“And your provocative comments are falling on deaf ears,” she claimed, working him into a pink lather.
But she lied.
Her entire body was now tingling from his words and she was suddenly quite aware of the feel of her skin on his. Every nerve ending was heat-stung with pleasure. The dichotomy of grit and smooth flesh was a decadent treat for her gluttonous senses. He was warm, too, his hands so much larger than hers, with broad palms and long fingers that likely knew all sorts of wicked ways to touch a woman.
“Are they, really?” he asked with a dubious curl to his voice, his hot breath stirring a wayward tendril by her temple and sending a delightful shiver tumbling through her.
It seemed to go on and on, swirling inside her, especially around her middle, coiling tightly. And she would like to explore this at length . . . if she didn’t know precisely what he was doing.
He was feigning a flirtation in order to unsettle her because she’d prevented his evening’s licentious festivities.
Her vigorous scrubbing continued. His declaration was nothing more than a pretense of seduction. She’d been laughed at before for being odd. Normally, she politely pretended she didn’t understand or didn’t hear the insult.
Tonight, however, she wore a mask. Anonymity made her feel a bit braver and freer to speak her mind. He knew her name, but not her face. And should she ever see him in the light of day—highly doubtful considering his nocturnal escapades—she would be spared any residual embarrassment.
Although, at the moment, all she felt was annoyance.
“I can see right through you, I hope you know,” she said with a sniff. “Then again, you’re not terribly opaque. After all, your only furnished room is a bedchamber. Clearly, bedsport is your sole priority. And I am ashamed to recall my fleeting thought of dedicating a full chapter to you. From your mildly chivalrous actions at the brothel, I thought you lived by your own philosophy of scruples. Instead, I’ve discovered cunningly disguised moral turpitude.”
A disapproving growl rumbled somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. “I’ve had about enough of your boundless accusations. For your information, I have money and aspirations.”
She scoffed. “I doubt you even own a single book, unless it contains nude etchings.”
* * *
Raven went still, his entire body rigid. The last accusation stung like lemon on an open gash.
Having only been educated to a rudimentary level in the foundling home, he’d taken great pains throughout his life to become a self-taught man. In fact, whenever he’d earned enough money to spend, he’d always bought a book.
Always wanted to better himself.
Always wanted to thumb his nose at everyone who thought he was rubbish.
“I don’t see that it should matter to you”—he jerked his chin toward his bedside table—“but take a look in there. Go on.”
“Fine. I will, but only to further my understanding of the debauched life of a scoundrel. I’m certain nothing can surprise me now.”
Clenching her jaw mulishly, she wiped smears of mauve-colored grit on a scrap of flannel then turned the tasseled key. And when she slid open the drawer to reveal his collection of books, she gasped.
He grinned self-righteously and turned his attention back to his ablutions. “There. Now you can stop grousing at me.”
Glancing down, he noted the pink stain on the cuffs of his shirt and the powdery film on his waistcoat. Likely his entire suit was ruined and would need to be replaced. He didn’t relish the idea of being fitted and measured by a tailor again. The last one had treated him like a flea-infested mongrel, saying directly to him that such a suit for a plebian man was nothing more than a waste of fine wool.
“Why are these not displayed properly on a shelf?” she asked with sharp disdain.
Raven rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “And still the harping continues.”
“And look at this!” She tsked. “You’ve dripped candle wax on two, and doubtless because you couldn’t read the titles within the dark recesses of the drawer.”
Jane ran the pad of her index finger over the worn spines, her lips murmuring the titles soundlessly. He watched her, transfixed by her mouth and the fond caress of her fingertips over the books. Her nails were manicured into softly rounded crescents that carefully scraped away the wax. At the quiet rasping sound, his skin prickled warmly beneath the fine lawn of his shirtsleeves, along the broad muscles of his back and down the length of his spine. The errant sensations pooled low in his gut, distracting him.
“I keep what’s mine locked up,” he said, his voice taking on a husky edge that drew her inquisitive attention.
Her head tilted to the side, wispy brows lifting ever so slightly, like a brown-and-gold butterfly testing the air before flight. “Even in your own bedchamber?”
“Aye. When you wake up in the foundling home to find that the other boys have stolen the stockings off your feet, you learn to keep—”
He broke off abruptly. Bollocks! He hadn’t meant to let that slip.
Turning back to the basin, he made a swift attempt at diverting her attention by adding, “Have you read any of them?”
“Yes,” she answered simply, softly now.
He could feel her probing stare on his profile, hear every hesitant breath she took. But he refused to turn to see pity in her expression.
“I didn’t realize you were an orphan. That must have been dreadfully lonely.”
“Crowded, is what it was. Never a moment alone, or a moment’s peace. Much like now.”
Carefully, she closed the drawer and turned the key. When she reached inside the basin once more, his first impulse was to pull away and tell her that he could manage on his own. But he had a greater desire to let her know that he wasn’t bothered by his admission. So he pretended indifference.
He had nothing to be ashamed of, after all. He was an orphan. There was no changing that fact.
The instant her hands settled over his, Raven sensed an alteration in her demeanor. Her scrubbing was gentler, the smooth edges of her nails tracing along the curve of his cuticles. Her thumb worked circles into his palm, soothing places he never knew were tense in the first place. And it had the dangerous effect of relaxing his guard.
His lids grew heavier. Dimly, he watched her retrieve another flacon from the night table.
Wariness would usually have him withdrawing, but a glut of languor and pleasure had overtaken him. He simply let her drip that unknown, clear liquid into the cup of his palm without question.
At once, his nostrils were assailed by the same fragrance that scented her skin. Was this . . . lavender water? He drew in a deeper breath, his lungs filling with the heady elixir, his flesh tingling with every press and rub.
Jane Pickerington wasn’t what he expected. The society debs he’d encountered on the pavement or in the park had their noses up in the air. He’d heard tales of fainting spells when they met with a shock or anything that disturbed their prudish sensibilities.
So, naturally, he’d thought they were all uptight and high-strung.
This one had her moments, but she was more apt to surprise him. Like she was doing now.
Looking down at their warm, entangled hands, he noticed his own skin color gradually emerging. Mystified, he asked, “What’s in this paste you made?”