Page 13 of Gone with the Rake

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Torture.

What Lydia was witnessing was pure torture.

Although captured war hostages might beg to differ, the pain in her chest right now felt comparable.

No, it wasn’t because she was folded uncomfortably on the windowsill between the glass and the curtains. But because through the crack in the curtains, she could clearly see Art undressing.

Fine. Perhaps the prisoners of war wouldn’t consider this a form of torture, but for her, at this particular moment, it was.

Her soul clawed at her chest, crying out for the man in that room.

Why?

She had no idea.

He had abandoned her! Left her for dead. Ignored her letters. All after promising to marry her.

Now, he was naked on the other side of the room, and Lydia couldn’t help but peek as he shed the last of his clothing.

The first time she’d seen him in years, and he had to be naked. Not only that, but he looked quite gorgeous.

Damn him and his athletic body. A part of her had hoped that he’d acquired a pouch like many lords were wont to do. But no, the bastard was perfectly lean, with bulging… muscles.

Lydia forced her eyes up.

She followed the sprinkling of dark hair up to his belly button, then moved her eyes up his flat belly and up to his muscled chest—

Wait… what is that?

A chain hung from his neck, and at the bottom, glinting in the firelight, was a ruby!

It couldn’t be. Could it?

Lydia leaned forward, and then immediately sat back, afraid to fall out of her narrow hiding place. Lucky for her, just at that moment, Art stepped over the rim of the bath and lowered himself into the water, not paying attention to any movement within the curtains.

She had to be more careful. She couldn’t afford to be caught again. She’d already made a calculated decision to stay behind the covers when Art had opened the door, as she wouldn’t have had time to crawl out of the window. But now that she was stuck here, she had the unique opportunity to find out if the red gem hanging from the chain around his neck was really the ring she coveted.

And so, the torture continued.

Yes, that was exactly why she watched him lower himself into the bath, his muscles glinting in the firelight. He laid his head against the rim of the bath and just lay there for a long moment, raw emotions playing on his face—irritation, frustration, sadness… something else she could not identify.

He would occasionally sputter an expletive and splash water on his unshaven face. Although a clean-shaven look was all the rage among the ton, she found the ruggedness of a beard appealing on him.

The last time she saw him, she hadn’t been sure he could even grow one.

He scrubbed his face once more, his expression troubled.

She’d give anything to know what he was thinking about, what was bothering him so.

Picking up his sponge, he traced his body, soaping every inch of him. He rinsed off his raven-black hair and returned to the lying position. He threw his head back and let out a weary sigh. His hand glided down his body, sensually, almost teasing.

As if he knew he was being observed and was taunting Lydia.

He paused in the middle of his chest and fisted his hand—was he holding the ring?—while his other hand continued to trace his body lower and lower. A groan left his lungs, almost a growl, raw, gritty, sensual…

Then he started pumping his hips, water sloshing all around him as he pleasured himself in the bath.