her thoughts were distracted by the sheer splendor of him.
The glowing embers of the fire cast him in light and shadow. He stood, wearing only his breeches, and even those he had loosened so they rested low on his hips. Darcie stared in fascination at the hard planes of his naked chest, the supple ridges of his abdomen. Her mouth felt dry. She licked her lips. Suddenly, she had the terrible, tantalizing thought that she'd like to lick him. To run her tongue over his flat male nipples, to follow the thin line of hair that arrowed down his belly to the open waistband of his breeches.
She wrenched her gaze away, mortified by the brazen wantonness of her thoughts. But even as she admonished herself silently, she couldn't quell the urge to look at him again, to sate her desire for the sight of his glorious body, truly more beautiful than any sculpture formed by the greatest master.
When she looked into the room once more, she found that he had moved to the washstand. Lifting a folded linen cloth, he poured water from the pitcher to the basin. He dipped the cloth and ran it around the back of his neck then across the top of his chest. Beads of water glistened on his golden skin.
Again, he dipped the cloth in the basin. She watched his reflection in the large oval mirror that hung above the washstand as he ran the wet cloth down, over the ridges of his abdomen to the waistband of his trousers. Darcie swallowed, her blood pounding thickly in her veins. She wanted to walk into the room and take the cloth from his hands. She wanted to wash him and touch him—
The though froze half-formed as Damien raised his head and met her gaze in the silvered glass. She stumbled back, unable to tear her eyes away.
He knew she was there. He couldn't help but know.
No, no, it was mere coincidence that he had glanced up, their eyes meeting in the mirror. She was well-hidden by the shadows. Wasn’t she?
Horrified by what she had done—hovering in the hallway spying on her employer—and terrified of the possibility that she had been found out, Darcie turned and bolted back to her chamber. There she crawled beneath the sheets, tears of humiliation pricking the backs of her eyelids. She seemed to be making a terrible habit of this. Spying on Damien Cole, watching him from the shadows with the bewildered longing of a schoolgirl in the throes of her first infatuation. Imagining scenarios that she had no business considering. For shame.
Yet, despite her mortification, she could not deny that a part of her wanted to return to his chamber, to pull his mouth to hers and assuage the gnawing hunger that tugged at her breasts, her belly, the juncture of her thighs. She lacked experience, but life on the streets of Whitechapel had lent her knowledge of the reality of the joining between a man and a woman.
With a sob, she burrowed deeper beneath the covers, beating back the desperate need that she had allowed to surface. At length, she drifted into restless slumber, and dreamed that she lay with Damien in a field of flowers, wrapped in his ardent embrace. In her sleep she cried out as the bright blooms shimmered and smudged—their petals dripping from their stems—and the field turned to a sea of blood.
Chapter Six
The next morning Darcie had her breakfast below stairs, though she had to force herself to choke down each bite, the oppressive atmosphere among the servants who gathered at the table reflective of her own glum mood. She tried to tell herself it was the weather, but her imagination whispered that each and every one of them knew how she had slunk to Dr. Cole's room and watched him at his ablutions. Of course, the idea was ridiculous, but she could not seem to quell her guilty conscience.
Mary sat at Darcie's side, huddled into herself, her food ignored, grown cold on her plate. The little scullery maid, Tandis, was abnormally quiet, her sunny disposition eclipsed by the morning's gloom. Only Poole seemed immune to the mood. He
The glowing embers of the fire cast him in light and shadow. He stood, wearing only his breeches, and even those he had loosened so they rested low on his hips. Darcie stared in fascination at the hard planes of his naked chest, the supple ridges of his abdomen. Her mouth felt dry. She licked her lips. Suddenly, she had the terrible, tantalizing thought that she'd like to lick him. To run her tongue over his flat male nipples, to follow the thin line of hair that arrowed down his belly to the open waistband of his breeches.
She wrenched her gaze away, mortified by the brazen wantonness of her thoughts. But even as she admonished herself silently, she couldn't quell the urge to look at him again, to sate her desire for the sight of his glorious body, truly more beautiful than any sculpture formed by the greatest master.
When she looked into the room once more, she found that he had moved to the washstand. Lifting a folded linen cloth, he poured water from the pitcher to the basin. He dipped the cloth and ran it around the back of his neck then across the top of his chest. Beads of water glistened on his golden skin.
Again, he dipped the cloth in the basin. She watched his reflection in the large oval mirror that hung above the washstand as he ran the wet cloth down, over the ridges of his abdomen to the waistband of his trousers. Darcie swallowed, her blood pounding thickly in her veins. She wanted to walk into the room and take the cloth from his hands. She wanted to wash him and touch him—
The though froze half-formed as Damien raised his head and met her gaze in the silvered glass. She stumbled back, unable to tear her eyes away.
He knew she was there. He couldn't help but know.
No, no, it was mere coincidence that he had glanced up, their eyes meeting in the mirror. She was well-hidden by the shadows. Wasn’t she?
Horrified by what she had done—hovering in the hallway spying on her employer—and terrified of the possibility that she had been found out, Darcie turned and bolted back to her chamber. There she crawled beneath the sheets, tears of humiliation pricking the backs of her eyelids. She seemed to be making a terrible habit of this. Spying on Damien Cole, watching him from the shadows with the bewildered longing of a schoolgirl in the throes of her first infatuation. Imagining scenarios that she had no business considering. For shame.
Yet, despite her mortification, she could not deny that a part of her wanted to return to his chamber, to pull his mouth to hers and assuage the gnawing hunger that tugged at her breasts, her belly, the juncture of her thighs. She lacked experience, but life on the streets of Whitechapel had lent her knowledge of the reality of the joining between a man and a woman.
With a sob, she burrowed deeper beneath the covers, beating back the desperate need that she had allowed to surface. At length, she drifted into restless slumber, and dreamed that she lay with Damien in a field of flowers, wrapped in his ardent embrace. In her sleep she cried out as the bright blooms shimmered and smudged—their petals dripping from their stems—and the field turned to a sea of blood.
Chapter Six
The next morning Darcie had her breakfast below stairs, though she had to force herself to choke down each bite, the oppressive atmosphere among the servants who gathered at the table reflective of her own glum mood. She tried to tell herself it was the weather, but her imagination whispered that each and every one of them knew how she had slunk to Dr. Cole's room and watched him at his ablutions. Of course, the idea was ridiculous, but she could not seem to quell her guilty conscience.
Mary sat at Darcie's side, huddled into herself, her food ignored, grown cold on her plate. The little scullery maid, Tandis, was abnormally quiet, her sunny disposition eclipsed by the morning's gloom. Only Poole seemed immune to the mood. He
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