After extinguishing the remaining candles, she left the study to make her way upstairs in the dark. Passing near the ballroom, she paused. The double doors were open and there was a faint light within. As her quiet steps brought her closer, she detected sounds of physical exertion. Short grunts and quick steps across the polished wooden floor.
Only one person would choose to train at such a late hour. In an instant, her exhaustion was replaced by a rush of anticipation. She had no intention of interrupting, but surely there was no harm in a quick look.
He was alone in the center of the room. He was barefoot and dressed only in breeches, his upper body totally bare. Katherine silently commanded herself to leave before he noticed her—to step back through the door and fly up the stairs to her bedroom. Instead, she was drawn forward, her feet moving of their own accord while her attention remained glued to Mason Hale’s massive, muscled form.
My God, he was splendid.
She was fascinated by the way the muscles of his back moved as he bent forward to swipe up his shirt from the floor—the way his legs and buttocks grew taut in the fitted breeches. Using the garment, he wiped the sweat of his exertion from his face and the back of his neck. Though she was certain she hadn’t made a sound, something seemed to alert him to her presence as he suddenly turned to see her standing just inside the room.
Her gaze flew wildly over smooth, sweat-glistening skin and rippling muscle. He was strength personified. Intensely hard. Formed to perfection. Every inch of him was a study in masculine beauty and power. When he fisted his hands and she noted how the veins in his arms bulged, a sound suspiciously like a whimper caught in her dry throat. It felt like she was melting from the inside out.
Hoping he hadn’t heard the evidence of her reaction, she forced her gaze to his face.
His lips were curled in an expression of pure wickedness. “Like what you see?”
She coughed at his half-mocking tone as heat flooded her cheeks. She felt at a loss and needed to regain ground somehow. Ignoring his comment, she asked, “What are you doing in the ballroom so late? Training hours are scheduled early in the day.”
As a distraction technique, the attempt was lame at best.
His expression shifted in the soft golden light. Amusement flickered before he lifted a brow in question.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Just be sure not to frighten any of the servants while stalking my halls in the dark.”
He tilted his head and lowered his voice for the next words. “Have I frightened you, luv?”
“Of course not.”
She answered a little too quickly. Even to her own ears, the declaration sounded false.
But she wasn’t frightened. At least, not in the way he’d meant. Unfortunately, her swift denial seemed to incite a challenge in the man.
He started toward her. Though she would have chosen to stand her ground, she reacted without thinking and took a step back. There was something different about him tonight. A direct contrast to the vulnerability he’d displayed that night in the kitchen. Maybe it was because he was fresh from physical exertion or maybe it was something else, but there was a distinctly heightened intensity about him. In his subtly stalking movements and in the predatory gleam of his eyes.
“Am I frightening you now?”
His voice—so thick and rich and rough—stirred the heat inside her.
“You don’t intimidate me,” she managed to reply, though her chest had gone tight and her mouth dry. She was excited. Invigorated. Aroused. But not intimidated.
His eyes were dark as he swept his gaze down the length of her body. “Thank God for that,” he murmured softly as his focus landed on her mouth. He paused for a long moment, then his rough whisper slid sensually through the room. “Are you ready to admit it, then?”
She lifted her chin. “Admit what?”
His laugh made her low belly clench. “Come on, duchess. I know lust when I see it. Your eyes are practically devouring me. It’d be my pleasure to provide what you’re needing, but you better be damn sure you want it.”
Deny it. “I do not lust after you.”
“No?” he prodded. She took a half step back, then another as he continued his slow, hunting stride toward her. “Are you going to tell me you’re not wondering if I’m as hard to the touch as I look?” His eyes darkened. “You’re not curious to discover if you can make me even harder?”
The low texture of his voice triggered a rush of heat through her core.
Harder? Was that possible?
Her focus fell to the muscled contours of his chest and abdomen. There wasn’t an inch of softness on him anywhere. His arms and shoulders bulged. His chest was broad and solid and his narrow abdomen was ridged with more muscle before flattening below his navel. His breeches rested low on his hips, revealing two intriguing lines that angled down toward his groin.
His low laughter pulled her gaze upward. His expression was hard to read, his tone even harder as he murmured thickly, “Is that what you want? You know I’d be happy to oblige your curiosity, dove.”
She didn’t realize he’d been subtly backing her away from the door until her hips came up against a decorative table placed against the wall beneath the portrait of the first Duke of Northmoor.
He was close enough now that she could feel the heat coming off his skin. She could smell the sweat of his previous exertion.
Taking her wrist in his hand, he lifted her palm to his chest. “Do it. Feel me. Touch me.”
His words and what they suggested swirled heavy and hot in her core. His
