“Now, she falls silent. Come.” He stepped back and encircled her wrist with one hand. They went on a short progress about the room, with him blowing out all the candles but the one nearest the bedside.

“Do you know, Hester, if you asked me to blow out this last candle, I would?”

She found she did not want him to, though his offer was consideration itself. “You’d proceed in complete darkness?”

“For your modesty, or your courage. And listen to me when I tell you, every man you seek to intimately accost should be willing to do likewise for you. He should let you bind him, blindfold him, or keep your clothes on while you remove his.”

His voice had gotten very stern, leaving Hester torn between pleasure that he was protective of her and irritation that he’d lecture her about future lovers when she hadn’t properly availed herself of him first.

And bindings? “You’ll let me undress you?”

He dropped her wrist and gave her a smile of such riveting sensuality Hester felt the heat of it on her skin. “I did imply that very thing, my dear, and I would love to undress you.”

The game was on, the game Hester had campaigned and pleaded for. She’d lain in wait for him, ambushed him in the garden, accosted him in his own room—his word was appropriate, she didn’t flinch from it—and now she had no idea what to do, didn’t know the rules, didn’t know what would constitute victory or defeat.

He took a step closer. “Or you can watch while I undress for your pleasure.”

Oh, God. She would stare him directly in the eye over breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but she was going to have to cover her ears.

That voice. It was the same beautiful, masculine voice, but grown naughty and lazy with innuendo, and so intimate it ricocheted through Hester’s body to land burning at the feet of her reason.

“Or,” she said, resisting mightily the urge to unbutton his shirt, “you can stand about listing possibilities all night.” And she could listen to him, too.

His smile shifted into a sweet, wicked curve of his lips that lit all manner of mischief in his eyes. And while he smiled, his elegant, nimble fingers went to the fastening of his trousers and stilled.

Hester’s mouth went dry, and she was unable to look away from his hands, hovering over the bulge in his trousers—the sizable bulge.

He caressed himself once, then set about taking off his shirt. She tried to swallow and managed to blink. “You’re teasing me.”

“Turnabout, my dear. If you’d like to get into bed, I won’t stop you.”

He was daring her, or perhaps giving her dignity and self-possession a reprieve. The bed was only a few steps away, though on her unsteady knees, it seemed a long journey indeed.

Spath—Tye—lifted her into his arms, carried her up the steps to the bed, and laid her on the mattress.

Such gallantry restored a measure of her confidence. The earl—Tye—would be kind in bed and generous, even in his arrogance. He would know exactly what to do when she knew nothing, and he’d share his knowledge without her having to ask. This was part of what she needed from him, and that he’d understood it better than she had was reassuring.

So reassuring, she shamelessly watched him when he moved to lock the bedroom door, shed his shirt, and crossed to the washstand.

She lay on the bed and watched while he washed his face and hands and then under his arms. He was unself-conscious about his ablutions, as if demonstrating for Hester exactly how intimate they would be. He used his tooth powder while she watched too, and though his behavior would have been the same if she hadn’t been sitting on the bed, she sensed he was every bit as aware of her as she was of him.

Which was very aware indeed.

“You might want to take off your wrapper and nightgown,” he said, crossing the room to sit on the bed. “Sometimes, delicate apparel can get torn when it comes between me and a lady in my bed.” His set his boots beside the bed, exposing big, stockinged feet.

Hester felt as if she were observing one revelation after another: the hair of his armpits, the way he leaned over the washbasin to rinse his mouth after brushing his teeth, the movement of skin over his rib cage as he prowled up to the bed.

All new, and all wonderful, if vaguely worrisome too.

He was allover defined muscle and sinew, a body sculpted by ceaseless activity, good nutrition, and masculine pursuits. As he bent forward to strip off his socks, Hester watched the play of muscle and bone along his spine.

She wanted to touch each knob and bump of his backbone, wanted to press her hand over his shoulder blades to feel what it meant bodily when all that power moved this way or that.

“Has the cat got your tongue, my girl, or are you planning my downfall?”

