She wanted it, too, and she loved the feel of the silk sliding off her, baring her skin to the candlelight and his gaze. He pulled back, lifting off her, sitting up, and she was instantly nervous at the loss of him, moving to sit up herself, to cover her nudity.

“No,” he said, pressing her back down to the bed flat against the crisp linen sheets, open to his gaze and his touch. His attention lingered on her shoulder. “How does it feel?”

She smiled at his care. “I barely notice it.”

“Liar,” he said. “Let’s see if we can make it truth.” His hands spread over her skin, down the sides of her torso, over the swell of her belly, down her thighs, and she forgot she even had a shoulder, let alone one that had been shot. “You’re so beautiful,” he said again. “So beautiful.”

His hands ran down her legs to her slippers, and he slid off the bed to kneel there, at her bare feet. He took one in his hands, running his thumbs over the sole, sending waves of unexpected pleasure through her. “I still think of you in slippers on that road,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her ankle as he made her wild with decadent pleasure. “I hated that you mistreated yourself.”

He switched to her other foot and offered the same treatment as she shook her head. “They don’t hurt now.”

“No?” he asked, kissing at her ankle, his tongue slipping out to find the sensitive skin there.

She sighed her pleasure. “You feel wonderful.”

“Good,” he whispered. “I want you to always feel wonderful.”

She loved his touch, but she wanted him, too. Wanted to explore him as he had explored her. If tonight was all they would have, then she would take her pleasure as well. She sat up, her fingers finding his soft hair, urging him up, over her, until she could reach his long, muscled thighs, tracing up to the waist of his trousers, to work at his shirttails.

He grasped her wrists, and she resisted his touch. “No,” she whispered. “Tonight is for me, as well.”

He watched her for a long moment, his green eyes darkening with each passing second. “I’m not sure I can bear it.”

“You shall have to,” she replied. “I want my exploration.”

He released her, rising up on his knees over her, pulling the shirt out of his trousers and over his head, revealing his chest and torso, defined like a statue from a Renaissance master. She couldn’t stop herself from running her fingers over the muscle there, loving the catch of his breath. “You’re like Michelangelo’s David,” she marveled, exploring the dips and rises of hard muscle. “You’re perfect.”

He watched her as she touched him, his breath ragged and glorious. “I’m not at all perfect,” he said. “But Christ if you don’t make me feel so.”

She sat up then, wanting to get closer to him, to feel his warmth, to explore him. She flattened her palms against his chest, loving his heat and strength, and couldn’t resist leaning in and pressing a kiss there, glorying in the feel of crisp hair. At the caress, his hands threaded into her hair, tilting her face up to him. “I don’t think I can take much of this, love.”

She smiled, adoring the power that rioted through her at the words. “Surely you can, my lord. Need I remind you of your reputation?”

He gave a little huff of laughter that turned into a groan as she sought out the falls of his trousers. “I thought we discussed the fact that my reputation is more tale than truth?” Her fingers fumbled at his buttons, betraying her own inexperience, and he cursed, stopping her movement. “Sophie. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to—”

“I do,” she said, surprising herself with her bravery. “I think it’s my turn.”

He raised a brow, watching her. “More mine than yours, it seems.”

She smiled. “We’ll see.”

He leaned down and took her lips in a wild kiss, releasing her after a long moment to whisper, “You are unbearably perfect.”

She blushed, then found her courage. “Trousers, please,” she whispered. “I’ve wanted them off since I saw you that first night—in leather breeches, standing tall on your curricle.”

“You liked those?” He laughed, and lifted himself from the bed to remove them.

She remembered the way the leather of his breeches had revealed the thick muscles of his thighs. “Very much.” The grey wool slid to the floor, revealing long, muscled legs, and she realized that the leather had not done him justice.

And then she saw the scar.

Long and thick and brutal, white with years of healing, it ran nearly the full length of his left thigh. She couldn’t help but gasp at it, at the pain it must have caused him. She reached for it, and he stepped back. “I forget that it is there,” he said.

It was a lie, of course. No one could forget such a thing. “What happened?”

“The carriage accident.”

The one that killed his love.

No. Not his love. The one that killed the woman who betrayed him.

The woman who made him swear off love. The woman who made it impossible for Sophie to have the only thing she desired.

She reached for him, eager to will away the pain from the accident. But she knew without asking that he would take any more attention to the scar as pity. And he would deny her the rest. Instead, she moved toward him, coming to the edge of the bed, where he stood, one hand covering the most critical part of him, and she let her gaze fall to that mysterious place. “I wish to see you.”