Page 24 of The Haunted Duke

Through the fog of pleasure, Evander searched for the energy to answer.

“They are from training,” he muttered, his lashes fluttering as the tips of her nails traveled over the back of his hand and down the length of his fingers.

He lifted his lashes lazily, taking in the gleaming gold of Helena’s hair as her head remained bowed over his hand. When he had plucked the flower petal from those silky strands earlier, he had at once hated that he had been wearing gloves. He wanted to feel that gold with his own fingertips, rub them, and see if some of its brilliance would pass into him.

“Training?” she asked, the soft lilt of her question like a caress over his ears. He made no move to stop her as she reached for his other hand and pulled that glove off as well, showing that one the same gentle attention as she did the other. “What sort of training?”

“Boxing,” he murmured, feeling his rigid body grow heavy with desire. “It helps.”

“With what?” Helena asked, those gentle tracing fingertips of hers lulling him deeper into peace.

“Th-the body,” he struggled to say. “Keeps it in form. Helps the mind, too. Keeps it from going places it should not.”

“Hmm,” Helena hummed as she continued her exploration. “I had no idea. I had thought boxing was such a brutish sport.”

He let out a soft chuckle.

“It certainly is,” he rasped, then his head fell back as she applied the smallest pressure to the heel of his palm. He could not help the groan that escaped his lips.

Her movements stopped at once.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked, her worry clear in her voice.

“No,” he all but groaned. “No, it feels…”

He was struggling to find the appropriate word when he felt Helena’s hands travel up to his wrists and pull back the fabric of his long sleeves. Her gasp had him jolting out of his reverie in a way that was almost violent, and he snatched his hand away as he hurriedly covered the scars she had just exposed.

“Are those from boxing, too?” she asked, taking a step toward him.

“No,” he snarled, taking several steps back from her.

She looked up at him, her gaze finding the ring of scars around his throat that matched the ones on his wrists, and as understanding dawned in her green eyes, so did pity.

“That was… Those are…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “What did they do to you?”

“I am fine,” he snapped, snatching his gloves and cravat from the floor. “And out of patience with people’s pity.”

“Your Grace!” Helena’s brow furrowed as she moved to reach for his arm, but he again sprang back.

“Do not!” he snarled, going for the door.

He tried to turn the handle, but when it did not budge, he let out a growl of rage and banged his fist against the door.

“Give me the key,” he commanded, holding out his hand.

“Wait, Your Grace, listen to me.”

Evander could not stay in this room for another moment to hear what she had to say. He snatched her arm and yanked the sleeve up, ignoring the way his fingertips burned from the touch as they snaked up her naked flesh.

Helena shook her head and grabbed his arm, even as the look of pity in her eyes shifted to fear.

“No, you need to stay. You need to finish getting dry. You need to—”

“Do not touch me.” He pulled free and had the door open a moment later.

He raced down the stairs, taking two at a time until he finally made it to the ground floor, and made no move to stop even as people gasped and turned to look at him as he walked through the busy common room and toward the door. He kept walking, past the stables and the last of the lamplight, until the road went dark under his boots, and then he ran. The rain came down hard and cold, and he was glad of it. He ran until his chest ached and his boots filled with water, but he could still feel her fingers on the back of his hand. He could still hear that small sound she had made when she touched him, as though he were worth touching.

He swore into the darkness and kept moving.