He stood, and without giving her a chance to reply, started unfastening his trousers. He shoved them off his hips, taking down trousers and underclothes in the same movement and stepping free of them as easily as Hester would have shoved a few pins into her hair.

He tossed his clothing onto a chair with unerring aim and then stood beside the bed, gazing down at her, his fists propped on his hips.

“Somebody has on more clothes than somebody else, far more clothes than the situation calls for. Are you having second thoughts, Hester?”

Naked, naked, naked. He spoke coherently even when naked. He managed a very credible taunt when naked. Hester wasn’t sure she could speak at all when he was without clothing. How on earth was she to manage when he had her in the same condition?

She reached out a hand to touch his torso. “You are… undressed.”

He was magnificent. The skin over his ribs was warm and smooth, with a trail of dark hair arrowing down from his chest to his groin. When she realized she was staring at that part of him, she jerked her gaze north, to the muscled expanse of his chest.

He leaned forward, over her. She thought—she hoped—he was going to kiss her.

“Shall I blow out the candle, Hester Daniels?”

He made it a dare, and though she was flat on her back, she tried for a taller posture. “You shall not. Get in this bed, Spath—Tiberius. I find your chatter boring.”

This amused him. His lips split into that wicked smile to reveal teeth and a good deal of masculine tolerance. He was going to humor her, which meant at some point he might stop humoring her. What on earth had she gotten herself into?

He climbed across her and lay on his back on top of the covers. “Mind you take care with my sensitive parts, but touch me. Touch me all you like. Never say I allowed a lady to be bored when I might amuse her.”

Resting there in her thick socks, nightgown, and wrapper, Hester felt sufficiently armored to take him at his word. She shifted to put the flat of her palms on the solid plane of his belly. His erection twitched, brushing the underside of her arm.

She closed her eyes, the better to focus on the warm, hair-dusted male skin beneath her hands. She leaned in and caught a whiff of him, paused and took a deliberate sniff, only to feel the palm of his hand come up to cradle the back of her head.

He didn’t move, didn’t direct her explorations in any manner, but for him to touch her like that closed a tactile circle between them. It put both of them in that bed, put both of them on this different and fascinating ground.

“There’s no rush, Hester. We have all night.”

A new note in his voice, not taunting, not pronouncing immutable truths, but offering something. More reassurance? Himself?

She rested her face against the hard shelf of his chest, took a swipe of him with her tongue. He tasted clean with a hint of lavender soap. She did it again and felt a tension leave his body. His hand was still palming her nape, so she rolled her head on her shoulders to feel his touch more intensely.

He captured her hand and moved it down to settle her fingers over the base of his erection. “Touch me, Hester. I certainly intend to touch you.”

Another warning, one that told her she was keeping her clothes on only at his sufferance, at his whim. She could be tied naked to this bed and blindfolded if he chose, but he was allowing her to do the choosing.

The enormity of the trust involved began to seep through her arousal. This wasn’t going to be some hurried, fumbling interlude with clothes pushed aside, the library door locked, and the curtains hastily closed on an otherwise lovely day.

This wasn’t going to be quickly over once she realized what a mistake she’d made.

And for that reason, it wasn’t a mistake. She feathered her thumb over a flat male nipple—what an odd texture.

He arched into her hand. The movement was slight but telling.

“You, sir, like this.” She watched his face as his eyes opened, his gaze so alert it felt as if he’d been staring at her even with them closed. In addition to damnable quantities of English self-possession, a prodigious vocabulary, and an excellent seat when mounted, Tiberius Flynn had an ample store of hedonistic tendencies.

And—of all things—a well-hidden streak of generosity.

“More to the point, Hester Daniels, you like this.”

Not an accusation, but a restatement of his priority when she was in his bed. She smiled at him, knelt up at his hip, and used both thumbs on both nipples. “They change when I touch them.”

“As yours will when I touch you.”

Her puzzlement must have shown on her face. Her nipples puckered when cold; she’d casually observed this and decided it wasn’t unusual, though one could hardly ask anybody about such a thing.