The Governess Affair

but her breath caught. Not, this time, in trepidation. No; this time she felt the first tendrils of curiosity curling about her.
    She pointed a pin at him. “Your waistcoat, then, if you please.”
    He complied. She couldn’t see through the linen of his shirt, but she could make out the form of his muscles as he worked—strong, defined curves.
    She was growing braver now, and handed him another pin when he finished. “Your shirt.”
    Wordlessly, he doffed that. As he pulled the fabric over his head, the muscles of his chest flexed and rippled, and Serena stared. She’d known he was a pugilist—his shoulders were broad—but there was nothing quite like seeing the truth of his former profession laid out in the flesh. Those shoulders had tensed when he’d struck another man. He’d taken blows against the hard ridges of his belly. A faint, pink scar traveled in a curving line up from his navel to halfway up his chest; a more ragged red line marked his ribs. There was an entire story written in his skin, and she wanted to learn it all.
    He hadn’t said anything as she looked him over, but he was hardly unaware of her perusal.
    “Are you flexing your muscles for me?” she asked.
    “That,” he said smoothly, “would be vanity.”
    She felt herself smile in response—the first smile since she’d entered his room. “So, yes, then.”
    He gave her a darkly wicked grin. “Should have known better than to try to bamboozle the governess.”
    Serena took a step toward him, and his smile froze. She reached out and touched the point of the pin to his abdomen. His breath stopped. She trailed it up his ribs, and had the pleasure of seeing him break out in gooseflesh.
    “I want your shoes.” Her mouth was dry; she could scarcely swallow around the words.
    He bent to remove them. As he did, his trousers grew tight around his buttocks, and the muscles in his behind shivered.
    So did she. She waited until he straightened before handing him another pin. “Do it again. I want your stockings.”
    This time, when he bent, he showed off for her—turning at an angle, flexing precisely so . He had to know how his thighs looked with all that wool hugging them. He didn’t say a word, but when he’d discarded the knit wool of his stockings, he met her eyes and winked.
    He’d made a game with the pins, one that stole her dread away. Still, she handed him another hairpin. “Do you have enough yet for your nefarious plan?”
    “Not quite.” He grinned. “Besides, you’re doing so well on your own. I’d hate to interrupt you.”
    Her confidence was coming back. Serena tapped him on the chin with a head of a pin. “For that impertinence, sir, I demand your belt.”
    “You demand it, do you?” He set his hands on the buckle, and tightened it. “Then I suppose I am bound to comply.” The tongue of the belt came loose, and then he pulled the belt slowly away. His trousers slipped down his hips a few inches as he did, revealing a dark arrow of hair, dotting down the front of his stomach.
    She wanted to know where that trail of coarse hair led.
    “Now,” she began, “I want—”
    “ Now,” he interrupted smoothly, “it’s time for me to redeem my pins.” He fixed her with a steady look.
    It was only a moment that he looked into her eyes—half a second, scarcely even long enough to blink—but already her pulse jumped in response. His smile broadened. Her skin tingled. She was aware of every inch of her skin—her shift scarcely covered her limbs; her corset bound her breasts tightly. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or arousal that had her so suddenly on edge.
    “My first order.” He set a pin in the palm of her hand. “Wait right there until I come back.”
    She blinked, but he ducked out of the room before she could gather breath to protest. She took one step forward, before remembering that he’d asked with a pin, and under the rules of the game, she couldn’t follow. But he didn’t return—not for several minutes. She heard the clanking of metal and the working of a bellows—what in God’s name was he doing? Eventually, there was a hiss like steam and his muffled oath.
    He finally returned bearing a towel. A steaming towel.
    “This is a trick,” he said. “I learned it prize-fighting. Lie down on the bed.”
    At that bare command, Serena froze. He paused and cocked his head, and then set a pin on the table beside her. “I’m not touching you—recall that I can’t until you ask. Lie down on