He propped himself on his elbows, staring down at her for a long moment. “ ’Til death us do part?”

The faintest shadow of heartbreaking anxiety was detectable in his eyes. Olivia swallowed a silent curse for his late wife . . . and nodded. “In sickness and in health.”

When the Duke of Sconce put his mind to something mechanical, its intricacies were generally fathomed instantly, and Olivia’s clothing was no exception. Faster than she would have believed possible, he divested her of slippers, gown, corset . . .

Kneeling at her side, his eyes fiery with desire, he reached for her chemise.

“No,” Olivia cried, grabbing his hand. As it was, her chemise was traitorously delicate. Why had she chosen to wear something that was as transparent as a windowpane? She cast one look down at her body and found her chemise caught beneath her hips so that it strained against her belly. Why had she eaten all those meat pies? Couldn’t she have pictured a moment like this one? She went rigid with mortification and regret.

If only she were Georgiana—someone with enough control that she wouldn’t have eaten so much.

It would be so much better for both of them if she had Georgie’s slender thighs. If she had her sister’s legs she would flaunt them, roll on her hip and know that his eyes couldn’t leave her.

She swallowed. “I will not do this unless I can keep my chemise on. I mean that.” The words were as resolute as she could make them, bitten-off and stern.

Quin’s brows drew together for a second, but he nodded. He looked like some sort of hawk, tamed to the hand but still wild. His skin glowed like honey in the moonlight. She sat up, pulling her chemise away from her skin so that it wasn’t quite so revealing.

What did a lady do in this situation? Dimly, in a small corner of her mind, Olivia realized that her mother’s duchification program had neglected this entire subject. It hardly needed be added that The Mirror of Compliments was focused on preserving chastity, rather than abandoning it.

“I’m not sure what to do next,” she admitted, hoping he wouldn’t ask for any details about her supposed experiences with Rupert.

The look in his eyes was pure arrogant male delight. “Luckily, I do.”

She waited.

“Take off my coat,” he whispered, so softly she could barely hear him. A smile trembled on her lips and she reached out and pushed the coat off his shoulders. Then she unbuttoned his waistcoat, tossed it to the side, and tugged his shirt free from his breeches. She moved to pull up the shirt, but was diverted by the skin she found at his waist. She came up on her knees too, and ran her hands around his tight abdomen to the swelling muscles of his back.

“How is it you are so fit? Most men are rather soft, I have found.”

He shrugged. “Physical exercise clearly has a positive effect on the human physiology. There seemed sufficient evidence to engage in it on a regular basis.”

His skin was smooth and hot under her fingers. She let her hands wander under his shirt: up his broad back to his shoulders, back down again, up his front. Apart from some small shivers, he let her do as she wished.

When she brushed her fingers over his nipples, a hoarse grunt broke from his lips. She glanced and saw that his eyes were shut.

“Keep your eyes closed,” she ordered, feeling a flash of courage. If his eyes remained closed the entire time, it would be as good as having curtains in a decently dark bedchamber.

He nodded obediently. She felt more confident when he wasn’t looking at her; she needn’t worry about how much that ridiculous chemise was revealing.

She managed to pull his shirt over his head, discovering that his torso was beautiful, with a narrow, taut waist. She caressed every bit of his chest and then—glancing again at his still-closed eyes—leaned in close and placed her mouth where her hands had been.

A low noise broke from his lips. “No opening your eyes,” she warned. His lips tightened, but he nodded.

She bent to him again, kissing him, tasting him, dusting little kisses over his entire chest. And she kept coming back to his nipples because every time she rubbed her lips across them he responded. It was like champagne, that little sound he made. It was power, and she was drunk on it.

She forgot to keep an eye on his face, reassuring herself that he wasn’t watching. Instead she came closer, squirming onto his lap so that she could rub more than her lips against him.

“Olivia.” His voice was soft, liquid with passion.

Startled, she looked up, to find those gray-green eyes gazing at her. The moonlight frosted his thick lashes and he looked otherworldly: a fairy king, not a mere mortal. “You were to keep your eyes closed,” she said, giving in to temptation and running a fingertip along his lashes. “You’re so beautiful, Quin. Too beautiful for me.”

He laughed at that. A third laugh, in the space of an hour.

She trailed her finger down, across his full bottom lip, leaned forward and carefully followed that line with her tongue.

“May I touch you now?” he murmured against her lips.

“Mmmm,” she whispered back, loving the taste of him.

Big hands came to her back and pulled her against his naked chest. Olivia gasped as her breasts were pressed against him; they felt plump and wildly sensitive.

One hand held her against him while another slid down her back, slow and sensuous. “Aren’t you going to remove the rest of my clothing?” He said it low and soft, like a dare he knew she couldn’t resist.

She almost tumbled off his lap, turned to face him. “My breeches have a placket,” he said, making no move to undo it himself.

Olivia leaned a little closer and found what he meant. She fumbled, her fingers trying to manipulate the buttons, aware that his breathing was fast and ragged. Once she saw how he trembled at her touch, she slowed down, caressing just inside the band of his breeches, loving his swift intake of breath as her fingers dipped lower.

Slowly, slowly, she eased the breeches over his lean hips, down powerful thighs. Once they were at his knees, he swiftly removed them and tossed them to the side. Now he wore nothing but smalls, which did very little to conceal what lay underneath.

No limp celery this—though Olivia instantly pushed away the thought as disloyal to Rupert. She may not be marrying him, but she would always be his true friend.

She was slow and careful working Quin free from his smalls, trying not to show awe at the size of him.

He threw the smalls after the breeches and came back to her, kneeling, hands quiet at his sides, but she could sense the leashed power in him, waiting to spring free. To spring on her.

A wave of anxiety flooded her again, sent her eyes skittering from him, from all that perfection, down to her thighs—only to find that blasted chemise had caught again and was emphasizing the fleshiness of her upper leg. Heat rushed into her cheeks as she plucked it free.

He said not a word. She looked up to see that he was regarding her with such a tender expression that she cringed. “Don’t you dare pity me,” she snapped.

Surprise flooded his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Olivia said. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood. Well . . .” To her dismay, she felt as if tears were threatening. Added quickly: “What do we do now?”

His face was serious again, the expression he had when he was thinking about light, or poetry.