A Kiss at Midnight

But instead he put her gently back into the little velvet chair. “Stay,” he commanded, for all the world as if she were Caesar.

“Gabriel,” she said, conscious of the husky timbre in her voice. “Won’t you—won’t you kiss me again?” And she stood up, because she was never any good at taking orders, as Mariana could attest.

“You’re so much taller than other women,” he said. He put a finger on her nose and then drew it slowly down to her chin. “You have a beautiful nose.”

“That’s the compliment I was longing for,” she said wryly.

“This is my evening,” he said, “and I have planned it very carefully.”

Kate put her hands on her hips. She felt saucy and sensuous and joyful all at once, as if desire and laughter were bubbling in her veins. “Oh, so you think you can merely order me about?”

“I have to come and go,” he said, grinning back. “But do you know what I have in mind, Kate?”

She shook her head. “Devilry, no doubt,” she muttered.

“I’m going to drive you mad,” he said, conversationally. “I’m going to kiss you and tease you and taste you . . . and leave. And then I’ll come back and do the same thing again. And again.”

Her mouth fell open. “You will?” Rather to her embarrassment, her voice didn’t sound scandalized as much as curious.

He stepped away from her. “You said you wanted a rest. Would you like a bath or a nap first?”

Kate looked around the great circular room. There was a curtained area to one side, but other than that, it was all one chamber. “You want me to take a nap? Here?” He must have no idea how the blood was pounding through her, warming parts of her body that she rarely thought about. “I’m not sure I can rest at the moment.”

“I understand,” he said, as courteously as if he had offered her a cup of tea. “Perhaps later. Well, I’m afraid that I need to dress for the evening meal. Would you like to sit down? This won’t take long.”

Kate blinked. Was he planning to undress in front of her? “What of your valet?”

“My valet has been commandeered to help Wick this evening,” he said with a grin. “So I have to dress myself.” He reached up and began to slowly untie his cravat.

“Do you need assistance?” Kate asked, mesmerized by the golden skin that appeared as he pulled the cravat free.

Looking at her, he shook his head and widened his stance. As if he had bade her, the movement made her eyes go to his legs. His breeches were tight, molded to his thighs. She jerked her gaze back up in embarrassment.

With an easy movement he pulled off his coat and tossed it on the bed. He was wearing a waistcoat of striped toilinette edged with crimson binding. It fitted close to his chest; a beautiful linen shirt billowed as he casually pulled it free of his breeches.

Kate watched as if she were entranced, not saying a word. She almost felt as if she were at the circus, at a special private performance. There was an air of theater to Gabriel, and the dramatic, laughing flare in his eye showed that he was exploiting every second of it.

“I need help with my cuffs,” he said. With an easy stride, he presented one cuff to her. She bent her head over the snowy linen, and pulled apart the small ruby buttons that held his cuffs together.

Without a word, he held out the other cuff. It was curiously erotic, the turn of his wrist, the way the shirt fell back on his arm. “How did you get this scar?” she said, touching a white mark on his forearm.

“Excavating in Egypt,” he said. “Two years ago. I was bitten by a barga snake; the only remedy is to slash the bite as quick as you can and let it bleed free. Luckily I had a knife to hand.”

“Awful!” Kate said. “But it worked?”

“I was sick for a few days, but not much venom had reached my system.” He stepped back and his sleeves fell to his elbows.

She was thinking about Gabriel slashing his own arm, and not paying attention. “Kate,” he said. There was a kind of deep timbre to his voice that sent a little quake down her legs.

He was toying with the top button on his waistcoat. Her eyes were drawn to those clever fingers. He slipped the first button free and moved to the second. Kate’s mouth felt dry, watching as the buttons came free, one after another.

The linen of his shirt was translucent, giving just a glimpse of taut muscle underneath. Gabriel didn’t say a word, just slowly slid from one button to the next.

As he undid the last button, he pulled off the waistcoat and threw it toward the bed. From the corner of her eye, Kate saw the garment hit the coverlet and slide to the floor.

But her entire being was focused on those teasing hands. “It’s rather hot in here,” Gabriel said, his voice darkly amused.

Kate made a shuddering attempt to maintain some sort of calm. “I’m afraid I forgot to bring my fan,” she said.

“Here’s one,” he said, reaching over to the large table to the right and handing her one. It was a lady’s fan, exquisite, delicate, and obviously valuable. With a sudden thump of her heart, she realized that there had been other women in this room, that she probably wasn’t the first to watch the prince undress himself.

But he was shaking his head. “Not what you’re thinking, love. That’s a seventeenth-century German noblewoman’s fan, with an interesting painting. I picked it up in Bamberg.”

“Of course,” she said, opening it carefully. “That swan presumably represents Zeus?”

“Yes, Leda stands to the right, primly dressed in the clothing of a burgomaster’s wife. It’s one of the things that interest me about the piece.”

Kate fluttered the fan just under her eyes. For some reason it gave her a kind of impudent courage to hold it before her mouth. “Weren’t you about to take off your shirt?”

“Actually,” he said, pulling free the back part of his shirt, “I generally take off my breeches first.”

Kate made a little sound.

“Boots first,” he said conversationally. He turned, bent over, and pulled off his right boot. Kate raised the fan to hover just below her eyes. The second boot was off, and he was facing her again.

“Breeches next . . . or stockings?” The sensual curve of his mouth was enough to make her squirm with a thirsty sense of power.

“Since you’re asking me,” she said, fluttering the fan again. “Stockings.”

He bent over again. Watching the hard-muscled curve of his leg made her pulse beat fiercely.

Then he stood in front of her, legs apart, hands on his hips. “The breeches,” he said, with a primitive joy in his eyes.

She raised an eyebrow, as if nothing he could show her would cause particular interest. Of course she knew what the male anatomy looked like, if only from her embarrassed—but fascinated—study of Aretino’s engravings.

But it was entirely different to watch Gabriel’s hands swiftly unbuttoning his placket, under the shelter of his white shirt. He watched her intently.

“Shall I continue, lady?” he asked, as courteous as any medieval knight.

“Aye,” she said, and cleared her throat, met his eyes boldly. “Do.”

His hands paused at his hips, his eyes sizzling into hers. “I would rather you did this for me,” he said.