“You’re happy, then, as housekeeper at Three Springs?”

“Happy is a luxury few can afford,” she said as Beck settled his coat around her. “I am content.”

“Your husband.” Beck took Sara’s hand in his. “He was… unkind, then?”

She was quiet for so long he wasn’t sure she’d answer, but he couldn’t very well ask outright if the man had beaten her, denied her food, or intimately abused her.

“In the eyes of Continental society, Reynard was merely unconventional, managing his wife’s talent, but he wasn’t unkind. He could convince you, even you, Beckman, he was simply ensuring the God-given gift of my abilities was shared with a deserving and appreciative audience. What’s more, he’d convince you he did this not because it was his personal choice, but for me, and for the sake of art itself.”

“What about in your eyes, Sarabande?”

“One has to have a conscience to be susceptible to labels such as kind or unkind.” Sara looked out over the pond, where the fading light had turned the water’s surface to a gleaming mirror. “Reynard was not burdened with a conscience, except where it suited his convenience.”

“And your parents.” Beck began to rub his thumb over the back of her hand. “They were taken in by his charade?”

She was again silent—Sara Hunt, former musician and housekeeper, knew silence in a way Beck was fathoming all too well—but then she leaned over, resting her weight against Beck’s larger frame as Allie had done earlier in the day. “They were grieving my brother’s passing,” she said at length. “I tell myself that explains their initial willingness to be taken in by Reynard. It’s hard, you see, because I’m a mother now, and I cannot imagine letting any of the Reynards of the world within two counties of Allie. Not ever, not while I draw breath.”

“You were grieving your brother’s passing too,” Beck pointed out, tucking her more closely still.

She cocked her head. “I was, as was Polly, but she was so young…”

For long moments, Beck waited, hoping she’d say more but knowing she’d already disclosed a great deal, for her. The sky went from pink to orange, to gray then purple, and still he waited, his arm around her shoulders.

“He died in spring,” Sara said, almost to herself. “Gavin did, and I was married in spring, and Reynard died in the spring too.” She turned her face into Beck’s chest and slipped her arms around his waist. He didn’t realize she was crying until a spot of damp warmth bloomed near his collarbone.

Nine

“Beckman? Maudie neglected to…”

Sara’s voice trailed off when she didn’t see him in his sitting room, so she opened the door to his bedroom. Her eyebrows rose as she fell silent, taking in the tableau before her.

He was absolutely, utterly, without-a-stitch naked, and absolutely, utterly, without-a-doubt breathtaking.

“My goodness.” Sara stood there, feeling drunk, unable to move, holding a pitcher of water between her hands. As casual as you please, Beck strolled over, took the water from her, drew her into the room by her wrist and pushed the door closed.

“A pleasure to see you.” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck, barely touching her but bringing his heat and the clean scent of him near enough for Sara to sense both. And in just a few words and a few steps, he’d shifted his species, going from a hardworking man partway through his bedtime routine to a prowling beast bent on seduction.

“Beckman?”

“That would be me.” In no hurry whatsoever, he picked up a blue velvet dressing gown and loosely belted it around his waist. She watched him, even when he was decently covered.

Beck smiled, and not the smile of a hardworking man preparing to retire. “You look at me like that, and I am reminded that for a week I have been a perfect gentleman—a long, difficult, profoundly frustrating week.”

Sara knew he expected a reply, but she was entranced by the naked skin of his throat and chest. Her hand came up as if to brush along his sternum then fell self-consciously back to her side. The week had been very long indeed, and he was not the only one who’d been burdened by good behavior.

“Touch me, Sara.” Beck kept his hands at his sides. “It has to have been a long week for you too.”

“This isn’t wise.” But even as she spoke, she did stroke a single finger down his sternum. He closed his eyes, fisted his hands, and she did it again with two fingers, pushing the material of his dressing gown a little aside as she did. In the light of the candles gracing his room, the trail of hair down his midline gleamed like gilded fire.

Beckman opened eyes bluer than his velvet dressing gown. “Indulge yourself. Investigate me, Sara. Investigate me beyond a walk to the pond or a tour around the rose bushes. See if what I offer is worth your consideration, lest you make a decision on supposition rather than fact.”

“You want me to inspect you, like a horse?”

