warm you myself.”
“I like that idea.”
So did he.
He put his hands on her waist and turned her so that she faced away from him. And then, for the second time that week, he set about the task of unbuttoning and unlacing her.
But it was so much different this time.
This time, she was his.
He’d been waiting a long time to have someone who belonged to him. Someone he could care for, unreservedly. Honestly. With every part of himself, not just the brutish, broken bits.
“Eat something while I do this,” he told her. “We can’t have you swooning again.”
She reached for a roll and broke off a piece. “If you didn’t want to make me swoon,” she said with her mouth full, “you should not have been so dashing.”
“You’ve little room to talk, in this gown.” He unbuttoned the last of the closures and cleaved the damp silk from her back. “When I first saw you in that ballroom, I thought I might faint.”
He pushed the gown down to her waist and over her hips, helping her step out of it. Then he set to unlacing her corset and untying the tapes of her petticoats. Wet knots were trickier than dry ones, but he finally managed to work them loose.
She turned to face him, clad in only a damp, tissue-thin linen shift. It clung to her, pasted to her every curve—all but translucent. Holy God. His gaze wandered from her hardened nipples, to the sweet flare of her hips, to the dark amber triangle of shadow guarding her sex.
If he hadn’t been jerked back to awareness by her sudden shiver, he could have stood there gawping all night.
“Sorry,” he said. He needed to hurry this, or she’d catch a chill. “Why don’t you do the rest yourself and climb into bed. I’ll take care of myself and join you.”
She nodded, and he turned away, dropping into a chair by the fire so he could remove his boots. After those were dispatched, he stood and worked on the rest. In a matter of seconds, he’d stripped off his waistcoat and shirt, then shucked his trousers. Holding his clothing in a ball before him, he turned.
Clio lay nestled in the bed linens, her hair unbound and falling about her shoulders in damp waves. So lovely. She looked like a painting one might find in a Venetian palace.
And this picture of feminine delicacy was staring at him. The way a stray cat might eye joints of meat in the marketplace.
“I . . .” She looked abashed at being caught, but she didn’t look away.