Gareth: Lord of Rakes by Grace Burrowes Read Free Book Online Page A

our dealings.”
    ***
    Felicity could smell Gareth’s clean, spicy scent, feel his breath on her nape, and sense the heat of his big, muscular body behind her. When Gareth nuzzled below her ear, Felicity’s insides started leaping about like March hares.
    “What kind of changes?” And please God, may they be made with my clothing on my person.
    “You have easily grasped the business aspects of your inheritance. We can move on to educating you in the skills plied by the women you employ.”
    Against her neck, Felicity felt the brush of something warm and soft—not the infernal feather. The contact was faerie-light, then came again, more definitely. His lips. For weeks she had dreamed of those lips and watched them form one growling, precise, cranky word after another.
    He wasn’t growling now. “You mean right… today?”
    “Today we begin.” He straightened and came around to stand before her, his expression baleful. “You needn’t sound so terrified, Felicity. Remember, no matter what we’re doing, I will stop when you request it of me.”
    The daft man assumed she’d be able to speak.
    “Would you like a drink?” Gareth asked, tossing the quill pen onto his blotter. “Perhaps some cognac, since you favor its consumption?”
    This was his version of solicitude—to cross the room and give her time to gather her wits. He was, in his taciturn way, as kind as he could be, and Felicity wished not for the first time they had met under other circumstances. His knowledge of commerce was encyclopedic, and for that alone, she could spend hours in conversation with him. He didn’t condescend to her when she asked the simplest questions, and he never lost patience with her ignorance—about business, about anything .
    “May I have some lemonade?”
    “Certainly.” He went to the sideboard and returned with two glasses—he was apparently in the mood for something cool and tart as well—handed Felicity her drink, and resumed his seat.
    “We have not made much headway in the area of your erotic education, though we have covered other ground thoroughly.”
    Felicity sipped her lemonade, praying for fortitude. He said naughty, forbidden words so easily. Shocking her was a sport for him, like skittles or bowls—and yet he was also drinking lemonade.
    “I have allowed that part of our dealings to slip from my notice,” she admitted. Shoved it under any handy rug, more like. “I’ve focused on learning the things you set before me week by week, and ignored when you occasionally hold my hand or touch my arm or stroke my cheek. I suppose there will be a deal of that sort of thing?”
    He treated her to a stare, those glacial blue eyes putting her again in mind of a wolf.
    “So you ignore my touch?” he asked eventually, an odd note in his voice—humor maybe, or curiosity? Certainly not pique.
    “I try. Sometimes I like how you touch me, but mostly it unnerves me. I am not from a demonstrative family.” This was a falsehood—Astrid was nothing if not demonstrative.
    He glanced upward at the Cupids cavorting among the molding, a rake’s version of a prayer for strength. “What touches do you like?”
    The answer was easy; the words were not. “I like your hands, Gareth. They are beautiful hands, and you can touch with such assurance, such… competence. Your hands make me think of the phrase that one is ‘in good hands.’ If I were a horse, I would trust your hands.”
    He looked absently at the appendages Felicity found so intriguing, his expression suggesting there was no explaining women’s odd starts.
    “What else?” If he’d been a cat, he would have been switching his tail, so palpable was his impatience.
    The sorry, lowering fact was that Felicity enjoyed all of his touches.
    “You’ve on occasion tidied up my hair—I don’t think you even know you’re doing it. You tuck a loose strand back behind my ear or smooth a lock off my shoulder. I like it, from you. I haven’t had a mother about to