“I want you to take your time,” Beck said. “To assure yourself you know all you need to decide your course. Consider this a trial ride, and see how I suit you.”

He was smiling at her, a maddeningly coy and relaxed smile.

“I’m not ready for that,” Sara said, resenting his poise. He’d barely even touched her—barely—and her insides were already turning liquid, her thoughts slowing, her awareness filling up with sensations instead: his bergamot scent, the way his skin gleamed by firelight, the feel of smooth male muscle beneath her fingertips, the warmth he gave off, and the soft light of desire in his eyes, even as he waited for her to choose.

“I’ll inspect,” Sara heard herself decide, “but no more.” Had they not taken that walk to the pond, had Beckman not listened to her silly tale of woe, she would not have made that choice—maybe.

“Inspect to your heart’s content. I take it Allie is off to bed?”

“She’d already tucked herself in,” Sara said, “and Polly was right behind her. We’ve all had a busy week.”

Beck shrugged out of his dressing gown.

“What are you doing?” Sara tried to keep her voice level and did not move one inch from her post by the closed bedroom door.

“Getting ready for bed myself.” He yawned and scratched his chest, giving her a shadowed look at the front of him before propping one foot on the raised hearth. “I assume you’ll want me on the bed, but regardless, I’m fastidious by nature.”

She knew that and liked it about him. He bent to use his washrag on one sizable foot, and the play of firelight along the curve of his spine and buttocks nearly had Sara’s knees buckling.

He straightened. “Perhaps you’d like to do the honors?” He wrung out his rag and held it out to her.

“Me?” She took a step closer.

“Or I can finish myself.” He dipped the cloth and started on his other foot, bending forward again. “I truly enjoy washing my feet, which probably has some biblical connotation, but it keeps the sheets clean, and it’s really nobody’s business but my own. Shall I wash your feet, Sarabande?”

“What else do you like to wash?” She’d moved to the end of the bed, a few steps closer.

He shrugged. “I just like to be clean. I was teased for that by my brothers, but they’re as fussy as I am.”

“I don’t think of you as fussy,” Sara said, watching the muscles of his forearms and biceps flex as he wrung out the washcloth again.

“I certainly hope you don’t see me as fussy.” He swiped the rag along the back of his neck, though from the scent of him, Sara suspected he’d completed his ablutions before she’d arrived. “Shall you finish this job for me?”

“You look clean to me.” He looked naked to her, naked, desirable, and completely at ease with it. She’d never seen Reynard entirely naked, never wanted to, but she knew the view wouldn’t have been half so impressive as this.

“I’ve missed a spot.” Beck smiled at her. “An important spot.” He tossed the rag at her and held her gaze as she caught the cloth. “Go ahead, Sara. Indulge your curiosity.”

“I am indulging it.” She licked her lips but couldn’t help darting one glance to his genitals. Turned as he was, his groin was still shadowed, but she thought she could see a hint of tumescence to his… To him.

Had she inspired that?

“You are tolerating your curiosity. Lying again. Indulge it.”

She read a challenge in his expression, but something much more seductive than a simple taunt: behind his cool humor, his overweening male confidence, his patience even, there was tenderness, a willingness to abide by her wishes out of genuine regard for her.

A form of kindness.

She’d told him too much at the pond. Were she not aware that Beckman could on any day be summoned to leave the property and not come back, she might have found the strength to walk away from that tenderness.

“Touch me, Sara. I’ll not beg, and you’ll not regret it. Let me give you what you want.”

“Turn around.” She closed the distance between them and grasped Beck by one arm, turning him to face the hearth. He watched while she moved the basin and took a seat on the bricks beside it. “You’ll tell me if I misstep.”

He nodded, his expression becoming unreadable as Sara positioned herself, realizing only as she did that her face—her mouth—was nearly level with his groin.

She laved his thighs in slow, rhythmic strokes, but sweet, holy, perishing saints… “Turn.”

She spent a long minute admiring his buttocks, then used the washcloth to make measured trips over his flanks then the backs of his thighs. “Turn again.”

She heard him take an audible breath before he complied, keeping his hands at his sides but planting his feet half a step wider. His cock was showing unmistakable signs of interest in the proceedings, and he didn’t try to hide that from her.